Blood.
Snow.
Cold steel biting into his hand.
Jon opened his eyes. He was flat on his back with his arms and legs splayed out around him. There was a terrible pain in his side, and he could not longer even feel his right hand.
Pulling himself up the King in the North drew in a ragged breath, coughing violent as several snowflakes caused his throat to burn. He looked down and saw a pool of red spreading on the icy ground under him. Jon's leather gambeson was horribly rent, with a painful gash running up his ribs.
His hand was wounded as well, with the armored glove almost completely scorched away.
What in Seven Hells happened?
Jon received his answer as a load roar nearly caused his head to split open. Despite the pain running wracking through his body he dashed to his feet. Two massive wings passed over his head, shielding him from the blistering cold wind, and the scarred head of Rhaegal lowered towards him.
As the dragon spewed fire at the horde of dead men rushing them, Jon hefted his sword, ready to strike down any that came too close. The air rang with the clashing of metal, of human and inhuman screams.
The din was then muffled under the otherworldly shriek of another dragon. A monstrous dark shape plunged down from the sky and landed fifty yards from Jon. The ground beneath him and Rhaegal quaked, and the dazed warrior was nearly thrown off balance.
Ahead of Jon and Rhaegal was a great black dragon, its piercing blue eyes looking straight at them. Blue flames erupted from its mouth, and the pale rider atop it brandished his sickle-sword menacingly.
Jon's knuckles cracked around Longclaw's hilt.
"Come on… you cold, dead bastard."
As the war for the dawn raged in the distance, the leader of the Others and his steed began to move towards Jon.
Spitting out a fleck of blood Jon Snow raised Longclaw, ready to face the end.
SEVEN MONTHS AGO
The War of the Five Kings is over.
In the south House Lannister has crumbled under the heel of the Faith Militant. Princess Myrcella is dead at the hands of the renegade princess Arianne Martell, and war between Dorne and the mainland draws ever closer.
In the west, the Iron Islands retreat their forces from the mainland after being crushed by the new rulers of the North, House Bolton.
In the north, the armies of Roose Bolton are crippled after a crushing battle against the northern alliance of King Stannis Baratheon. Though Stannis is nowhere to be found, and his hosts are scattered by the coming of winter, the Boltons' authority over the North now hangs by a thread.
And in the east, legends continue to spread of a Targaryen queen.
Now as Castle Black reels from the death and resurrection of its commander, Jon Snow, he faces a choice that will determine the future of his country and his world…
...
...
CASTLE BLACK
The Lord Commander's chambers were silent. Despite the cold winds outside the air in the room was still, almost smothering. By his bedside, the man who until today had been the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch stood fuming.
Jon Snow looked down at his old uniform as it sat in a useless heap. Between the numerous cuts and holes in the shirt and leather jerkin, it wasn't of any more use to him. Not that he would need it where he was going.
And he was indeed going.
After all he had sacrificed, all he had done for them, the Night's Watch had betrayed him. Even now Jon could still feel every knife the mutineers had plunged into him. He could see their faces, cold and merciless as they butchered him. Their leader. Their sworn brother.
Traitor, they had called him. The Long Night, the greatest threat Westeros had ever known, was practically on their doorstep. But all Thorne and his mutineers cared about was their hate for the "wildlings". Nothing he said made a difference to them.
"They left me no choice," he murmured to himself.
"No choice."
Jon had been telling himself the same thing all night. It was all he could do to not lose his mind. But it was morning now, and damned if he was going to stay another night in this place. Standing up from the bed Jon reached for a spare ranging outfit resting on his table. It was a blue tunic, put together with greyish pants and studded leather armor.
One of the stewards recommended the armor for Jon's protection, should any other members of the Watch attempt to revolt again and avenge Thorne.
Examining the outfit Jon allowed himself a smile. It looked like something that would have belonged to his father. Fitting, he thought, given he very nearly shared Eddard's fate.
Jon was fully dressed when he heard a light rapping on the door.
"Come in," he said flatly. He turned around, expecting Edd to come through. No doubt to try and convince him to stay.
Again.
The first thing he saw was a cascade of striking red hair, brighter than Edd's, and for a moment he thought it was Tormund instead. But it wasn't him either.
Removing her crimson shawl, Lady Melisandre of Asshai entered his chambers. She stopped before Jon, bowing her head respectfully.
"Jon Snow. May we speak for a moment, before you depart?"
"No one's stopping you," Jon said brusquely and sat at his table.
With a grateful smile the red priestess joined him. Sitting across from Jon she folded her thin hands, running one across the other gently as if to warm them. Jon thought back to their first meeting as he had awaited the orders of King Stannis Baratheon. Melisandre has seemed so confident then. So sure of her power, of her Lord's blessings keeping her warm in this icy corner of the world.
Now he could see there was change in her. The priestess was dressed in a thicker dress, with her shawl drawn in more tightly than it had been before Stannis's march. Melisandre drew a less ethereal picture now. She appeared more human.
Had bringing him back from the dead taken so much of a toll on the woman? Or what is something else that had weakened her so?
"What happened down there?"
Melisandre sighed.
"We rallied several of the northern houses to our call. Houses Manderly, Mazin, Hornwood and Umber lent their support in addition to the wildling scouting force. We won a battle against the Boltons and drove them back to Winterfell. But a storm hit, and King Stannis ordered his queen and the princess back here. As the blizzard lasted into the night, we were attacked by the bastard Ramsay Bolton."
She paused.
"The army was scattered, and Stannis remained behind to hold the Boltons off. I saw nothing more of him"
"What happened to Selyse," Jon asked. "And Shireen?"
The priestess's eyes went vacant.
"The did not survive the storm."
Jon thought back to Stannis's exodus from the wall. How sure of victory they were.
How wrong they were. The War of the Five Kings, the war between the Night's Watch and the Freefolk, all doomed to end in failure.
"I know you mean to go south," Melisandre said. "You mean to leave the Night's Watch behind you once and for all. After what transpired here, I do not blame you."
Melisandre's brow furrowed.
"But I also know what you saw in the far north. The power that consumed the lands of the Freefolk will not stop there. From its domain in the Land of Always Winter, it comes for your people and mine."
Jon felt his stomach clench at the mention of the massacre at Hardhome. He closed his eyes, and he could still see the pair of blue eyes that had followed him even as he retreated out to the sea.
"I know. But there's nothing more I can do."
"I do not believe that," Melisandre said.
"Few men could endure what you have endured. You won the good faith of the Lord Commander that came before you, and the King Beyond the Wall. You brokered a peace between the Freefolk and the Night's Watch, mortal enemies that have slaughtered each other by the thousands.
Your work is not done."
"It is," Jon said forcefully. "If you know what I saw, then you know we can't beat it. I told Ser Davos already, I tried. And I failed."
He paused, his breath growing ragged.
"You said your god brought me back for a reason. What reason was that?"
Even as Jon's features flushed and the lump in his throat grew, Melisandre remained unnaturally poised. It was almost infuriating, Jon thought. Time and again the red woman had shown such little care for the fears and doubts of those around her, that her faith was all that mattered.
The same faith that led thousands of men to death in the name of her king. Her 'savior', Stannis Baratheon
"The men who betrayed you did not understand the mortal danger the White Walkers posed to us all. But you understand. You and those that followed you. It will be on you to warn the world of the living, and when the time comes we must be ready to fight."
Jon shook his head. "No. There's no fighting him."
"And who is 'he', Jon Snow?"
Melisandre's voice grew wary. Her gaze seemed to penetrate through Jon, far deeper than any of the mutineers' knives.
"Who did you see at Hardhome that frightens you so?"
Forcing himself to go back to the wildling village up north, Jon wandered through every image the massacre burned into his head until he found the one the red priestess wanted.
"I saw a White Walker at the front of the dead army," he answered. "He was… different from the rest. The others in his army were clad in black armor, wielding blades made from ice. But he carried no weapon. His armor was faded, cold and grey. His head was covered in something like a crown, made from ice just like the rest of him."
Jon felt himself shaking, and not only from the cold.
"His eyes were darker than the rest. He looked right at me as I retreated. Even when those thousands of men, women and children he killed rose to join him, he never once turned away."
Melisandre sat transfixed as Jon told his tale. Raptly she peered at the young commander, not blinking until he was finished. For the first time since he had met her, Jon could see something in her face something that chilled him more the cold winds outside.
Fear.
Melisandre, a priestess of the Lord of Light, an ageless being holding power over life and death themselves, was afraid.
"You saw the Night King."
Jon blinked, confused.
"Who?"
Breathing in slowly Melisandre leaned back in her seat, holding her hand out to a candle sitting between them. The delicate flame flickered as her hand drew near, seeming to grow a deeper red.
"You must have heard many stories of the Age of Heroes in your youth, Jon Snow. I heard one such tale myself, of a man who led the Night's Watch in its early days. He was the thirteenth man to bear the title of 'Lord Commander', a fierce and noble warrior.
Until the day he found love in a woman from the far north, a cold white figure who claimed his soul and turned him against his brothers."
Jon almost laughed. He had heard this story before.
He thought back to his days at Winterfell so long ago, and the woman that would tell his brothers and sisters such stories. Old Nan, her name was. His laugh died in his throat when Jon remembered just how long it was since he had seen the kindly old woman, or any of the old familiar faces at the place he once called home.
Then his thoughts returned to the present, and what Melisandre was saying now. "But the Night's King was just a mortal man. The Starks and the Free Folk overthrew him and slew his queen."
"They did." Melisandre kept her hand steady beside the candle.
"But we both know his queen was only one of many, and I fear the name he took may have belonged to someone, or something else. Something far older than the Night's Watch and the kingdoms they protect."
A heavy silence bore down on the two, and they sat quietly for several minutes. Jon ruminated on Melisandre's words, staring at the candle while his hands clenched and unclenched again furiously. Time and again he tried to keep his mind in the here and now, away from the past or the future.
Neither seemed particularly bright to him.
"I'm not staying here. I don't care if what you say is true, there's nothing to be won here at Castle Black."
Melisandre bowed her head. "If you have already made your decision, I will not attempt to steer you from it. But I have one request, if you will hear it."
"Go on," Jon said with a shrug.
"I wish to come with you."
Melisandre's mouth opened, but before she could say anything Jon's door opened again.
In strode Eddison Tollett, better known to his brothers as Dolorous Edd. Jon's companion had grown leaner in their time at the Wall, his beard thicker and more unkempt. As Edd walked up to his former commander Jon could not help but notice the heavy bags under Edd's eyes.
I suppose he had trouble sleeping too.
"So," Edd remarked, "You really were serious yesterday."
Jon nodded, doing his best not to wilt under Edd's gaze. His friend had said nothing when Jon declared his choice to leave the Night's Watch, but no words were necessary. Edd's look of shame and sorrow when handed the commander's mantle still clung to Jon, almost making him wish he could take it back.
"Where are you planning on going?"
"South," Jon said.
"Somewhere warmer."
"And you're not planning on coming back?" Incredulity was etched into every line of Edd's face.
"Jon," Edd pleaded in a tone that suggested the man was close to breaking, "You can't let it end like this. When you were there, up north, I was right there with you. We saw what's out there. How can you leave us now?"
"I did what I could…"
"I don't want to hear it. You swore an oath, and I'm here to hold you to it."
Edd's voice was growing harder now as he cut Jon off, his confusion and shock clearly giving way to anger now.
Jon felt his own ire starting to rise. A whole day had passed, and Edd was still unable to comprehend what was happening. It was hard to blame him for it, put in his shoes it was hard to know what Jon would do. But that was his problem, not Jon's. Nothing he said or did would change Jon's mind now.
"Aye," he growled and rose to his feet.
"I remember. I pledged my life to the Night's Watch, and I gave it. As far as I'm concerned, I don't owe anything more to them."
Edd fired back, "You pledged to serve them for all the nights to come!"
"THEY KILLED ME!"
Letting all his grief and frustration finally take him, Jon hurled his words at Edd and tossed his chair aside hard enough for one of the legs to snap. He met his brother with a defiant glare, not intending to give any ground.
"My own brothers… I fought with them, bled with them, and they murdered me. How can you expect me to just forget that? How can you ask me to stay here?"
"I have already tried to convince him," Melisandre said diplomatically and placed herself between the two men. "Whatever path he chooses, the Lord will keep him safe, Eddison Tollett."
Edd glanced at her in annoyance. "All due respect, my lady, but I wasn't talking to you. Whatever your god wants with Jon, that's not my concern. He's our brother and only we…"
The tension between them was broken by the sound of a horn, a single clear blast. Jon's eyes crossed to his window, and he waited for a second blast. Tormund Giantsbane was awaiting the return of a scouting party foraging for food.
But no second blast came. Only the bustle of the castle's guards. After a brief silence, the throaty voice of the sentry cried out, "Open the gate!"
Jon exchanged a puzzled look with both Melisandre and Edd, then strolled out onto the balcony overlooking Castle Black's courtyard. Many of the Free Folk were gathered around, with Night's Watch brothers keeping their distance. Of course, Jon thought bitterly, before he saw what caught their attention. Four riders were trotting through the front gate, each wearing heavy cloaks worn from travel.
Survivors from Stannis's army, Jon concluded. Who else could it be? He made his way to the stairs descending from his quarters to the courtyard, ready to offer any assistance the travelers needed. But when the rider at the front removed her cloak, Jon's mouth fell open. The rider was a woman, taller than any Jon had ever seen. Her features were broad and rather unfeminine, and her blonde hair was short and unkempt. Her eyes, however, were large and bright blue, as beautiful as any other highborn lady's. What captured Jon's attention the most, however, was not the woman's appearance but her apparel.
It was armor, heavy plated armor colored a deep greyish-blue.
Overall the woman was a rather startling sight. Most of the men around her either shared uncomfortable glances or averted their gaze entirely, but one of them kept his trained squarely on her.
The expression of awe on Tormund Giantsbane's face was comical, as if he was falling in love right on the spot. Jon almost managed a laugh at the sight until the second rider came into view, dropping off her horse.
Jon's heart stopped. It was another woman, much younger than her companion. When her head swiveled around and she saw him, she halted as well, allowing him to get a proper view.
It appeared as if her hair was tied into a braid, though the cold air and travel had turned it brittle and disheveled. Her features were fuller than Jon remembered, and she was now as tall as him, but there was no mistaking Sansa Stark.
Sansa gaped at Jon, her mouth half- open in obvious shock. Despite the cold he could see her cheeks growing redder, and her lip trembling. Jon wanted to move closer to her, but before he could so much as finish his first step his memory caught up to him.
He remembered his years at Winterfell. The scorn and shame with which so many had looked at him. The sting of his bastard name, Snow, on the lips of guards, servants, Lady Catelyn…
And her eldest daughter.
The pain held Jon back from reaching out to Sansa. She had tried so desperately, so many times, to live up to her mother's example. Her manner, the way she dressed, her love of old songs and stories, and the distance she kept from him.
But as they stood no more than three feet from one another, and Sansa's eyes began to grow wet, Jon remembered his last talk with their father.
You are a Stark. You may not have my name, but you have my blood.
You are a Stark.
The years of pain and resentment melted away. None of that mattered anymore, and Jon opened his arms in time for Sansa to dash towards him, wrapping hers around him tightly. All thoughts of the Night's Watch, the White Walkers and any wars to the north or south faded away as the Starks held each other.
She was openly weeping now, and Jon quickly joined her.
They stayed where they were for a good minute, long enough that Jon could make sure his sibling stopped shaking. When he was ready, Jon gently let go of her and wiped his eyes. They both shared a relieved smile.
A shuffling behind Jon broke the moment, and he heard a ragged cough. Sansa's eyes moved to its source and her smile fell. Her features turned blank, almost impossible to read, as if it was a trained response on her part.
"Jon Snow…"
Again, Jon felt his body tense up, and he whirled around in disbelief.
Leaning on a makeshift crutch, and supported by a dark-haired boy in squire's clothing, was King Stannis Baratheon.
"Your Grace… You're alive!"
Nearly falling to one knee, Jon was stopped by a raised hand from the king. Stannis shook his head, clearly in great pain. There were several heavy bandages wrapped around his right leg, and the king's complexion was pale and sickly.
"We should speak inside, Snow. Winter is upon us, and death will soon follow."
...
...
PYKE
The walls and battlements of Pyke held strong as a terrible storm raged around it. Torrents of rain pelted the old stone fortress, and wave after wave crashed on the sea far below.
Balon Greyjoy, self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands, stood by the fireplace of his Great Hall with a look of utter misery. His daughter Yara stood close by, reading from a written note, though from his bearing it was difficult to tell if he was listening. With the news Yara bore, Balon likely would have preferred to listen to the rolls of thunder outside.
"Deepwood Motte has fallen. The Glovers retook it with the help of King Stannis Baratheon."
Balon remained still, one hand propped against an ornate wooden chair. The only sign of movement was his fist, tightening around the head of the chair until his knuckles lost all color.
"And the Ironborn who held it?"
Yara's face was blank, and she closed her eyes before answering, "They died fighting, to a man."
"What is dead may never die."
Yara crumpled the note in her hands and tossed it aside in frustration. So many times before she had said the words dutifully, and with pride, but her voice rang with bitterness this time.
"What is dead may never die. But they did. And our invasion died with them."
Balon moved from his spot at last, walking to his daughter stiffly. The events of the past few years had aged Balon visibly. His once iron-grey hair was now whiter, the lines in his face set deeper than before. Even his eyes no longer held the steely resolve they once had.
Yet he pressed on. "Our invasion is not dead. This war is far from over, and when it is done, we will stand victorious."
"Deepwood Motte was our last stronghold on the mainland," Yara protested. "We hold no more castles from which to strike out at our enemies."
Balon shook his head as if to drown out her words.
"Then we will take more!"
"For more pinecones and rocks? We can defeat any of our enemies at sea, but on land the armies of the seven kingdoms are too strong. Why should we keep fighting and wasting more Ironborn lives in a fight we cannot win?"
Yara's father snapped, "Because I order it!"
She made no effort to hide how disappointed she was and stood at her full height to glower back at Balon. She loved her father, and had proved so time and again, but she would not allow his stubbornness to blind him to the truth.
They had lost this war.
"We cannot win this, Father. We should pull our people back, tend to our wounds and rebuild our strength, or more will die for nothing."
"Our people die in service to their king," Balon snarled, "And we will only continue to lose if our captains disobey my command, abandon their posts and sacrifice our men on doomed missions."
He leaned his head to one side, contempt dripping from his voice.
"Be thankful you are my daughter, if not I would have you stripped of your rank and handed your ship to your uncle Victarion. He may be a dullard, but at least he understands loyalty."
Yara's hand itched, almost moving to punch Balon for his callousness.
"I won't apologize for trying to help my little brother."
Openly sneering this time, Balon asked, "And where is your little brother?"
"Where is your kingdom?"
Balon froze in front of her, clearly caught off guard by her defiance. His eyes bulged in anger, his mouth tightening into a thin line. The two Greyjoys both seemed ready to fight openly, but after a tense silence they both backed away, visibly forcing themselves to remain calm.
"The North was at war when you had us invade, Father. But the War of the Five Kings is over, and their new warden will not allow any dissent. If we provoke the North again, the last time they lay siege to our islands will be mercy compared to what the Boltons have in store.
Do you even remember, Father? Do you remember our towers collapsing, our men being slaughtered in droves? I lost two brothers that day."
"And I lost three sons," Balon groaned sadly, "Of course I remember. I also remember that the other so-called kings of Westeros are gone. Robb Stark, Joffrey Baratheon and his uncles, all gone."
Balon fumed. It was hard for Yara to tell what angered him more, the fact that he had been unable to kill any of these other kings himself or his failure to hold the mainland even after they were gone.
"When you rule," he said more calmly, "When I am gone and the Seastone Chair is yours, you may rule however you wish. Until that day comes you will obey me, as your father and as your king."
With that, Balon stormed out of the Great Hall and left Yara alone with her thoughts.
She gazed at the Seastone Chair, black and oily and ancient. Was this all her family would have left in the end? Some old throne and a drafty castle, sitting on a barren spit of land?
Yara walked to the fireplace, watching as the charred and blackened wood crumbled into embers before its flame finally went out.
Appropriate, she thought. The fire was the war that consumed Westeros, and from it the Iron Islands had emerged as little more than embers. An afterthought.
The Old Way had failed them.
If I rule, Father, things must change. I hope your spirit will forgive me for it.
...
...
Outside of the castle, Balon's thin form was illuminated by the occasional lightning as he walked to a bridge connecting the Great Hall to the Sea Tower. He had stayed awake for most of the night and would need at least some rest before launching a new campaign in the morning.
If there was to be another campaign. Yara had been right about one thing; the Ironborn's morale grew weaker by the day.
Balon started across the bridge. Though it was old and creaked loudly in the strong winds it held fast. The old king stepped across it slowly and carefully, having done so many times and in many storms.
He was halfway across when something materialized from the darkness ahead of him. From the Sea Tower, a cloaked stranger had emerged and was now on the bridge. Whoever it was must have been either courageous, mad or both, as his gait was leisurely and relaxed.
"Let me pass," Balon shouted over the rain around them.
He received no answer. Instead, the stranger folded his hands and watched Balon as if to have a conversation with him.
"Fool," he barked, "Move aside for your king!"
Though most of the hooded man's face was still concealed, a lightning flash above him highlighted his mouth. A pair of blue lips parted in a wide smile akin to a hungry wolf. The stranger's grin spread wider, and he at last spoke.
"Haven't I always, brother?"
Balon nearly lost his balance, faltering as if the stranger had hit him.
The other man lowered his hood. His face was sharp, framed with a dark beard and black-grey hair. A dark eyepatch covered his left eye, while the bright blue right eye pointed ahead at Balon. His smile remained, growing ever wider.
"Euron." Balon growled the name, his teeth grinding hard as he did so.
"I should have known you would return sooner or later. Though I had hoped you'd be rotting at the bottom of some foreign sea by now."
"What is dead may never die," Euron Greyjoy said airily. He watched Balon a little longer before dropping his smile, assuming a rather offended look.
"I'm sorry, Balon, has the custom changed since I left? Aren't you supposed to repeat the words?"
Balon spat on the wooden planks in front of his younger brother, furious at the blasphemy.
"You can mock our god without my help. Don't expect me to welcome you with open arms, not after what you did."
The younger Greyjoy brother approached Balon, not seeming too bothered by his harsh words.
"I don't mock the Drowned God. I honor him wherever I go."
"Honor?" Balon narrowed his eyes. "Don't speak to me of honor. Or godliness."
"On the contrary, Balon, I'm the godliest man you'll ever meet. From Ib to Asshai, from Oldtown to Qarth, when men see my sails… they pray."
A sudden gust almost knocked him over, forcing the king to grab the ropes of the bridge to steady himself. Euron had no such trouble, however. He remained still, like the wind was only a small nuisance.
With a laugh he said, "You're old, Balon. You have had your time, and our people have seen nothing but failure. I think it's time for you to step aside. Let another rule."
The boldness of the claim drew a fierce scowl from Balon. Years ago, after their failed rebellion against the Iron Throne, Euron had committed a terrible crime against their brother Victarion. He had violated his wife, facing exile as punishment for as long as Balon ruled. Yet after more than ten years, he still showed no sign of remorse. If anything, it appeared he was goading Balon, trying to reopen old wounds.
Not giving him the satisfaction Balon approached Euron and remarked, "I heard you lost your mind during a storm on the Jade Sea. They tied you to the mast, to keep you from jumping overboard."
"They did," Euron said matter-of-factly, with a falsely humble shrug.
"And afterwards, when the storm passed, you cut out their tongues."
Nostalgia swept over Euron, and he appeared to treasure the memory rather than notice Balon's condemning tone. "Well, I needed silence."
"Tell me, Crow's Eye, what kind of an Ironborn loses his senses during a storm?"
Again, for the second time that night, Balon let his contempt take ahold of him and threw his words at Euron with cruel abandon. The two brothers were almost face to face now, and it was clear that the years apart had not softened their feelings towards one another.
Euron's face grew frighteningly serene.
"I am the storm, brother. The first storm and the last."
He took one more step to Balon, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"And you're in my way."
Neither Greyjoy said anything more. The decades of resentment, betrayal and violence said all that needed to be said. Euron was many things, but restrained and controlled were not among them. His moments of relaxation were rare, and they only ever preceded one thing.
Balon's dagger flashed out of his belt, and his arm moved in a blur to slash at Euron's throat. But it was stopped short as the fearsome pirate captain caught the blade in his gloved hand. There was a loud crash of thunder as the younger, stronger Greyjoy wrenched the weapon away from Balon and seized him by the scruff of the neck.
There was another rumble of thunder, the loudest yet, and above them a lightning bolt split the night sky. Euron's features were fully lit now. He was smiling again, his teeth bared and his blue eye almost bulging out of its socket.
With a strangled cry, Balon Greyjoy was tossed over the rope beside them. The King of the Iron Islands plummeted down into the darkness below them, screaming the whole way down until his voice was lost in a faint splash.
The Crow's Eye stayed where he was, perched on the old wood of the bridge like the bird after the bird that was his namesake. He turned to look at the dagger taken from his brother, a finely made weapon made from castle-forged steel and marked with an ornate hilt.
Pocketing the weapon with a grin, the kinslayer pulled up his hood and wandered back the way he came. He was not ready to make his presence known, not yet. But he would be soon enough.
The Ironborn had lost their king. They would need a new one.
And long may he reign.
Author's Note: And the Game of Thrones is kicked off again.
At this point I imagine we're all a little burned out on how the TV series ended. I myself was incredibly bummed, thinking it was a rushed mess that made no effort to honor GRRM's work. So, I decided to make lemonade and come up with a fanfic to make us feel better.
Going forward, this story will be a partial retelling of the events of Season 6 through 8, with a focus on Jon Snow and the Starks. The story will harken more to the books, and I will delve deeper into the Long Night and the White Walkers. The threat of the Army of the Dead WILL be the endgame.
As you may have noticed, I've already also changed some of the events of the show retroactively.
1: Stannis is alive, and some of his story in Season 5 is changed.
2: The Dorne plot is more book-oriented, a little streamlined but not whatever it was D&D gave us. The Sand Snakes are going to be their books counterparts, and Arianne Martell will feature.
3: Euron Greyjoy is his book counterpart in full force, and I'll have some dark disturbing twists tying his story into the buildup to (and events of) the Long Night. Victarion and his group are also involved. Picture Euron appearing like Mads Mikkelsen, and Ray Stevenson playing Victarion.
I hope you guys enjoy this first chapter, and the ride that follows. I wish you all good fortune.