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.

Xxx

Chapter Nineteen: Call to Arms

8th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC

Ashcrown, Skane

"I told you to kill her." The Stranger reminded Jon.

"Not now." He murmured.

Every last man who Jon remembered leaving behind aboard the Steffon's Legacy bore a solid black burn in the shape of a hand print across their face and gazed at him with clouded over eyes that saw nothing that they weren't ordered to notice. Right now all they saw was the Heartree nestled at the heart of the bowl-like depression.

Rhae did not like that last part one bit. The row of Skani bowmen behind her shared that sentiment.

"Lady Melisandre, I cannot begin to explain to you just how little I care for your dogma today." Jon quite literally stood between Melisandre and a new vocation as a pin cushion. "You've disobeyed a direct command to remain with the ship, the crew of which likewise disobeyed a direct command to remain moored at Skagos." He glared at the branded men. "Though perhaps they had less choice in the matter than you did."

"None of what I do is by my choice, Jon Snow." Melisandre spoke to him like his sisters' Septa would address them whenever they said something foolish in their youth. "The Lord of Light desires that I stand here, so too does he wish the same of you."

"Well I don't see him here, so I'll just have to tell you to get off our fucking island." Rhae said bitingly. "If you'd like though, I'll write him a heartwarming message for you to deliver by hand. It'll make him cry, but in the good way."

The Red Priestess looked with mirth towards Rhae. "Your false gods' symbol is safe, child. The Lord has shown me that in my…pious enthusiasm I have been disruptive to the one true King's efforts. I am not here to force you and your people to see the glory of the Lord of Light, but rather…prove that he is worth following."

This was a change of tune from the woman who had tried to insist on having every Wildling who crossed the Wall burn a piece of Weirwood. Jon had been quick to put a stop to that by reminding Stannis' men that they were still on what had been his land at the time, but not before a few fights had broken out and at least one person was immolated by the end. Eventually Stannis had been convinced by the idea that the Free Folk's willingness to settle the Gift peacefully and aid in manning the Wall were contingent upon there being at least one strand of good will between them and those south of the Wall.

"You could still kill her now and spare yourself a headache." The Stranger proposed, smirking as Melisandre inclined her head towards him.

"If your words are genuine," Jon intervened to prevent a scenario where he had to explain the Red Priestess would have a philosophical debate with thin air, "then release the men in your company from whatever spell you've put over them."

"Not yet, Jon Snow." Melisandre stepped away from the ranks of her followers with a knowing smile. "They are needed for the coming conflict. You will be glad for their unflinching aid when you confront your adversary again."

"And just how do you expect to be of any help?" Rhae asked. "Beyond making a convenient, if not obvious distraction?"

Melisandre raised one hand to the ruby encrusted choker around her neck. "I can help you to take away what sustains the aberration." Her eyes gleamed like candles. "Its most precious treasure and source of power."

Jon looked back to see Rhae's stunned expression, then returned his attention to Melisandre. "How do you know of it?"

"The same way that I knew you would be here." Melisandre replied. "The same way that I influenced these men to be of aid to me. All that I do, all that I am capable of is a gift from the Lord of Light."

"Gifts to a madwoman from a mad god." The Stranger mocked. "Gifts that come with a price so heavy they would crush you and your enemies at once."

That much could not be disputed, and yet Jon began to empathize with Stannis as he realized that when so grossly outmatched even the occult held an appeal as a legitimate tool of war. Word from the south in the early days of the war had been that Renly had been assassinated in his own tent by his own Kingsguard, paving the way for Stannis to gain most of the Stormlands…and shortly after Ser Cortnay Penrose, castellan of Storm's End, fell from the walls of the fortress which subsequently surrendered to Stannis.

Two convenient deaths, both inflicted in ways that could not be rightly blamed upon Stannis. Had he turned to this woman for sorcerous aid, as little more than a convenient tool to achieve his aims? Once the idea of kinslaying and assassination would have revolted Jon such that he would have never allied with Stannis…but that was a Jon Snow who valued honour almost to the exclusion of all else. Now he stood with Wildlings, Skani and an honest to gods dragon against an enemy who had no such weakness.

Would allying with a priestess infamous for burning men alive really be such a strenuous step if it allowed him to bring to a close Tar-Medina's rule?

"Perhaps." Jon whispered. "But she may still be of use to us."

The Stranger snarled and faded away, washing his hands of the matter.

"I would have your word first." Jon said to Melisandre. "You will swear upon the name your god, the Lord of Light, and upon King Stannis' as well, may both be tainted if you prove false."

And may her head rest on a pike if she betrayed him, damn whatever Stannis or anyone else thought of it.

The Priestess regarded him with interest. "What would you demand of me?" The rise of one side of her red lips and slight parting of her red cloak told Jon all he needed of what she thought he would demand.

"You will renew the pledge you made that the Heartree of Ashcrown will not be harmed, even after Tar-Medine is dealt with." Jon issued his ultimatum. "You will swear to never attempt to burn it or convert the people who live in its shadow, that even if the Others are defeated and a thousand years passes you will not seek to force your faith upon Skane. You will make the same promise to Skagos and all of the North. You will also swear to release these men from your enthralment."

"I do so swear."

Jon's mouth had already opened to issue a counterargument before Melisandre's short, swift response reached him. The Priestess wore a look of mirth at his stunned reaction.

"I do so swear," she reiterated, her accented voice sounding exasperated, "upon the Lord of Light and his chosen, the Prince who is Promised, Azor Ahai Reborn, King Stannis of House Baratheon. The faith of the false gods of the forest and the hollow seven within the lands of the North have nothing to fear from me nor any of my flock. Though I cannot make or enforce this promise in the name of all who follow R'hllor, I will also swear to convey to them that my Lord has commanded peace with the false idols for the sake of a greater cause."

Of any thing that could have come from this encounter, Jon never would have thought that she would so quickly accede to his demands.

"The Lord has shown me that his light cannot be forced unto others, lest it breeds needless conflict with his servants in the face of the final battle against darkness." The priestess explained to him. "I have accepted his judgement, as loath as I am to allow this paganism to endure."

She did not care to hide her continued distaste for other faiths, though Jon would have been more worried if she claimed to be at peace with her supposed god's decision. Pragmatism was not something that he would attribute to a zealot of her kind, yet with so few followers behind her he was confident that the Skani could deal with any attempted treachery.

"But there is one final condition." The hand on her choker pulled away and uncurled one slender digit. "Not one of my own choosing, but that of my Lord's."

"Name it."

She shook her head. "Not for all to hear it. The Lord's will is for you alone to hear." The priestess motioned with her head to one side and moved over a fair distance away from Rhae, her bowmen and the branded men.

Jon whispered to Rhae. "I don't trust her." He said as an assurance. "Not entirely."

"That's the smartest thing you've said since you got here." She grinned. "Go on. I could do with less of hearing her poison anyways."

Following the priestess to another section of the crater's edge, Jon heard her proposal and, against his better judgement: accepted it.

Now he knew why she didn't want the Skani to hear it.

Xxx

9th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC

Coast of Skane, Sea Dragon

The salvage of Steffon's Legacy had proceeded slowly at first, with the waves and rocks presenting an obstacle which the Stormlander lacked qualified sailors to navigate even in day. Nightfall made it all but impossible to even conceive of getting near shore. Once the sun rose to provide enough light Baldric's men picked up the slack to find a safe route to where their longboats could get close enough to allow for boarding, and now were helping to remove provisions and anything of use from the wreck at a steady pace.

Baldric remained on the Sea Dragon to keep watch for any threats, be they from land or sea, and had finally escaped the unique pleasure of Ser Narbert's company to consult with the Dragon's designated warg: a dark haired shield maiden by the name of Astrid.

He found her near the prow, leaning against the deck railing and her clouded over eyes staring emptily at the shoreline. At first glance one would not think her a skin changer, but that was because most skin changers today were Wildlings (or Free Folk as Snow had insisted on calling them) who had clearly spent too much time in their other skins. Astrid was adorned in leathers and chainmail that quite thoroughly hid any sign of her womanly curves, leaving only her sharply angled and pale face bare while her hair, bound in a tight braid draped across one shoulder, shifted lightly with winds of the sea.

"What do your eagle eyes see?" Baldric asked of her.

"The Trident has turned back." She answered. "They have lit their beacon."

Someone had attacked them, or tried to if the Trident was still seaworthy and able to send out a warning.

"Do you see Gostav's eagle?"

She shook her head. "No sign of him."

The Trident's warg was either unwilling to show himself, or unable to. They would soon find out when it returned, but he would be sure to stand ready in case the worst had come to pass and someone else was in control. He hadn't become the Lord of House Magnar by leaving to chance something that was in his power to affect, Jon Snow's mission being a rare exception justified as an investment too good to let slip by.

But that investment no longer mattered if he was dead.

"Wait. Someone is on the shore!" Astrid's eagle skin passed overhead and directed Baldar's eyes to the section of shoreline near the abandoned longboat from the Legacy.

Figures stood in the shadow of the slopes overlooking the sandy beach. Baldric raised his spyglass and immediately noticed the tell-tale red, prompting a groan from him.

"Fuck. It's the fire-witch." He shifted his gaze slightly to one side and saw a familiar, perpetually brooding face next to her. "…well fuck me."

"I think your wife might object, m'lord." Astrid replied dryly.

Xxx

Morgund'dur, Skane

Davos Seaworth's dreams always ended in emerald fire, no matter what or whom he dreamt of. He'd seen his sons consumed again and again, witnessed little Shireen shriek her last breaths as her flesh was scorched black and been unable to stop Stannis from blindly marching into the fires of hell too many times since the Battle of the Blackwater.

This time he was torn from the sight of Jon Snow, eyes bright blue and cold, being swept away by a tide of wildfire.

"Seaworth!" Tormund hissed, shaking him roughly.

"Uhn…" Davos groaned as his eyes fluttered open to take in the sight of a curved stone ceiling overhead, dimly illuminated by a nearby sconce as a rancid door permeated the air.

He turned over and expelled the contents of his stomach.

"Up!" Tormund hauled him to his feet and dragged him along. "Hurry!"

There were others moving about them, but Davos' vision was still adjusting by the time Tormund shoved him through an open doorway flanked by rusted bars of metal. He heard the door swing shut and was flung to the floor again, feeling Tormund's arm against his back.

"Don't. Move. Don't. Talk." He whispered into Davos' ear, emphasizing each word. "Or we're fucked."

Davos had enough of his faculties from years of taking hard blows to his head back in Fleabottom to acknowledge this. He closed his eyes as hurried foot steps echoed down the passage beyond the door, followed by frantic gasps of breath by what sounded like a woman.

Then…there were many more foot steps, the slap of naked foot soles against moist stone accompanied by heavy, rattling breaths and grunts. The latter grew louder, developing a sense of urgency or excitement while the woman's frantic gasps turned into terrified screams…

And then agonized howling as her pursuers ran her down. Davos cringed and felt Tormund's arm press down against his back as the war chief shivered with fright. Bones snapped and blood splattered the stone floor, sending a copper scent wafting into the cell. The woman's cries devolved into choked gurgling as blood filled her throat, and finally…nothing but the sound of tearing and…feasting…

Davos didn't know how long they'd stayed there before whatever was outside the cell shuffled away, but Tormund didn't let up until even the echo of their grunts and rasping breaths faded away.

With a heavy exhale the war chief removed his arm and rolled onto his back. "I fucking hate this island."

"What…was that?" Davos didn't dare raise his voice above a whisper.

"Don't know, but it's a good thing they don't smell as good as they hear." Tormund sat up. "Just about soiled myself the first time they came through."

The first time…?

"How long have I been out?"

"A few hours." Tormund moved to the bars and peered out. "Some of the friendlier faces down here said we were dropped in here, same as them."

"And who are they exactly?" Davos joined him, missing the weight of his sword on his belt.

"Some are local, others say they crashed in a storm or got lost and landed here before they realized just who was waitin' for 'em." Tormund carefully opened the door, tenderly maneuvering it in a way that minimized the groan of rusted metal scraping on rusted metal before he let it rest against the wall. "All got the same story: those fuckers toss 'em down here, let 'em languish and then when they're good and broke…they take 'em back out and nobody hears from 'em again."

Davos followed him back out as other figures, most of them emaciated men with sunken eyes, crawled out of their own hiding spots and hurried away. "Last I remember…we were coming up on the fortress."

"Aye, then we were jumped." Tormund nodded. "Came outta nowhere, lot's of 'em. Barely had me sword out before I went down. Then I woke up here with all the charmin' company in the whole fuckin' world I could ever ask for."

Davos wasn't sure whether he should feel more: the irony or the shame of the situation. They came to help Jon and now at best they'd need his help to get out of this, just another distraction to add to a plate of problems that was quickly becoming a feast.

"He probably wanted this to happen." Davos realized. "The Weaver. He sent Jon here to die and now he's rid of us as well."

"Snow can't die." Tormund reminded him.

"Valar morghulis…"

A hunched figure emerged from the darkened passage through which…whatever had left what was now a massive puddle and trail of blood had gone. Bare feet, wrinkled and each missing their smallest toe, padded through the red liquid without making a sound where even the rats at least could be heard skittering through.

"It is only a matter of how…" The figure raised its head enough for Davos to see darkened skin and a the edge of a slit nose, "…and when. Valar dohaeris."

If Davos never heard those words again before he died it would still be too soon.

"The fuck are you?" Tormund grunted, now close enough to the nearest light source for Davos to note that one of the man's eyes had swollen to the point of being forced closed.

"An old woman who has been in this hell since you were in swaddling clothes." The hooded woman shuffled between and past them. "Which is why you should follow me."

"Forgive me for saying so, m'lady, but that's no reason to trust you." Davos said.

"There's no reason to trust anyone to do more than act in their own self interest, yet you always end up surprise anyways." The woman turned to face them. "But what do I know? I'm just someone who lived to grow old in a place where most die on their first day."

When she put it that way…

"Tormund?"

"What?"

"I'm following her."

At best this was genuine and they would live to see the sun again.

At worst, she'd kill them or they'd die of starvation or at the hands of whatever those things were…or their own hands if they stayed long enough to go mad.

Anything sound better than spending the rest of his natural life here.

Xxx

Greencrown, Skane

"Yer absolutely fuckin' mad." Baldric Magnar said after Jon finished explaining himself. "Then again: this whole island sounds fuckin' mad 'n you don't strike me as a creative liar."

It had been an ordeal to even convince the Lord of House Magnar to set foot on Skane. Only after Jon had assured him that there were only very physical threats to be feared instead of ghosts did Baldric allow himself to be tempted into being the first Magnar on Skane in centuries. Ser Narbert had followed quickly, lacking the Skagosis' appreciation for the tales of songs of the Feast of Skane.

Jon had just finished explaining to them the exact state of affairs on Skane…and they were understandably sceptical, even Baldric who had grown up with the harassment of Skane's resident monster as a regular aspect of his life. He'd shown them the stretches of abandoned land and ruins as far as Greencrown, which was as far as either was willing to move inland for the time being.

That was just fine, as Jon had already selected it for this gathering with good reason.

"I find that calling these claims of yours 'outlandish' doesn't do them justice." Ser Narbert said, kicking a rock into the pond dominating the heart of Greencrown. "Dragons, sorcery and a dark fortress. Pah!"

"That last one is true for certain." Baldric argued. "My men on the Trident saw it from afar, towards the far side of the island. Bigger than anything Skane had before the Feast."

"What these back water savages have gotten up to in their privacy holds no interest to me." Narbert said scornfully. "Snow, you've dragged us far off of our original mission! We could have already been back in the North and presented your brother to King Stannis if not for this diversion."

"And yet it is the Lord's will which has guided us here, Ser Narbert." Melisandre reminded him, standing on a short ledge overlooking the gathering. "He would not have us face the coming darkness with another enemy, however lesser, to our flank."

The knight averted his eyes towards the ground at the priestess' gentle chastising,. "A thousand pardons, Lady Melisandre, but I still find these claims hard to believe on faith alone. Mayhap it is a personal failure of mine, but it is as it is."

"Your proof is coming." Jon assured him, sitting on the stone edge of the pond. "There is another reason that we are speaking here and not closer to shore."

Ser Narbert dismissiveness of anything Jon said was set to rear its ugly head when the Sheepstealer's roar cut across the planes. Baldric, Ser Narbert and their respective entourages looked skyward and gaped at the winged silhouette which swept down out of the clouds and passed low over Greencrown, kicking up a gust of wind which unsteadied several men- none of them Melisandre's branded followers. As the Sheepstealer began to come about for a landing, a number of Skani cloaked in green and brown emerged from the western edge of the settlement.

Sheep made his landing behind them, just at the edge of the stone buildings where his mass would not cause any further damage. From there, Rhae and several more figures dismounted and walked down to the pond's edge through a well established gap through the mass of Skani. When she stood close enough to be clearly seen she removed her hood and mask, displaying her white hair and purple eyes.

Baldric and his men openly gaped at the sight of the Skani. All their live they had known Skane to be devoid of life, a ghost island at best. To see with their own eyes that everything they'd known was false, to find genuine Skani standing before, had to be much like how Jon had felt when he had first beheld the Giants in Mance Rayder's host.

"Targaryen…" Ser Narbert whispered, pale and shivering at the sight of a live dragon even from several dozen meters away. "How?"

"Don't be calling me that now, southron." Rhae scowled and jabbed a thumb against the centre of her leather cuirass. "The name's Rhae," she pointed the same thumb over her shoulder, "that's Sheep, and the rest of this lot are the finest rangers on Mother Skane. You're guests on our lands, so mind your manners, shut your mouths and open your ears."

She directed a nod at Jon. "All yours, Grave Walker."

Jon climbed back up and returned the gesture. "You have Lord Magnar's word on the location of Morgund'dur, the testimony of Lady Melisandre and now you have a dragon and its rider. Do you care to continue disputing my word, or do you wish for me to get to the meat of the matter, Ser Narbert?"

At least one of Ser Narbert's men had soiled himself, another two had stumbled and tripped and had yet to return to their feet, eyes locked onto either Rhae or Sheep. Ser Narbert himself was able to tear his eyes away from both to look at Jon, disbelief replaced by fear.

"The monster is real." The Stormlander stated.

For another pleasant surprise, Jon found out that even a zealous man like Narbert Grandison could draw a line on when to stop believing what he wished and start believing what he saw and heard.

"It is real." Jon nodded. "And so is the threat it represents. It has remained idle here by necessity, suffering grievous wounds inflicted by the very dragon before you, but we can't assume that it will remain here forever. One day, eventually, it will regain its strength and move onto new pastures and do there what it did here." He gestured with one arm to the ruins of Greencrown. "And when that happens, no army or king will be able to stand against it or its army."

"And no dragon to stop it." Rhae provided. "Food for thought."

"An entire army…the-the King must be warned!" Ser Narbert stammered. "An- an entire island of monsters and sorcerers right off the- off of the shore of his realm! And a Targaryen astride a- astride a- a dragon! Lord of Light protect us!"

While holding out one arm to stop Rhae from approaching the Stormlander, Jon shot Melisandre a meaningful look as he saw where this was heading.

Deal with him, or I will. He had cautioned the priestess beforehand, and reiterated this without a spoken word.

Melisandre strode towards the knight amidst his breakdown and clasped the sides of his head, forcing him to meet her eyes. "The Lord of Light is here with us, Ser Narbert." She spoke to him as if he were a child suffering a nightmare. "We are, all of us, his champions in this battle. From the lowest born servant to fire incarnate itself, he has blessed us so that we may carry out his will. Do not cower from this task, for the night is dark and full of terrors, but He stands beside us where ever we do battle in his name."

The Bright Stranger manifested at Jon's side, looking on with abject disapproval. "I feel her mad god's power in her words." He whispered. "She enchants him. Not like her Branded, but she tugs at his mind to inhibit his free will."

If it brings Grandison and his men into our ranks, I can live with it.

"The night is dark…" Ser Narbert whispered, shaking as Melisandre kissed his brow. "…and full of terrors." He swallowed and bowed his head in reverence. "But-but…we shall meet them. We must. In His name."

Good, with that out of the way maybe we can continue.

"But-"

Gods damn it!

"-should we not still warn the king and bring reinforcements?" Ser Narbert asked.

"King Stannis cannot help us here." Jon argued. "Tar-Medine may be powerful and his forces numerous, but these Orcs are not men. They are weak willed without a leader to guide them. And Tar-Medine himself has a weakness. We need only exploit it and then do away with him, then any threat he poses to the Seven Kingdoms- be it now or in the future, will be erased."

"You have a plan, then." Baldric wagered, glancing towards Rhae. "Or else you wouldn't have introduced us."

"I do." Jon confirmed. "It won't be easy. The Orcs are ferocious fighters who don't share the same weaknesses as a host of levies. They do not desert or break easily, but there is one weakness they have which will make this possible."

Xxx

9th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC

Morgund'dur

"Their Captains fight among themselves for greater influence, or for the sake of pride. I know of one Captain who would be perfect for our needs."

In the stables of Lobra the Wolf, Jon dropped down into plain view and was briefly met with drawn blades and snarling faces before a sharp whistle silenced them. Lobra, astride his favoured cazarin, Mugs, rode towards Jon and dismounted to kneel before him. Slowly, the rest of his men followed their Captain's example. The Stranger appeared by Jon's side and offered a nod of approval at the sight of a ready and available army.

"Tar-Medine's weakness is guarded by one of his elite Captains, a War Chief by the name of Hurok. He is known to supplement his forces with that of Captains who gain his interest; no small feat. He rarely leaves the fortress, but his men are known to wander when their shifts end. As we don't have time to wait for them to notice our friend's work, I will ensure that they bear witness."

Jon later observed several of Hurok's men, known by the other Orcs as Berserkers, as they leisurely slaughtered several of their kind who had either crossed them or simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. From a watch tower where the arbalests were now securely in his control, he witnessed the group of four Berserkers, distinguished by their black armour and red tattoos, leave behind corpses twice their number and frighten away witnesses with boisterous roars and bloodied blades held high.

As they walked back towards their own territory, Jon waited until they passed through an area without prying eyes. At his signal Skani rangers who had stalked them from the roof tops brought down three of their number while Jon leapt down and forced the lone survivor to the ground. Following a brief flash of green, the Berserker arose a loyal follower.

"Lobra the Wolf has a rivalry with another Captain, Vulg Pyrodancer- don't give me that look, I didn't pick the name. He may be new, but his ambition has made an impression. We're going to help Lobra resolve this rivalry once and for all in a way that will get Hurok's attention."

An orc cackled as he cracked his whip against the back of an Essosi man who cried out and just barely retained his footing, his back already sorely marked and bloodied by the persisting torment. The other men shackled to him by the ankles bore similar scars and did not acknowledge their fellow's agony, focused on their task of passing stones up out of a quarry and piling them into carts to be ferried back to the fortress. There were multiple lines of slaves attending to this labour.

"In the meantime we will conduct raids to gather information and free prisoners. There are Skani taken by raiding parties into the south and foreign sailors who have shipwrecked here. They are either tossed to the dungeons or use as slave labour. With luck, we'll find Lord Seaworth and the Giantsbane among the latter."

One man standing at the edge of the quarry groaned as he accepted a rock passed up, his arms quivering from exhaustion. He collapsed upon the rock with a groan, prompting the next man in line to try and usher him to his feet, speaking urgently before the same orc overseer took notice and barked an order, pointing to the collapsed slave. Two orcs moved forward with blades unsheathed, roughly dragging the man up to his feet as one positioned their dagger at his throat.

Then an arrow pierced through their own necks and torsos, flinging one down into the quarry where his mass crashed down through some wooden scaffolding. The orcs and slaves on the ground above looked towards the source to see Orc arbalests and bowmen at the nearby tree-line, with some Skani rangers hidden out of sight providing their own discreet support. Others mounted on cazarin charged out into the open and pounced upon the nearest overseers who tried to sound the alarm while the slaves cowered and stayed low to the ground.

Lobra the Wolf held a spear high and bellowed a war cry, driving his men towards and down into the quarry where more of Vulg's fighters found themselves outnumbered and taken by surprise. Some slaves were killed amidst the fighting, but by the time the last of Vulg's men were vanquished and Lobra's had withdrawn almost four out of every five slaves were still alive. Jon broke cover, joined by a mixture of warriors from Skane, Skagos and Westeros to begin freeing as many as possible.

As the slaves were herded out to freedom, Jon took notice of a single Orc who still cast a red glare when viewed through the Wraith World, laying among his fallen comrades and pretending to share their deceased state.

The Bright Stranger appeared by Jon's side and held up a hand when Jon reached for his dagger. After conversing, Jon nodded and instead grabbed the orc up by the throat before clamping one hand down on the side of their face.

"OT SEGAR MINA!"

Your secrets are mine.

The orc's eyes glazed over, and his knowledge flowed into Jon. After he was done he let the orc up and sent him off, the brand of a white hand over their face. Seeing this, Jon was momentarily reminded of the Branded in Melisandre's service and felt a momentary discomfort at the similarity. Shaking his head, he raced off after is company.

"I will take any opportunity I can to gather more information on Vulg. All I know right now is that he is in charge of one of the forges and seeks to expand. That requires raw materials, wood and stone in particular, which require labourers. We'll take as much of all three from him as we can."

Astrid's eagle flew over a logging camp flying Vulg's flaming banner. Dozens of slaves toiled at cutting down trees under the watchful eye of orcs in watch towers and more on the ground carrying spiked morning stars. Nearby, the Warg's eyes shed their milky film and she whispered to Baldric where he was coughed by her side, then to Rhae who was across from him.

They briefly discussed their plan and then divided their forces, striking from the eastern and western sides of the camp. Arrows picked off the orcs on the three towers while rangers nimbly followed the long cords connecting them, crossing far above where the workers and their overseers remained unawares. Then once they were in position Baldric blew a war horn which caused arrows to rain down on the orcs while stoneborn and green clad skirmishers broke cover.

The fighting was brief, with some losses for the attacking party on the ground, but only a portion of what the orcs suffered. Baldric personally brought his battle axe down and split the skull of the last surviving orc before directing his men to get to work on breaking chains. Nearby, Astrid knelt over a Magnar warrior who had been stabbed from behind during the struggle, taking a moment to close his eyes.

"It won't be without losses on our side. We have less than two hundred, and Lobra claims that the fortress has no less than six thousand at any time. I don't know how they sustain their numbers, but the cold truth is they can outlast us in a fight of attrition."

At both the stone quarry and the logging camp, the banner of Lobra's company is left as a sign of who is responsible. The Skani are meticulous in collecting their arrows (marked with colourful bands to make them easier to find) and any fallen Westerosi are taken along to hold up the illusion of multiple successful raids by Lobra's Black Riders. Reinforcements from Vulg's ranks sort through the dead riddled with the arrows roughly crafted by orc hands, with those at the logging camp finding a few bodies which had been quickly administered a cazarin's attention as well as paw prints to further support the fiction.

"We need to make them bleed as much as we can while taking as few losses on our side as possible; and we need everything we do to look like Lobra's handiwork. If it looks like he has outside help it will undermine him and set us back."

Both banners were torn down and taken to Vulg's forge within Morgund'dur. Other survivors of patrols and guard details reported their own tales of attack by the Black Riders, with word spreading to the other factions and Captains: within a single day Lobra the Toothless Wolf had avenged Vulg's insults against him and stolen many of his slaves. The Berserkers and other unaffiliated Orcs who bore witness to some of these skirmishes (thanks to some slight but calculated changes in patrol routes) aided in dispensing this gossip, as their word was taken at greater value due to serving directly under a War Chief.

Only a few of the mouths spreading this had needed Jon's unique method of persuasion.

Xxx

10th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC

Morgund'dur, Brawler Pits

"Vulg will personally be issued a challenge, and he won't let it stand. He won't be able to afford that. And when he comes out to deal with Lobra, that is when we can strike."

The banners of Lobra's Black Riders and Vulg's Fireborn fluttered in the wind along the perimeter of a small arena made of materials lashed and bolted together in an arrangement that would have made any decent carpenter or architect weep. It was established in the woods near the various logging camps to allow for Captains to entertain their troops or settle disputes if one should cross over into another's promised section of forest. Orcs from both factions crowded the deck overlooking a space best suited to a small amount of fighters, with empty cages lining the interior while a single gate provided easy entry.

Lobra and Mugs were already in position, the latter snoozing on the ground while the former leaned against the cazarin's flank, arms crossed with a smug expression.

"One thing about Orcs that will be of particular benefit to us is that their concept of politics is much…faster than what we are used to. When anything happens here, it happens fast. If we work quickly we can successfully execute these raids tomorrow, arrange the duel the day after and have Lobra's men in position in a week. If more needs to be done, then it can be done as needed; until we come to that bridge we focus on arranging Vulg's final hours."

"Vulg! Vulg! Vulg!" The Fireborn Orcs bashed the bases of their spears against the boards beneath them and clashed their axes to the faces of their shields in rhythm with their chant.

Their commander entered the arena, accompanied by four others. Vulg was taller than Lobra, leaner and wearing a helmet resembling a claw closed around his head from behind, with the individual digits loosely converging in front of his nose to provide a makeshift visor behind which wide yellow eyes glared hatefully. With one hand he held a roughly shaped sword with a curve to the blade, and with the other he doused it in oil.

"You just never learn." Vulg hissed, drawing a second sword and crossing the twin blades together. "I was going to let you live on, y'know. But after all you've done now? Kill my men. Steal my slaves. Muck up my plans!"

The blades shrieked along one another and burst into flames.

"Now you've got my full attention, Toothless Wolf." A grin of rotting teeth flashed beneath Vulg's helm as his four bodyguards ignited their weapons. "You won't have too long to regret that."

Lobra pulled himself into Mugs' saddle. "Can't even face me alone?! You're all spark and no flame. You and your cazarin hatin' shits are gettin' what you deserve today!" He snarled.

"Vulg will have the advantage, even if he leaves his bodyguards out of the duel. Lobra does not do well around fire, particularly when it's on him. However, this will not be an honourable duel on any terms."

Vulg and his men advanced, spreading out to surround Lobra in a semi-circle and close in. Lobra shuddered at the heat radiating from his enemies' weapons and eased Mugs back towards the arena wall, finding himself penned in.

"Because we are going to kill Vulg and make it seem that he attempted to use the duel as a trap, thereby making Lobra's victory all the more impressive."

From far above, Jon leapt down and brought the Fist of the First Men into the ground. An intense chill stole through the arena as frost quickly spread out from where the hammer impacted, snuffing out the flames on the surrounding orcs' weapons and making their breaths visible as they stumbled away in shock.

"But this means there can be no survivors outside of Lobra's command. If even one gets away to suggest outside involvement, we're fucked."

On the watch towers surrounding the arena, archers placed by Vulg in advance lay dead while Skani rangers let loose, cutting down many Fireborn crowding one side of the arena. Black Riders immediately threw themselves into battle, using the element of surprise to thin their enemy's numbers before they even knew what was happening. Outside the arena, more skirmishes broke out as Fireborn took notice of the threat and took up arms.

Back inside, Lobra cackled and urged Mugs forward, having the cazarin pounce on the nearest Fireborn and tear their head off along, pulling free a good portion of their spine. Jon parried away a stab from Vulg and ducked under the orc's guard to deliver a blow to his side, but the Pyrodancer lived up to his name and nimbly stepped out of reach before retaliating, locking his blades with the Fist and bringing him and Jon face to face.

"You?!" Vulg snarled incredulously. "I don't know how you survived that fall, man-swine, but when I'm done with you, you'll wish nothing more than for the ocean to swallow you up aAGH!"

Jon had broken the lock and kicked the orc back, sending him sprawling in the now frozen mud. "You talk too much."

Vulg looked towards the arena's gates as if to ponder a swift retreat, but found them already closing. "No! Don't close the gate!"

The large wooden doors finished swinging shut. On the other side, Ser Narbert Grandison personally helped to push over a hinge mounted beam which fell into place, barring the arena shut.

"Kill them all, lads!" He shouted to his men, who like him were clad in orc armour and rags that had made them appear as Black Riders to the distant, unobservant eye of the Fireborn. "Let them feel R'hllor's wrath!"

Baldric Magnar and Rhae led their men out into the open, reinforcing the Black Riders and their cazarin. Branded torched tents and sent their occupants sprawling out into view where they were quickly butchered. It would not be a bloodless event on the side of the Westerosi, but with the Black Riders' numbers and the element of surprise the battle was quickly becoming a slaughter.

Several fighters scrambled up ladders to clear the arena, led by Rhae who personally put an arrow into one of Vulg's remaining guards while the other was dispatched by Lobra's spear. The Pyrodancer himself fought the Grave Walker with a desperate ferocity, like a cornered animal lashing out. Jon had taken up a sword donated by Baldric and was letting his enemy exhaust himself, constructing a defence which Vulg could not hope to breach with his lack of form or signature flaming blades.

Among the recruits at Castle Black, Jon had seemed like a seasoned veteran of battle in comparison.

After years spent fighting Free Folk, wights and their masters he may as well have been the Warrior reborn for all of Vulg's efforts.

Finally, seeing the Pyrodancer's chest heave with heavy breaths and his arms struggle to keep up the continuous assault, Jon struck from overhead and put him on the defence. Vulg barely managed to bring one blade up to defend and was quickly disarmed of it after Jon bashed him across the cranium with a pommel strike. Jon gave him no time to even think of retrieving it or recovering his wits, feinting from the right only to slip his blade under Vulg's remaining sword and cutting upwards from the left, parting hand from wrist and drawing a howl from the Pyrodancer as his hand was flung away, weapon still in its grasp.

"AUGH! You wretched soft skinned-" The stream of expletives did not slow even as Lobra dismounted Mugs and slowly approached Vulg where he knelt, clutching the stump of his wrist. "-I'll fucking kill you! Burn you and your whole family and eat your flesh as it melts off your bones! Do you hear me?! I-"

"Mugs." Lobra sneered. "Kill."

Mugs, recognizing Vulg as the one who had scarred the cazarin now a few days ago, gladly complied. Snapping its jaws shut around Vulg's leg, it reared up and flung him into the air before slamming him facedown and then dragging him several feet, which its prey spent wailing and clawing at the ground. Mugs stopped and planted one foreleg atop Vulg's back, using the leverage to rip the leg off entirely and fling it away as Vulg's cries turned into high pitched shrieks…then choked gurgling as the cazarin continued its work.

Then there was silence as the Pyrodancer succumbed, his head lifted away from his mutilated body by Mugs. The cazarin, whose entire front was stained almost pitch black, tossed the head to its master's feet and received a pat on the head.

"Good Mugs." Lobra chuckled. "Feel all better now, boy? Ohhhh I bet you do!"

"Remember your next part." Jon commanded as the gates were unlocked and pulled back open to the view of the encampment outside in flames and dotted with pikes tipped by severed heads, cazarin feasting upon the bodies left crumpled in piles and the combined Westerosi forces departing with their own fallen.

"Aye, m'lord!" Lobra knelt. "The remaining Fireborn will scatter, but I'll snatch up as many as I can and…" He looked thoughtful of his next words. "…explain to them why they want to work for me, even if they don't know it yet."

"See that it's done." Jon stepped out of the arena through a flow of Black Rider Orcs chanting their captain's name, many of them bearing a white brand upon their faces.

Outside, he was met by Rhae and several Skani rangers doing one final sweep for stray weirwood arrows. She held one hand to her lips and whistled, signalling her men to finish up and follow. They passed one of Jon's enthralled Berserkers, who knelt and then raced off upon receiving a nod from the Grave Walker.

"We can't account for everything, but Orcs aren't known for being sharp of mind. They are conditioned to accept what they are told from a superior, perceived or real. If we can only convince Hurok, then it won't matter if every Orc under his command suspects deception."

Xxx

8th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC

Greencrown

"Once the Black Riders are in position, we attack and make enough of a nuisance of ourselves that the Berserkers will need to be dispatched to fight us." Jon addressed the collective ranks of the assorted warriors now gathered in Greencrown. "When they are depleted enough, the Black Riders will strike and give us an opening to steal away Tar-Medine's source of power."

"You'd need an army twenty times our number." Baldric reasoned, but it appeared that Jon's words had his interest at least. "At the very least."

"We don't aim to conquer the fortress." Jon shook his head. "We need only draw their attention and force them to dispatch the Berserkers. After that we can begin to break off the attack and retreat after our goal is achieved. Tar-Medine will be vulnerable, easy prey for a dragon I'd wager."

Xxx

Ashcrown, a short while later

"NO!" Daemon pointed his staff in Jon's face, almost sending him sprawling from sheer surprise. "Absolutely not."

Rhae moved forward. "But father-"

"I said no!" Daemon cracked his staff against the ground. "Sheep will not fight your battle and I'll be fucked by a shark before you take my Rhae into that place!"

They hadn't even finished explaining their plan before the old man had cut them off at the mention of Sheepstealer finishing off his old foe.

"Father, this is our chance!" Rhae persisted. "Long have we prayed for the day when we could live free of our enemy, and now you'd turn away from it? You're the one who convinced Snow and his men to do this in the first place!"

"And gave me ample motive to see it through." Jon added, but went unacknowledged.

"Yes, them." Daemon agreed. "Not you. Never you."

"I am Sheep's Rider!"

"And I am the Lord of Ashcrown!" Daemon thundered. "If we lose Sheep, Mother Skane shall be vulnerable! And if I lose you…" The old man's frame seemed to deflate as his milky eyes cleared to reveal purple orbs wide with fright. "No, you won't battle Tar-Medine, even if this scheme succeeds. Even in that state he will fight like a cornered animal. The Grave Walker here can finish the job."

"You showed me the consequence of throwing my life away." Jon countered.

"Yet you can still afford to die many times before it becomes any concern." Daemon gave no ground. "Do not ask me to send the two most important to me off to die. I'll hear no more of this." He shuffled away, grumbling under his breath.

Rhae made to follow after, but Jon stopped her. "Wait."

"He'll listen to me before he listens to you." She said, but did nothing to stop him from brushing past her.

"He listens to one of far greater influence than her." The Stranger sniped, his words conveyed through Jon in a less crude manner of speech.

After they were far enough from Rhae, Jon whispered. "What did that mean?"

"I know the eyes of a man trapped in his past." The Stranger said. "He listens to the ghost of someone else he lost to our foe."

They found Daemon at his own hut, located closest to the gathering place before the Heartree's face. The old man refused them entry twice before Jon dispensed with any semblance of manners and pushed through the curtains hanging over the doorway.

"Away with you!" Daemon hollered, taking up his staff and making to rise from his seat. "I've given you all I care to, you'll have no more favours from me, boy!"

Perhaps for your next favour you'll somehow bring Rickon here and deliver him to Tar-Medina next.

"Not even their name?" Jon asked on the Stranger's behalf.

The old man stopped halfway up. "What? Who's name?"

"The name of whoever rode off to fight Tar-Medine before." Jon pressed. "Your wife? A sibling?" He observed Daemon's reactions, both in his facial expression and body language. "No…a parent?"

Daemon's eyes shifted away from him.

"Father?" Jon saw the aged hands tighten around the knotted weirwood. "No, of course not. It was your mother."

"Enough!" Daemon hissed, his rage bringing many of his arachnid companions out of hiding to stare at Jon as they descended on silk lines to hover around him or scuttle around his feet. "You speak of things you know nothing of!"

But Jon did know. He'd had his own suspicions and queries before now, but had always put the mission ahead of asking about an old man's bygone prime. Many small things clicked together and were propelled by a hunch that he'd sat on since first coming to Ashcrown.

"I know more than you think." Jon brushed aside several of the spiders and stepped closer. "It was your mother. She flew away to face him and never returned. Sheepstealer survived but you couldn't muster your courage to mount up and finish what she started. Now you don't want to see history repeat itself, which is where I enter the narrative: a convenient and highly motivated proxy to do what you refuse to let Rhae attempt. Stop me if anything I've said is wrong."

Not a word of protest or denial.

Jon knelt before the Weaver, who lowered himself back into his seat. "You want to protect the only family you have in all the world. I can empathize, so could my father. He taught us the values of honour, chivalry and integrity…but he coddled us, left us ill prepared for the reality of the world."

"And what reality is that?" Daemon asked through clenched teeth, his aggression apparently subdued.

Jon was taken back to the instances in his life which had defined the world outside of the glass garden that his father had built to protect his children. Some of these moments had been witnessed first hand, others had been shown to him upon the Fist.

"Love and duty."

What is honour compared to a woman's love? Maester Aemon had asked him an eternity ago. What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms, or the memory of a brother's smile?

"Love is the death of duty, and in his unending love for his children Ned Stark failed in his duty to prepare us. Love cost my brother Robb his head, cut his mother's throat and butchered his unborn babe. Love has started needless wars and reaped needless deaths."

The Weaver appeared to be drawn in by Jon's speech. "What is life without anything to love? Can your pretty words provide the same meaning you get when watching your first child draw its first breath? Can they offer sweet anodyne if you live to watch them draw their last?" He asked, his eyes watering.

Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us to love. It is our great glory and our great tragedy.

"They can't." Jon shook his head. "But you are the Lord of Ashcrown, charged with the duty of protecting your people against all foreseeable threats. You love your daughter, but it is possible to love someone so much that your priorities become skewed and you neglect your duty to them and all else. Lord Daemon, the undeniable truth is that I can't defeat Tar-Medine on my own, nor can Sheepstealer contend with him alone and so far from here. I need their help as much as they need mine to solve this and you are causing more danger to her than I ever could through your protective fixation-"

"Enough!" Daemon barked. "You sit there and you speak to me in such a tone, in my own home no less! I will not-"

"Then what will you stand for?!" Jon demanded, channeling the Stranger's ire. "Because from where I stand, I see a frightened old man who stands for nothing!"

After a short silence Daemon expelled a shuddering breath and leaned forward, propping an elbow against his leg and putting his face in his hand. "Fucking Bastard…" he whispered. "For all my power here…for all that Ashcrown gives me, I really am not but an old man anywhere else. An old man with many eyes, but an old man all the same. All I could do was watch them, Jon Snow; watch better riders, better leaders than me fly off to their doom, one after the other. My mother…was only the last to try."

He stretched out one arm to where one of his spiders had lowered itself back down. It plopped onto his hand and moved slowly, deliberately along his sleeve.

"To have so much power, so much potential and yet be powerless to do anything but watch…that is a true curse." Daemon stroked one finger along the spider's body. "…keep them safe, even if you must die a thousand times before either of them. Swear to that, and they will have my blessing."

Xxx

10th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC

Skane, Morgund'dur

The messenger arrived late in the night, bearing a standard of the Berserkers and a scroll with orders.

The Black Riders were called to supplement Hurok's forces in guarding the Pit the day after tomorrow.

Lobra held the scroll up like a grand prize from atop Mugs, moving through the throng of Black Riders celebrating their success. "Break out the grog, lads! Tonight, we feast like kings!"

On a nearby structure, the crumbling remains of a building that had suffered from one of the more enthusiastic internal disputes of Morgund'dur's army, he saw a figure rise into view, only just visible when the clouds shifted enough to let beams of moonlight through. Lobra handed the scroll off to a lieutenant and rode Mugs away from the festivities. He dismounted and stepped into the shadows of what few pillars had withstood whatever had caused the rest of the building to crumble.

"It is done, Barhdgul." Lobra knelt as Jon emerged from the shadows. "My men will be in position in two days."

"Then the plan proceeds." Jon replied, taking the scroll when it was offered. "How many do you have?"

"With any remnants of Vulg's…about four hundred." Lobra shrugged. "But I'll need every set of hand is ca get to clear out the Pit, even after you draw as many Berserkers as possible away."

"That is being taken care of." Jon looked to one side and motioned with his head.

Lobra looked in the indicated direction as three figures stepped into his field of vision, armour and weapons glinting from the distant light of torches and camp fires.

"I knew the fortress wouldn't fall easily, so I acquired reinforcements." Jon told him. "Worry for maintaining your cover, we will handle the rest."

Xxx

End of Chapter

What's this? Can it be an Author's Note?

By George's beard, it is!

First off, I apologize for the longer periods between downloads. Life can't help but interfere, it seems. Well, life and writer's block.

Second...what do you all think of letting you submit ideas for your own Orc captains?

All you need is to send me a PM detailing the following...

Name (with optional title)

Class (Warrior, Archer, Defender, Hunter or Savage)

Advanced Class (Assassin, Beastmaster, Berserker, Commander, Destroyer, Marksman, Tank or Trickster)

Tribe (Dark, Feral, Machine, Marauder, Mystic, Terror or Warmonger)

Strengths

Weaknesses

A brief description of their appearance can be optionally added.

I have ideas of my own for Captains, but I thought I'd engage with the readers a little. This format uses the class/tribe system from Shadow of War, so with a little research it won't be any trouble to slap together your own Captain.