Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall
The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it.
I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.
Minor side note: I only realized after looking back that there was an integral scene which I had removed and forgotten to slip back in. In hindsight it might work out better but I feel the need to clarify for anybody with a sharp eye.
After rescuing his uncle Benjen, Jon had commanded him to report to Castle Black's gates the next day. As you all know I skipped forward a week after the Fall of Castle Black and never followed up on that detail. Well I've decided that Benjen did report as ordered and he did speak with Jon just outside the gate on the Wall where Jon shared his intentions with him and gave Benjen instructions of his own. I won't spoil what they were but you'll find out in the next chapter.
Also, I've decided that from now on I'll make an effort to respond openly to reviews. I'll take any reviews that are posted for a chapter within a day or two of it being posted and type responses to them at the bottom of the chapter.
Xxx
Chapter Six: A Dance of Ice and Shadow
Were they in the south it might have taken far longer to prepare, but those who were born and raised north of the Wall were used to being on the move. Even the less nomadic tribes could break camp faster than well oiled companies of Andal Knights and levies, as proven by the ten thousand-some ragged refugees and three hundred giants. Anything that would be of no use was abandoned, fires remained lit so as not to tip off the enemy to any changes in the camp's activities; the Wargs were kept on watch all the same and had confirmed Jon's claim regarding the Giantsbane's presence to the south-east.
"Tie them tightly." Val ordered a group helping the old and infirm onto a mammoth which wore an improvised saddle. "If any of them fall off they're good as dead, so check your knots." They nodded and murmured their compliance hastily as they got back to work.
As she looked around Val felt almost sad to abandon the shelter of the Weirwood grove. The twin Heart Trees on their mound of dirt overlooking the rest of the camp had come to feel more like home than Whitetree, granting her the feeling of safety when it had been long denied to her. Yet this departure had been a long time coming, as foretold by Mother Mole before they even settled.
The dead will not lightly tread in the eyes of the gods, girl! They will wait for their masters, as shall we wait for our chance.
And now here was that chance in the form of a pretty, dark haired man with stormy eyes that spoke of experience well beyond his years. When Jon Snow spoke she felt like it wasn't some up-jumped boy of a Crow talking to her but a low chilling wind which foretold of a coming blizzard.
And only fools dared to ignore the winds of winter.
The pretty Crow was off away from the rest, seated with his loyal Direwolf by his side and staring north-east. Curiosity drew her away from the crowd and towards him, but before she got too close the Direwolf lifted its head and its red eyes pierced her like twin knives.
Tread carefully, two-legged one. Those eyes said. Plant your dagger quickly, else my fangs will find your soft throat first.
The Wolf was protective of its master, far beyond basic loyalty found in dogs or even the other skins of Wargs. It was quick to spot anyone who tread too close, growled to warn away any who got closer and bared its fangs to one who was too foolish to heed the first two warnings.
This wolf acts like someone might tear Snow away from it any second now.
Val stopped and met its eyes, appearing significantly braver than she felt. Then Snow took notice of his companion's stare and followed it to her. His grey eyes darted to one side, to empty space, and then back to her.
"La- Val," the honorific was caught in his throat, only slipping out by mistake to begin with, "does all go well with your people?"
The Direwolf lowered its head to rest on Snow's leg, and Val finally felt comfortable enough to step closer. "We had some holdouts at first." She reported. "But when they saw the giants and mammoths were going, barely half a hundred remained. They changed their minds quick when they realized we weren't waiting on them."
"Good." Jon nodded and stood up, shaking some fresh white powder off of his cloak. "I'll go prepare the distraction." He patted Ghost between the ears as the Direwolf gave a soft noise of distress. "You have to stay with them, boy. Guide them out of this waste. I'll be behind you."
"Are you a skin changer too?" Val asked. "That wolf of yours watches us so suspiciously I thought you used his eyes to watch your back."
Jon shook his head. "Maybe. I sometimes dreamt that I was a wolf racing through these very forests some short years ago." His hand wandered over his unbeating heart. "I haven't dreamt that way recently though…not for several weeks now."
"A shame." Val's voice noticeably softened. "Most don't like 'em, but way I always saw when it comes to skin changers: you don't need the skin of an animal to be dangerous or unworthy of trust."
"Some of the most high born nobles down south aren't worthy." Jon clenched his teeth in a forced smile. "Same with the kings."
"Like the one who rode us down at the Wall?" Val could see the stag amidst a flaming heart framed clearly in her mind.
"Stannis Baratheon was the only one who answered our call for aid." Jon shrugged his fur covered shoulders. "The way I see it that makes him better than the rest: a reaver on an island and a boy ruled by his advisors."
"There's why we choose our king." Val said. "You all just pop crowns on the head of whichever wailing welp who the gods allow to crawl from their mother's cunt and pray then that he turns out to be good."
Her choice of words perfectly described the Targaryen dynasty.
Each time a Targaryen is born the gods would flip a coin and the world would hold its breath.
Mad kings, great kings, mediocre kings, average kings…they'd shown every shade of good and bad that could be found in a monarch until Aerys the Mad. Joffrey Baratheon was said to be mad before he was struck down at his own wedding, his brother was described as timid and slow minded, easily malleable to the whims of whoever surrounded him. Now Stannis, worshipper of the Red God and prone to sacrificing anyone with a drop of royal blood in their veins, might also be mad.
"Every time a new king or queen is crowned the gods will toss a coin and all the kingdoms will hold their breath." Jon said. "Once the saying only applied to the dragons, now it might as well extend to all monarchs."
"Save the ones who prove themselves and get chosen." Val pointed out. "Mance was a fool, like I said, but he was a fool who we needed. Now you're the fool we need."
"I'm not seeking to name myself your next King." Jon retorted.
"And I'm not looking to name you one." Val shrugged. "Just warning you that if this works you'll have a lot of very happy people, same as Mance when he was gathering us together. He didn't do it without fighting a few battles first, some against the living and some against the dead."
"Speak plainly or not at all." Jon demanded.
"I know what your offer was: come south, settle your Gift, tend the lands, fix your castles, man the Wall, keep the peace…and I know what your King Stannis wants." Her eyes narrowed. "We won't march in the wars of others, least of all to the one who burnt Mance alive. But I've heard of the ones who hold your lands now, the Boltons…the flayers. We've our own stories to tell of them and I doubt they'd leave us in peace, but with Mance dead you'd need someone the tribes will follow by choice. Did Tormund and his people follow you out here by choice?"
"They also came to my rescue by choice." Jon confirmed. "Them and the Giants who made it past the Wall."
"There you have it, then." Val nodded and began to make her way back to the column of Mammoths being loaded with passengers. "You want us to help you fight anything, Jon Snow? Then show that you're the one who we want to follow."
Jon watched her go, wincing as the wound over his heart burned. Speaking with Val was painful, but not because of her demeanour towards him. It was like talking to Ygritte, only she had been a lot more vulgar towards him at first whereas Val hadn't made one insinuation or insult. It was…like seeing Ygritte for real, after peeling past the layers of scorn and harsh laughter she wore to cover the fear she had for her people. Beneath it all she had been tired from running for so long and was hurt when he wouldn't betray his vows for her.
Would that I could turn back time and stop that arrow…
"She speaks wisely." The Stranger manifested at his side, standing at the exact spot Jon had glanced towards when Val initially approached. "This is a war that cannot be won through birth right alone, and this Stannis Baratheon is not a very popular ruler outside of the fire worshippers and his sell-swords. We can't depend on him alone, we need an army of our own and we can't be selective as to where it comes from."
"If we lead an army loyal to me alone it could put us at odds with Stannis." Jon pointed out. "We can't afford more enemies."
"Think, boy!" The Stranger growled. "If the vellorai follow you, you can give Stannis what he wants: the numbers needed to vanquish the Red Kings' seed and put the North to rights. With that he will have what he needs to continue his war in the south while we look to the true conflict here."
If the stag bested the flayed man it would give Stannis recognition that he'd lacked ever since the Battle of the Blackwater: the loyalty of the largest of the Kingdoms, a power base from which he could resume his war for the Iron Throne. Jon could only speculate on what would follow next, but if Stannis proved that he could secure a kingdom with the Iron Bank's pittance that bought four thousand mercenaries into the fight he could earn their confidence and full financial support.
One way or another they would see their gold returned, and Jon had learned just how much was owed through Ser Davos, just prior to Thorne's Mutiny.
If Stannis proved to be the safest bet they would give him enough gold to buy any number of mercenary companies, giving him the ranks to march south. But first he had to beat the Boltons and their allies in the midst of the cold North where the bulk of his army was at a disadvantage.
Jon needed Stannis to win, and Stannis needed the Free Folk to help him win.
Ergo, Jon needed the Free Folk to follow him of their own free will.
He knew this because the Stranger knew it, or maybe it was the other way around. He couldn't deny the plain logic
"All this relies on our plan working." Jon pointed out.
"It will work."
"They might not take the bait."
"They will if their own thralls report it to them." The Stranger dissolved from view. "We must go. The time is nigh."
Xxx
From the west, a White Walker gazed out at the pool of light and warmth that tainted its peoples' lands. It rode upon not a reanimated equine, but one of the creatures that had been long ago reforged and bred by the oldest of magics with one purpose: to serve as mounts of war that struck terror into the short lived little monkeys called Man. The arifi's fangs twitched as its crystalline eyes gazed yearningly, filled with a primal hunger that had been introduced to override the initially bending instincts of what its species used to be.
The Walker brushed one hand across its flank, silently urging patience. It would have its feast from the few found unsuitable for the Cold Gift tonight, any whose bodies would not survive the inevitable exodus. The mount was kept well fed, but opportunities to feed it fresh meat came far and few between ever since the Slaughter by the Sea.
Five others of its kind were spread out to surround the Man-Camp from all directions, waiting for time or fear to wear down the defenders. Each commanded around five thousand Cold-Touched, mostly the primitive zaric and versatile animals led by several dozen goric. A token force to clear up the last of the taint north of the Divide before they pressed south.
The monkeys are strangely silent tonight.
Have they put an end to it and saved us the trouble?
I'd hope not! I wish to dance and bathe in warm blood tonight.
The White Walker filtered through the mass of exchanged thoughts and checked over the goric directly under its influence. Echoes of the men and women they used to be were brushed aside as he directly occupied their skins and surveyed their surroundings, listening to the zaric shambling about.
Why do we not simply fall upon them now?! They are few, we are many!
The Walker returned to its true body and interjected. There will be fire beyond the Divide, fire in glass and air, as was foretold. It reminded the impetuous speaker. No skins can be wasted if they needn't be. Starve them out, tire them, take every last one of them that we can.
The reminder of their orders subdued the dissatisfied grumbles, but only for now. This was the result of trusting such a mundane task to the youngest of their kind fit for leading. The Walker had been tasked with keeping them from throwing away skins unnecessarily and found this to be a challenge in and of itself. They were petulant children compared to him, born into their new state such a short time ago that they were less than infants by the standards of its kind. It had been ancient when the Divide rose and had been trusted to teach each new generation of those touched directly by the King's Gift, but now it lacked the time it would have used to sort out their impulses and excesses.
Suddenly a howl went out from the far side of the camp. It was the call to arms for the Others, the battle cry of the goric.
Here! Here! The young one cried jovially and urged their arifi forward, scampering across bulging root and rock jutting from the frozen ground. They come to me!
The Walker reached out towards the warrior and tried to link their minds so that it could see what they saw, but found a barrier of euphoria interfering. It could only catch glimpses of battle, of zaric throwing themselves as shrouded figures as blades flashed in the moon light and the goric sent out its cry.
Cut them down!
After them!
NO! The Walker roared, but went unheard as the younger commanders to the north and south of the battle moved their forces as one, pushing inwards to catch the fleeing Men in a pincer. Hold position! Do not break the circle!
Its words were lost in a whirlwind of bloodlust. It urged its arifi forward and charged down the slope towards the tree line. The Walker caught glimpses through the disobedient young one's eyes as they charged out into an enclosure where the fighting had been thick, leaving dozens of bodies strewn about with only a few zaric and their lone goric standing.
Awwww already dead!
No fair!
I want blood! I want blood!
Then the Walker experienced through the younger commander's vision the shock of its life. The Cold-Touched still standing turned to him with venomous green eyes that pierced all shadows. Then the rest on the forest floor rose up without any prompt with similar glares as they threw themselves into the wall of skins that had come expecting easy prey. Their weapons blazed with emerald fire that cut down anything in their path and very nearly cut down the commander before he parried an axe swing away with his crystal blade.
What is this?! They cried before their arifi's head exploded, victim of an arrow that burst every single one of its eyes and shattered its outer shell in a flash of green. This threw the commander from their mount, but they succeeded in rising to their feet and cutting several of the greenskins down before another figure entered their vision.
Wreathed in light, it appeared as if from thin air and sank a blade wreathed in the same emerald embers through the young one's chest. The Walker lost the link entirely but heard the shriek of shattering ice as one of its kind gave its death cries. By the time it reached the battleground it found the forest floor strewn with hundreds of skins charred to crisps and many more still fighting, distinguished only by those who wielded the spectral fire.
Kill them! Kill them!
The zaric still outnumbered the greenskins and sank their blades into them from multiple angles, but were forced to dismember them piecemeal much like the Men would have been forced to do without their earth-fire or true-fire. In the time it took for them to put one down it would cut down three or four. To make matters worse it seemed that others were popping up from among the ranks of the skins that flooded into this section of the forest.
Then it saw the thing that had been burnt into its mind through the eyes of the fallen commander. The warrior was robed in the same black as the Watchmen but fought unlike any Man or beast. A sword that held the same deadly ring as dragon steel was further augmented by the spectral flames that allowed the warrior to cut through zaric and reduce them to burnt husks with a single cut. The fighter reacted with speed that permitted him to take on as many as four foes at once, though occasional blows slipped through and seemed to inflict minuscule injury that didn't even slow him down.
The Walker raised its crystal blade with a shriek and charged forward, leading a wave of reinforcements into the battle. The Watchman turned to see hundreds of shapes swarming out of the darkness to slam into the edge of the melee and begin washing over the entangled fighters, caring little for what fell under their blades as long there were fewer of the tainted greenskins afterwards.
There was fear in the Watchman's eyes, if only briefly before it was replaced by a resolve as hard and cold as steel as the grey orbs wandered to a section of the battle close by, homing in on a goric that had once been a watchman much like him.
Then he was gone, vanishing from one spot and reappearing within reach of the goric. He batted aside its axe with ease and clamped his free hand down on its skull. The spectral flames coursed down through his arm and into the cold-touched. The Walker was too slow to close the distance before the magic supplanted the enchantment that had originally raised the goric, turning its blue eyes green and spreading this effect to the zaric directly tied to it…all several dozen of them.
The Walker shrieked and urged his mount, which lunged at the Watchman and pounced down upon him with all of its weight. His dragon steel blade sank into its underside, pinned beneath the now dead weight.
Reaching down, the Walker grabbed the Watchman by his dark hair and poised its blade for a fatal strike. "Morak abarri!" It snarled before it felt a burning agony spread across its side. It shrieked and looked down to see an axe blade buried into its side, wielded by the newly tainted goric which hissed before the Walker took its head off with a single sweep of its blade.
Xxx
This distraction was all the time that Jon needed to get a hand free and jab upwards into the Walker's face where he clung tight, feeling the blistering cold flesh crack and bubble beneath his palm before the Walker threw itself away, hands pressed over the affected area while Jon lifted the dead ice-spider up enough to crawl free.
By the time he'd found his footing and pulled Longclaw free of the slain aberration the Walker clambered to its feet, one hand still covering one half of its face. When it removed the hand Jon could see the full extent of the damaged is very touch had done. One entire side of the Walker's face was warped far out of its original shape, with the left eye socket entirely gone and one sharp and pronounced cheek bones lumpish and drooping. The imprint of Jon's hand had been left upon the glacial demon's visage to complete the mutilation.
But it was not anywhere near dead yet.
Taking up its crystal sword, the Walker shrieked and lunged towards him, cutting down two of his wights with a single swing and then chopping downwards. Jon redirected the blow off to the side and swung Longclaw up towards its face only for its free hand to close around his wrist, spreading frost across his bracer and sending a deathly chill all the way down to his bones.
"Abomination!" It shrieked in the Old Tongue. "Crawl back to your grave!"
Jon opened his trapped hand and took a moment to adjust the grip his free hand had on it before stabbing towards the Walker's exposed throat. It turned his attack aside with a casual smack against his forearm and followed up with a backhanded swing that buried its knuckles into the side of Jon's face hard enough to send him sprawling. He coughed but recovered quickly, now thankful for his seemingly bottomless well of stamina that allowed him to endure such vicious blows in stride.
The Stranger was at his side as Jon brought Longclaw up in both hands, keeping the Valyrian blade between him and the advancing Walker. "This one is a war leader among the Others, a Revanic." He said quickly. "Don't underestimate him. He's not like the lesser ilk that you've killed before. They were runts of the litter, this one is a fighter of the pack."
Jon gulped down a breath out of habit more than necessity and nodded. The Revanic shrieked and leapt off of the ground, displaying inhuman grace and speed before chopping downwards with their full weight behind the swing. Jon angled Longclaw so that the crystal blade slid off to one side and threw himself in the opposite direction, darting to his opponent's side and cutting it across the thigh. This threw the Revanic off balance, but it recovered in time to twist clear as Jon stabbed towards its exposed back; in the same move it flipped its larger weapon around and stabbed down under its own arm, cutting into Jon's side before he retreated.
Around them, wights both blue and green eyed slaughtered one another, leaving a small space around the duel. Jon could feel whenever one of his thralls were slain, be they the lesser shamblers or one of the precious few goric he'd secured. Jon's wights had the benefit of the element of surprise to allow them to quickly crush the first enemy ranks and the advantage of their weapons emitting the same spectral green flames that were associated with his Gravewalker nature, but the enemy was pouring more of their own wights into this fight as they realized it was no mere escape attempt by a few desperate Free Folk.
Time was against him, but every wight that he could lure here, every Walker be they runt or Revanic was another that would not pursue the Free Folk. He could see them through Ghost's eyes and knew that Val was proving herself to be the very leader he'd been told she was. The Free Folk broke through the thinning ranks covering the southern approach, using Giants and Mammoths to crush anything in their way while Wargs and their alternate skins followed behind, watching the flanks with torches on hand to dispose of any bodies that weren't totally crushed beyond the means of the Others' magic to animate.
A few were unfortunate enough to be grabbed and dragged down, but Ghost saved more than one life by dragging a shambler away by the leg or ripped an arm off. Many of the Wights posted along the southern and eastern approaches were already committed to or on their way to the ongoing battle, and too few were close enough to make a difference if they turned back now. At best some stragglers would be run down, but the Free Folk would escape with the a few hundred deaths to show for it if nothing changed.
Such as Jon losing his head.
The Revanic cut through the stem of a tree, its blade singing over Jon's head so closely that he felt a small gust of unsettled air follow it. The ancient bark offered as much resistance as bread would to a knife, cracking around where the crystal blade sliced clean through without any exertion on the Revanic's part. With a groan the tree leaned heavily to one side, hundreds of intertwined branches overhead snapped and sprinkled the battlefield as the entire form came crashing down, crushing more than a few wights from both sides. It also landed between Jon and the Revanic, the latter quickly clearing it before it or the disturbed puffs of snow finished settling.
Jon was too slow to bring Longclaw up, having dove out of the tree's path, and felt a burning agony rise up through him as the Revanic impaled him clean through the torso. A heavy exhale escaped from him-
"For the Watch." Allister Thorne said dispassionately and stepped back.
His chest burned where the knives had cut into him like hot iron was being pressed into every individual wound.
"For the Watch." First Builder Yarwyck said quickly, withdrawing like he feared Jon would have the strength to retaliate.
The good half of the Revanic's mouth twisted into a smile, flashing gleaming fanged teeth as it leaned down towards him, pressing the crystal sword all the way through into the ground beneath him. Jon's mouth was wide open, a strangle groan escaping from him as his hands fumbled for Longclaw. He'd dropped it at some point, he didn't know when.
"For the Watch." Bowman Marsh declared.
The Revanic gripped him by the roots of his hair. "The Night's King will suffer no rival, overreaching little monkey." It said, twisting the sword in Jon's ribs and ripping a pained cry from him.
Olly stared at him, face streaked with tears and his knife-hand quivering as Jon looked on, silently pleading.
"Olly-"
The knife dug in, piercing his heart.
"For the Watch."
Jon ground his teeth together and wrapped both hands around the Revanic's blade. He sucked in a deep breath and let out a groan of exertion as his gloved hands felt a chill pierce through to his bones.
"Farewell Snow.
"And you, Stark."
Robb pulled Jon into an embrace which he gladly returned. He hadn't known that would be the last time he ever held his brother, the last time he would ever speak to him…
The Revanic's smile faded as the emerald flames coursed over Jon's arms, burning away his sleeves where before it had left them untouched.
"First lesson, stick'em with the pointy end. I'm going to miss you." He could see Arya's eyes beginning to moisten, but was mindful of the blade she held when she raised her arms up. "Careful!"
She carefully set the thin blade aside, slowly setting it down only to then throw herself forward and wrap her arms around Jon's shoulders. He held her up and squeezed her against his chest. That was the moment where he almost stayed at Winterfell, bound only by his own stubborn pride to make good on his declaration rather than be named a coward.
"All the best swords have names, you know."
"Sansa can keep her sewing needles." She whispered. "I've got a Needle of my own."
He never knew if she had the chance to use Needle. For all he knew she laid dead in some nameless ditch in the south, the little girl whose boyish habits he'd indulged, who he went riding with and taught to shoot a bow. A victim of some rapist or robber or both as war raged on around her.
The crystal substance warped in his grasp and shattered. The Revanic recoiled away, its good eye wide as a dinner plate as Jon pulled the shattered tip from his chest. Jon felt it fracture and melt away in his hand as the flames spread further up his arms, as far as his shoulders and across his chest.
"Jon!"
Jon had known that it wouldn't be so simple as saying goodbye to Bran. He'd said his words, endured the silent, scornful glare of his father's wife and made to leave. Be it fear or respect for her station he stopped at the door and looked back at the blue, red rimmed eyes of Catelyn Stark.
"It should have been you."
He'd once longed for Catelyn's love, the same love she wielded like the finest made armour for her true-born children. He'd wanted to be able to sit at the same table as them and allow her to affectionately fuss if any part of his appearance didn't meet her standard. He'd wanted her to chase away his nightmares, to fill the hole left by the nameless , faceless shadow of whatever woman had carried him.
At that moment however, he just never wanted to see her again.
His wish had been granted at too high a cost.
Longclaw materialized in his hold. The few remaining green eyed wights were finally put down, torn into too many pieces to make suitable vessels for the magic that animated them. They closed in but stopped short, staring with what passed for fear at the green beacon of light that stood in their midst.
With a wordless snarl Jon brought Longclaw up and swung it down in a powerful chop.
"Is my mother alive?" Jon saw Ned Stark freeze up in the process of turning to join the column. "Does she know about me? Where I am? Where I'm going?" He looked longingly at his father. "Does she care?"
He could see the conflict in the Quiet Wolf's eyes. "…the next time we meet, we'll talk about your mother." He finally assured Jon. "I promise."
Then he turned and rode away, rode to his death…to break his promise.
Robb, Sansa, Bran, Arya, Rickon, Ned, Catelyn, Theon, Hodor, Old Nan, Ser Rodrik…every single person in the lie he'd once held was gone, dead or scattered. Everything about his old life was gone. It felt like he had been someone entirely different and now a stranger occupied the skin of Jon Snow.
All he had now, that which in all of the world that truly mattered to him, was his mission and his life…and he would not lose them today.
Not today!
The Revanic desperately held up what remained of its weapon. Longclaw, wreathed in green, cut through it with barely any resistance and continued on, cutting deep into the Revanic from its cranium to the junction of its legs. Much like the runts that had fallen before it, its form shattered into a spray of ice and water, leaving only dark leather and furs.
Silence fell over the grove. The emerald flames slowly dissipated, leaving Jon naked from the waist up in the aftermath, yet now he felt as though he stood under a warm southern sun.
Around him, many of the wights collapsed into motionless heaps with the loss of their commander. Through Ghost's eyes he saw this effect reach even the shamblers chasing after the Free Folk. Hundreds simply dropped and never rose again, some expiring as they came into arm's reach of their prey. The refugees paid little heed to this, pressing their way further south-east towards a beacon of fire, to where Tormund blew a war horn.
They were away now, far enough that they had a chance.
Whereas Jon stills stood at the heart of the Army of the Dead. Even with their numbers thinned by his surprise attack and the loss of two Walkers, one of them of higher rank, he was surrounded on all sides. He could spot as many as two more pale figures standing tall among the wights, staring at him in a way that he never thought to see from their kind.
…
Fear.
They feared him. He had slain three of them so far and now had turned their own magic against them. He was no longer prey to them.
"We've done our part." The Bright Stranger appeared at his side. "We've dealt them a blow and deprived them of their fodder. Rejoin the vellorai and let us be rid of this dead land."
Jon nodded slowly and was about to consider just how to affect his escape when his legs gave out, bringing him to his knees. His limbs felt heavy and weak, Longclaw slipping from his grasp as he fell forward and face first into the darkness of the wraith world.
"Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armour and it can never be used to hurt you."
"Do you know what leadership is, Lord snow? It means that the person in charge gets second guessed by every clever little twat with a mouth. But if he starts second guessing himself, that's the end. For him, for the clever little twats, for everyone."
"I was trying to win the throne to save the kingdom, when I should have been trying to save the kingdom to win the throne."
For what felt like an eternity he drifted through the darkness , until…
Jon opened his eyes with a sharp gasp and sat up, disturbing the patch of snow that he lay in. His eyes adjusted to the darkness as he glanced around, frantically looking for the blue eyed silhouettes he'd been surrounded by…only to find that he was alone.
He was back in the heart of the Free Folk camp, laying between the two Heartrees where Mother Mole and Val had met him outside a now deconstructed shelter. There wasn't a soul in sight, many of the abandoned camp fires were flickering out now that they were unattended.
His hands went to his chest to find it bare as before…and with a scar he didn't have before. Long and thin, on the right-hand side of his chest…where the Revanic's blade had sunk in. Longclaw lay by his side, bereft of its scabbard.
Supported by unsteady limbs, Jon crawled up the side of the nearest Heartree and felt the carved facial features with one hand as he closed his eyes and pressed the side of his face against the weirwood bark.
"I'm alive." He whispered. "I'm alive."
And then he knew he was no longer alone,.
"It is as I told you," the Bright Stranger said from behind him. "You are barred from death, Jon Snow, and so you shall stay until we are no longer bound together."
He couldn't die.
He'd been stabbed and yet he did not die.
Jon collapsed into slumber, safe within the sight of the Old Gods…to suffer the same nightmare he'd had before, only with greater clarity.
A nightmare of a world choked by perpetual winter where there was not a soul but him and the ghosts.
And not a soul to hear…
Xxx
Review Responses
Vikas Moonka said...
"God damn! Now, that's a action chapter...a victory achieved but in classic!JonSnow fashion i.e more exitential crisi but becoming more bad-ass..this story deserves so much more love...a brilliant crossover..can't wait for more...thanks for writing..."
Glad you enjoyed it Vikas! I'm trying my best to mesh both franchises together without making a huge mess out of them. One thing that always worried me was that I'd make it too easy for Jon, what with him being the Gravewalker now. But recently I've come to consider all kinds of way to make sure our favourite brooding hero doesn't always get his way.
Richard1081 said...
"Great chatper, also was an of the free folk around to witness Jon's badassery?"
Well Richard, I had it that all of them were running for their lives, but I'm juggling the idea of a Warg or two with an avian skin may have spied this epic showdown.
Prince of Petersburg said...
"This story is as good as erver, still it's kind of weird to read without knowing who this "bright stranger" really is. Will you let him remember who he later on or you simly don't intend to do so?"
Rest assured your Grace, the identity of the Bright Stranger is one of the key elements of this story's plot. It will be revealed in due time, and until then I intend to make like Littlefinger and smile and watch aseverybody tries to guess what it is. And just to drive this point home once more for anybody who STILL thinks the stranger is Bran the Builder: IT IS NOT BRAN THE BUILDER. Just put that in caps to make sure nobody can claim ignorance on the matter anymore.
End of Chapter
