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.

A/N: Man, this one took a long time. I kept going back through it to edit one thing or another, including removing any mention of Asha Greyjoy's preferences, as I'd forgotten that while her TV portrayal (Yara Greyjoy) might be bisexual, word of god (as the big brilliant bearded bastard himself) has it that Asha is not. This is what happens when I mix book and show elements, I suppose.

Xxx

Chapter Twenty-One: Battle of Morgund'dur, Part Two: The Undying

12th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC

Winterfell, the North

The prolonged inaction had the detrimental effect of Ramsay visiting her bed more often. Before when he had been out rallying those houses that would heed the Boltons' call or conducting patrols and skirmish raids on the lands of those who sides with Stannis she might have more than one blessed night to herself. But the Baratheon forces had shored up their southernmost keeps and refused to meet his skirmishers on equal footing, only giving battle where they could be guaranteed an advantage. This led to Roose Bolton calling an end to the practice in futility and having Ramsay focus more on preparing the defences…and seeing to his marital vows.

Every time she awoke he was gone and Theon was preparing a bath for her, helping to ease her bruised skin and aching bones before her day began. He would wash her hair in silence if nothing managed to disturb them until she felt ready, after which he fetched clothing and helped her to dress herself- taking care not to agitate her growing collection of aches and pains. Then she would begin her day of being a hostage in all but name anew, with little to break the cycle of mundane activities designed to keep her distracted from the growing tension.

But she heard things, silently moving through the castle like a ghost each day.

Torrhen Whitehill, in grief from the deaths of all in his family- save his apparently traitorous sister Gwyn and aspiring-maester brother Ebbert, was urged by his bannermen to ride north and retake Highpoint. His refusal sewed the seeds of resentment among his few hundred men. To add to his woes, with both the loss of his home and the lands surrounding Ironrath his obligation to provide ironwood for the Crown was in jeopardy. Despite all of this he still preached of keeping ties with the Boltons, if only because nobody else would support them, but no man took kindly to their homes and families being in enemy hands.

Lady Barbrey Dustin played at being a loyal- if not abrasive follower but her men whispered of her hatred for Ramsay, something to do with his half-brother's death before the war. She had refused to allow his wedding to Sansa to happen in Barrowton, going as far as to promise to take his head if he ever set foot in Barrow Hall. Anyone else would have lost their head, but her kinship to both Roose Bolton and House Ryswell as well as House Bolton's already short list of allies kept her safe.

The Ryswells were only in the Bolton camp because Roose had been married to Bethany Ryswell, but they and Barbrey were contemptuous of his allies in House Frey and wary of something else she'd not been permitted to hear. Despite contributing only marginal amounts of their forces to the war, they had still lost kin and some good men at the Red Wedding where there had been little discrimination on the part of the instigators. Only promises of increased lands, incomes and advantageous betrothals had kept them in the fold so far.

Arnolf Karstark's eldest son was dead and his seat was in the hands of Wildlings sworn to Stannis, one of their chiefs wed to Alys Karstark and those who remain easily bending the knee to her. The former Castellan been seen as an usurper by many for acting as he had, claiming the seat while rumour travelled of Harrison Karstark still drawing breath in the south, a captive of the Crown. He'd initially tried to declare for Stannis, which would have sealed his great nephew's fate if he still lived, but abandoned the ruse when it became clear it would not work. A number of his bannermen detested him, but hated the idea of Wildlings and flame worshipping fanatics more.

Her captors' alliance was built on a foundation of sand, yet for all that she had learned Sansa could not begin to act on this. Plans aplenty swam in her head, but for each idea she imagined a hundred ways it could go wrong and end with worse punishment than what she already endured. The idea of her own execution was not given serious consideration, but her husband's family had already demonstrated excessive creativity in inflicting pain by the condition of Theon.

If they could break the proud future Lord of the Iron Islands, what hope would she have to resist? And if broken, how could she hope to rejoin her pack?

And so she waited, watched and listened for an opportunity.

Once washed and dressed, Sansa gathered herself in her cloak and walked with Theon on the battlements where she saw a procession of riders approach from the eastern gate. The horses wore barding matched to the banners fluttering atop spears, and a number of the men were clad in armour too expensive for any man-at-arms to afford.

Knights, but not Freys. She peered at the symbols upon each banner and struggled to remember most, but the few she recalled were enough for her to make an educated guess. From White Harbour? Has House Manderly taken a side?

She'd heard that some bannermen of White Harbour were hosted at the Dreadfort.

Leading them was a knight in dark armour and a purple cloak. Upon dismounting in the courtyard where the mounts were handed over to stable hands he removed his helmet, showing a handsome and clean shaven face with a head of dark hair and violet eyes.

Valyrian? Sansa dismissed the thought, recalling how the Daynes of Starfall were said to have similar eyes.

"Ser Marcus." Ramsay put on his false smile and greeted him as instructed by his father. "The hospitality of Winterfell is yours."

"But not my half-sister in chains, it seems." The knight replied. "Your man in Hornwood, the Skinner, is dead. He and his men were slaughtered to the last and the bitch was sighted in the company of sellswords and mountain born savages, heading north."

"My father feared as much." Ramsay's smile faltered. "But he bade me to assure you that anything that your sister-"

"Half-sister." Marcus cut him off.

Ramsay's stance grew stiff, his hands clasped behind him balling into fists. "-that your half-sister shares with the usurper will change nothing." He finished.

"Except for the possession of my family's blade." Ser Marcus corrected him as a man in Bolton colours, a rattling mail shirt and great steel greaves upon long legs dismounted. "Does your father intend to sit here while Stannis takes his time conquering the North?"

"He awaits you even now to erase your fears." Ramsay's pale eyes turned up to stare at Sansa. "In the Great Hall, where we will all receive you."

Ser Marcus follow Ramsay's gaze as Sansa descended to the court yard and approached. "Red of hair, blue eyes…" he bowed his head and kissed Sansa's hand. "Lady Bolton, a pleasure."

"Ser Marcus," Sansa hollowly echoed the same greeting she'd made to many a knight and lord, "I am honoured to welcome you to Winterfell."

"We need to move this along." The dour looking Bolton man-at-arms insisted. "We bring word for your father."

"For you to have carried it yourself and abandoned your post at the Dreadfort, I hope it is important." Ramsay took Sansa's arm. "Reek, wait outside."

Theon complied, squatting outside of the great hall where Roose Bolton and his war council were gathered to receive the new arrival.

"Lord Bolton," Ser Marcus wasted no time bending the knee, "I bring good and ill tidings."

"If the latter is that your sister has successfully made her way to Stannis Baratheon's hands, you needn't concern yourself with it." Roose cut through any niceties. "Nothing she says will affect the outcome of this war."

"So I've been told." Ser Marcus stood. "Lord Manderly has emptied the lands of Houses Bell, Rook, Emon and a dozen others of fighting men and ordered them all to the Dreadfort. The rest of the Merman's forces gather at White Harbour where the gates have opened to the smallfolk."

"The Walrus Lord expects war to come to his lands." Barbrey Dustin commented.

"If he was smart he'd turn them away." Torrhen Whitehill scoffed as his cup was filled. "More mouths to feed in a siege."

"Assuming that it comes to that," Rodrik Ryswell glanced sideways at Roose, "the city is well supplied."

"And now he's gathering every bannerman he trusts to rally in White Harbour." The Leech Lord stated. "Good."

To say that Sansa was not well versed in the are of warfare would be an understatement. She had no grasp of it whatsoever, but politics and war were like two hands on the same body and worked well together. Lord Manderly was answering the Boltons' call to send aid against Stannis, but only by sending away those in service to houses who (if Ser Marcus was any indicator) were not trustworthy. By doing so he could appear to be obeying his liegelord, yet in truth he was removing a dagger poised at his back that might compromise White Harbour's defence in the event of a siege.

Then why was Roose so expectant of this? He even, she daresay, sounded as if he'd been hoping for this outcome.

"Once the dust has settled, I will see to it that White Harbour is in good enough condition to resume commerce," Roose gave Ser Marcus a cold, nefarious smile that his son had clearly inherited, "under the watchful eye of the new, very loyal Warden of the White Knife."

There it was! The price of loyalty in the North: lordship of its largest city and port of trade. And with any who were likely to side with the Boltons gathered away from the city, the line between friend and foe had been drawn.

"And we shall gladly hold it in your name for all time." Ser Marcus smirked, only briefly. "But first, instead of repeating the same placation your son gave me, you could tell me what we are to do now that Stannis knows of the plan."

Roose looked straight at Sansa, who sucked in a breath and held still. Something about him, about his eyes, seemed different. He was never a pleasant man to be around at normal occasion, but now Sansa felt…like she was a little bird being eyed by a dragon.

"Daughter," his use of the word made her stomach churn, "there is no reason for you to trouble yourself with this. Go."

Sansa slid her chair back, bade farewell to her husband and collected Then where he was still seated outside.

He had known. She couldn't guess how, but he had to have known that she was paying careful attention to everything said in there. Did he suspect that she was waiting for something she could use?

She made for the one place in Winterfell where her fears melted away: the Godswood. Two guards standing at the entrance acknowledged her request not to be disturbed unless her husband or lord-father chose to enter. Neither had bothered to stand before the gods after her wedding, she doubted that would change today.

Kneeling before the Heartree again, Sansa began to speak again, pouring her heart out to it. "I'm…I'm afraid that-"

Silence…

Ice water shot through Sansa's body. The tree, its mouth…had that been wind passing through the hollow recesses, or had it just spoken like in the old legends?

Danger… The whisper brushed across the branches of every tree around her, rustling them and turning one lone voice into many overlapping, repeating themselves.

"Enjoying yourself, Lady Sansa?"

Theon scrambled to Sansa's side, his eyes wide with panic and his face even paler than usual as he looked behind her. Sansa slowly turned her head to see Myranda, Ramsay's mistress and daughter of the Dreadfort's kennelmaster, standing by the edge of the clearing, bow in hand and arrow nocked, smiling.

"You come out here a lot." She said, motioning to the Heatree while moving around to one side of her. "I thought that you were looking for a way to escape, some secret tunnel the Starks know about. But you just come out here, day after day, and sit in the snow in front of a tree. I'm disappointed."

Sansa climbed to her feet, heedless of how the girl shifted the arrowhead in her direction again. "I explicitly told the guards I wasn't to be disturbed."

"Unless Ramsay or his father came calling, yes." Myranda agreed. "But there's more than one way in here. I'm surprised you wouldn't know, but then again…perfect little girls don't go wandering secret passages, do they? That's fine with me. It gives us time to talk."

Sansa felt Theon shift behind her, cowering. "Then speak."

"You have them fooled, but not me." Myranda shook her head. "You play the part, you keep silent and submissive like a good noble wife, but you're a terrible mummer. The men are fooled because they want to believe you're a broken, submissive little bitch. I'm not so easily convinced."

She came to a stop to Sansa's right. "You've only one use to Ramsay: birthing him a son or two, then he won't need you anymore. But he's fucked you every week for months now and still no baby. I wonder why. Perhaps the Maester has been slipping you something to help with that."

He hadn't, but Sansa knew how evidence could be forged. Was this girl planning to make her appear to be taking moon tea? If she convinced Ramsay or his father…the things that would be done to her made her shudder to even consider.

"He'll grow bored of you eventually, one way or another." Myranda lowered her bow. "He needs you, or at least some parts of you now because your father was Warden of the North, because the North will only accept someone with Stark blood in Winterfell. But that'll change soon, and if he finds you've been a bad little wife you won't like what he'll do. So if I were you, I'd get heavy with child as quick I could and make him nice and happy."

Violet…

Kyra…

Giselle…

Lorelei…

Denise…

These five names, again and again, echoed across the grove. Myranda seemed to take no notice of this.

Grow bored…

Run them down…

Feed the Girls…

Bastard's Girls…

"…will he do the same thing he did to Violet?"

Myranda's smile fell away. "…what?"

"Or Kyra?" Sansa pressed. "Giselle? Lorelei? Denise? Did he feed them to those hounds of his? His Girls? Did he bed them too? Did he run them down in the forest after they stopped amusing him?"

With a rush of confidence from gods knew where, Sansa slowly moved closer to the girl. "Will he do that to you, too? When he gets bored of you and moves on?"

"He won't." Myranda's hands shook. "He won't do that. Not to me."

"Did they think the same?" Sansa smiled, and now knew why it had been so easy for Cersei to wear a kind look over such a dark heart.

Because, deep down, it felt so good to see someone she hated look at her with such confusion…such fear…

"He loves me. I'm not like those other girls." Sansa feigned simpering. "I'm not like any of them. He'll never take another after me. He loves me."

She was within arm's reach now. "Do you know what makes me sick? That at one point…I was as blind as you."

Blind. Stupid. Naïve. Lovesick.

"Shut up!" Myranda raised the bow and made to step back, reflexively putting distance between them.

Sansa hadn't intended for what happened next. She didn't really know what she'd wanted, provoking Myranda the way she had. Maybe some small part of her had just wanted to die.

Long after this moment she would wonder if she'd have done anything to avert it if given the chance…

More often than not, she would decide that there was nothing about this that she would ever seek to change.

Myranda's ankle bumped against a root of the Heartree poking through the snow. The bow dropped from her hand as she tried to turn, seeking ground to brace her hands against, but instead she splashed headfirst into the pool, silencing her before she could get off more than a yelp. Myranda vanished beneath the surface, only visible by her pale skin as she thrashed, trying to climb back towards the surface…

But she couldn't swim.

Sansa watched from the ledge as Theon made to scramble past her, ready to dive in. She stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"No!" He tried to wrench away.

"Theon-"

"No! No Theon!" He wailed, and tried to push her away. "Reek! Only Reek! Rhymes with freak!"

"Theon Greyjoy!" Sansa wrapped her arms around his frame, so much thinner and weaker than what she remembered of her father's ward. "It's over."

"Lord Ramsay! He'll be mad!" He wept, still struggling to save Myranda.

"He'll never know." Sansa whispered. "She helped him hurt you, didn't she? He'll never know what happened to her. Never. Nobody knows she came here. Nobody will ever find her down there."

Slowly, Theon's struggles subsided as he slumped into Sansa's arms. Myranda's face faded from view, then her grasping hands went next, leaving only slight disturbances and bubbles on the otherwise mirror-like surface from her movements. And then those were gone too.

Blood and water. The Godswood whispered to her. Blood and water for the gods.

"She's dead now." Sansa said, brushing a hand through his stringy, greasy hair. "There's no use in telling him. He'll only hurt you more, but I won't." She spoke soothingly. "I won't hurt you, Theon. Never. So let this be our little secret."

After he'd calmed enough to be silent, Sansa collected the fallen bow and a number of arrows that had fallen in the snow. Some drifted in the pool, but in time they too would sink with the heavy heads that Myranda had on them. She still grabbed as many as she could without falling in herself and bundled them together.

Here…below…blood and water for the gods…

Sansa followed the breath of wind to the base of the Heartree where she sighted an opening. Crouching down and leaning forward, she reached in to see how large it was before her hand brushed against a handle. Pulling on it, she produced a handle made of pale weirwood with a length of rock sticking out of it, shaped almost like a chisel…

Regardless of who had put it there or why, she returned it and added the bow and scavenged arrows to the hiding spot and piled snow over the entrance until it could not be seen and then returned to Theon's side. She pulled him to his feet and supported him.

"Let's go back now, Theon." She said, feeling stronger in that moment than she ever had as precious, perfect Lady Sansa had ever been. "My lord husband will become worried if we stay too long."

Xxx

The Pit, Morgund'dur, Skane

This was not going according to plan anymore. Not that Jon had much of a plan to begin with.

Oh sure, everything fell together nicely. Dûsh had proven himself a formidable infiltrator, Four-Fingers and Limp-Leg had been competent enough commanders to more personally direct their forces and follow the broad strokes. The grand deception to insert the Black Riders into Pit duty had worked without any suspicion. In turn he'd provided some badly needed brute force to help break through the Olog'Hai at the bridge.

But that had all been four-fifths luck, and it seemed his luck had run out.

The hammer of Hurok the Undying demolished anything in its path. His sword had proven less than useful when the War Chief twisted the shaft of his weapon to trap Jon's blade and then shattered between his tree trunk thick arms. Jon had been lucky to get out of reach before his head could be flattened next.

"This isn't working." He gasped after racing to take shelter halfway across the chamber, ducked next a staircase between the upper and middle tiers.

"I hadn't noticed." The Bright Stranger drawled, appearing upright in the open. "He is as resilient as he is relentless. Fighting him blow for blow will end badly."

"What should I do?"

"He leaves himself open during attacks and relies on his armour to protect him." The Stranger quickly advised. "And when at a distance he utilizes that dark magic to quickly reach you. Get in close, force him to engage you directly. Use the Fist's elemental abilities to unbalance him if need be. Rely on agility over strength."

Agility. Close up. Hammer.

Peeking out into the open, Jon saw a dissolving cloud of smoke where Hurok had been searching for him.

Fuck!

Jon rolled to one side before the Undying erupted into view, emerging from a nimbus of dark magic. His hammer shattered part of the steps into dust, and was brought back up with no difficulty for a wide swing which Jon ducked under. In compliance with the Stranger's advice he fought the urge to move out of reach of the warhammer and lunged forward, sliding between the Olog's feet. Jon twisted around and surged up, sinking the dagger sized Longclaw into Hurok's lower back, under his armour

A crushing hand closed around Jon's shoulder and ripped him away, flinging him away. Hurok rested a hand over the new wound and held it up with fresh black blood staining his hand. "Like a flea biting a lion."

Jon saw the gathering black miasma. He seized the Fist of the First Men and lurched forward as if to attack, but tossed the Fist over head in an underhanded toss, waiting for the right moment when the armoured giant reappeared. Jon warped himself to the Fist, leaving nought but thin air for Hurok to crush while he reappeared overhead, following the Fist's descent. He gripped the smaller hammer in both hands and brought it down with as much power as he could muster.

He felt it strike and heard metal crunch. Hurok groaned and doubled over, his helmet clattering to the floor in several pieces. Jon did not relent, feeling the Stranger's will pair with his own.

Do as I do, Jon Snow.

Jon did not simply strike. He unleashed a barrage of cuts and stabs as the Olog, vulnerable in his disorientation, raised one and then both arms to shield his exposed head.

Once. Thrice. Ten times. Fifteen!

Jon's arm moved of its own accord, so fast it became a blur. With each successful hit, spectral energy formed into a silhouette of the Bright Stranger which faded from sight as quickly as it formed. Longclaw became so heavy with orc blood that each swing began to send droplets flying to splatter a ways away.

Then Hurok's hand closed over Jon's forearm in a bone shattering grip. Jon swung his free arm up and felt the Fist strike before he was swung off of his feet. His vision flashed red as his skull cracked against the floor-or maybe it was the floor that cracked first? The Olog was howling, thrashing him about like a bag of flour. Jon lost hold of the Fist after the second impact, then Hurok lost hold of him following the third.

Tumbling down the lowest flight of steps, Jon's vision swam as he struggled to muster the strength to move. When he did he heard a high pitched whine of pain. In the haze of his disorientation he thought he'd heard Ghost and looked up in a fright.

Mugs, recognizable by the burn marks on one side of its head, was held up by one large hand, maw dark with freshly drawn orc blood. One side of Hurok's thick neck was torn and bleeding heavily, evidence of the cazarin's intervention.

"Should've stayed away." The War Chief hissed as Jon heard something snap under his grip. "Join your master in death now."

Mugs fell limp and its bowels opened as Hurok dropped it. The body rolled down the stairs and stopped close to where Lobra the Wolf's head had been left, settling next to its master in death even after failing to avenge him.

Jon felt a pang of sympathy for the dead beast. Lobra had cared dearly for it, as much as an Orc could, and the feeling had to have been mutual. He couldn't guess how it had survived up to this point, but it had perhaps saved him. In some ways, it really did remind him of the Direwolves that had guarded his siblings before everything fell apart.

"That was a mistake." He growled.

Hurok's head, misshapen and with a metal plate bolted to one side of it, turned to sneer down at Jon. Taking up his warhammer, the Olog gathered the dark miasma around himself again.

Jon didn't know until that moment that he was capable of it, but instead of him travelling to wherever the Fist of the First Men had dropped, he felt its weight settle in his hand. Bringing it down, he caused the stones before him to crumble, spreading this effect up like water racing up onto a sandy beach. Before Hurok could finish casting his spell he lost his balance and stumbled. Jon raised his arm back up, reared back, and flung the Fist straight at the war chief. It impacted against Hurok's chest, caving in his cuirass and flinging him back, out of sight beyond the uppermost ledge of the depression.

When the Bright Strange appeared again, his perpetually dour countenance held what Jon took for an ounce of pride. "Well done." He said flatly. "You are learning to master the Fist's magic quickly."

"I have a good teacher." Jon replied, hanging the Fist on his belt.

"It was no lesson of mine that showed you how to do that." The Stranger denied. "Magic can be directed by focused will and discipline…or by intense emotion. Anger. You mourn for that Orc and his pet."

"On some level…" Jon admitted. "…but out of nostalgia, nothing more."

"Good." The Stranger looked past Jon. "Your prize awaits."

Yes, the ring.

Jon had almost forgotten it.

This time when he reached out for it he was held back by no hesitation.

"SNOW! STOP!"

If he'd known what would happen next, he'd wished he had hesitated again.

Xxx

Morgund'dur, Surface

Sheep cut another line through the Inner Bailey, incinerating another cluster of Orcs trying to flank the rebels and westerosi troops.

Rhae let loose with a cry. "ASHCROWN!"

Even if nobody ended up hearing it, it did wonders for her.

The defence had done surprisingly well, but it had been planned with the help of Orcs who knew the layout of the fortress intimately. There'd been no hope of any forces from the Outer Bailey even reaching the far side of the bridge, and only one attempt had been made before their Captains had thought wisely against further effort. Most of the trouble came from the front, as expected, where Takra's cavalry were rendered ineffective by the narrow fighting space and thus were brought to the back to recuperate. Dûsh and his men fought hard to keep the roofs along the cordon clear, but were facing overwhelming numbers. Grublik's ranged fighters were facing the growing issue of limited supplies as they ran out of javelins and bolts, forcing them to scavenge for used projectiles from the dead that began to pile up in great mounds.

If the purpose had been to hold that one square she could easily close the pass off, but Snow had insisted she hold off from doing that until the army had to retreat for one reason or another. They wanted Tar-Medine's followers to bleed themselves as much as possible to try and reach them, to empty the barracks and keep all eyes on them while Snow did his work.

Down below, she could see another push being made. Grublik's men launched a single volley, picking off several of the attackers, thinning their numbers before they clashed with the defenders on the barricades. This one was bigger than before, she could tell even with the mass of bodies making it hard to pick out the living…which also had begun to make a convenient slope to climb the barricade itself.

"Alright Sheep, let's scatter 'em a little!" Rhae patted the dragon's flank while synchronizing their minds, allowing their spirits to bridge together their bodies that they might fight as one.

Seeing through Sheep's eyes, Rhae swept in for a pass at the street where the loyalist forces were massing, preparing to follow up on their latest attack. They had to expect that this one would break through, or at least weaken the barricade enough for a dedicated assault to succeed.

Fat chance of that.

Rhae opened her maw and belched out a stream of dragon fire, demolishing two buildings along one side and raining stone and timber down on the troops below. It was not as effective as a direct strafe, but it achieved the desired intent and scattered the orcs for now. The attackers made some headway, but fell when Tarak moved his more rested fighters up to shore up the barricade.

By now the original force of a thousand-some orcs had been cut down to less than half. Maybe over four hundred, if she was generous. But they had slain several times what they'd lost. Even if they fell today, Morgund'dur would be a lot less crowded by the time the fighting ended.

"Good work, Sheep." Rhae banked to one side to cross over the chasm towards the Outer Bailey. "Now let's get-"

A spike of agony erupted from Sheep's side and spread into her before they could break off the link. Rhae shrieked in pain, only held in place by the straps of her saddle much like Dark Sister was bound to her gauntlet. Beneath her, Sheep howled and veered sharply to one side, bleeding heavily from a puncture in his side where a projectile, seemingly made of smoke to any who had seen it, had struck him all the way from the ramparts of the keep.

There, gazing out over his burning fortress, Tar-Medine held a bow made of solid black material. "So good of you to show yourself," he pinched the bow string and drew it back, causing a second arrow forged from dark magic to manifest in place, "old friend."

The Sheepstealer dropped out of sight into the chasm, but he knew the dragon would emerge shortly. Be it by ascending or flying out to see in either direction to try and get away, it would have to expose itself and then he would end their long war with one swift-

Tar-Medine suddenly felt a familiar pain in his chest and gasped, releasing his arrow at the right time…but without having line up a shot it shot over the Sheepstealer as it emerged, struggling to keep airborne. The Lord of Morgund'dur breathed heavily, clutching one hand to his robes as his body coped with the sudden loss of something, something which it had depended on for several lifetimes.

"No…" He whispered, feeling old wounds threaten to open. "No, they couldn't have…"

Nearby, one of the sentries took notice of his hunched over posture. "My lord? Are you-"

With a gesture he immolated the speaker as a test, sending any other Orcs cowering away in silence as the fool wailed and threw himself off the tower. His magic, even weakened, was still formidable enough for what had to come next.

"You should have sailed home, boy." Flames began to lick at the edges of his robes. "All that happens next…is on your head."

Xxx

End of chapter

Captain Profiles

Name and Title: Hurok the Undying

Tribe: Mystic, said to be practitioners of dark magic among the orcs, even being capable of necromancy if the rumours hold truth.

Class: Olog, known as troll-folk among the Orcs of Morgund'dur, the Olog'Hai fill a class of their own. Using imposing size and immense physical strength combined with surprising cunning, they are able to easily dispatch ill prepared foes. They are also able to prevent agile foes from vaulting over them, swatting them away like little more than bothersome flies.

Advanced Class: Tank (Heavily armoured fighter who can withstand extraordinary amounts of damage)

Determination: Heals himself during battle through sheer willpower unless interrupted.

Wave of Might: Unleashes a wave of strength so powerful that it knocks back and disorients nearby enemies.

Strengths

Mystic Blade: Uses the power of shadow to cross a great distance instantly and strike at opponents.

Cursed Weapon: Weapon is enchanted with a blighting hex which temporarily weakens enemies hit with it.

Iron Will: Cannot be compelled to betray his master by way of Dominate.

Beast Slayer: Is capable of dispatching beasts such as Cazarin with ease.

Weaknesses:

Vulnerable to Executions: Takes greater damage from Execution attacks.

Fear of Burning: Becomes disoriented when burnt with fire.

Made by me, ArchPsion.

I know I've neglected this for a while but…review responses!

ManwithaPlan113: When Olog'Hai join in, the party really begins!

Alvor the Warhawk: One thing to remember is that while Talion was lethal, so too were the enemies he faced, as they scaled with him and grew more powerful with each victory or survived encounter. As for Jon's 'critical mass', you will see him slowly build towards something along that line.

N0mster: You'll get a bit of both mixed in over the long term.

Sauron's Wrath: I assume that you mean that sometimes Tar-Medine's name comes out as Tar-Medina, as I've noticed that happen frequently with my autocorrect. I've tried to spot it when it happens, but if it has been slipping through I may have too double back in the future and fix that. And a PM is a Private Message, which you require an account to send.

A quick side session with Professor Arc H. Psion.

Both geographically and demographically…George is not the best at designing kingdoms. After looking at various sources I keep finding figures tossed around such as Westeros being about the size of South America with an overall population of 40 million (to hell with Dumb and Dumber saying less than half a million people occupy a space almost one third to one half that area even in the cold North).

City populations (These are either taken from wiki sources or estimations)

King's Landing: 500 000

Oldtown: 500 000 (said to rival King's Landing)

Lannisport: 250 000 (said to be half the size of King's Landing)

Gulltown: 50 000-200 000 (estimations from varying forums)

White Harbour: 30 000-100 000 (estimations from varying forums)

Let's be generous and assume the populations lay at the highest possible amount: 1 550 000 people living in heavily urbanized centres out of about 40 million. About 3.75 percent. While about 38.5 million people are spread out over a continent the size of South America.

For reference…

Europe: Area of 10.18 million sq km (or 3.93 million sq miles), urbanization rate of 5.1 percent and average density of 20 people per sq mile in the year 1300 for a projected population of 79 million.

South America: Area of 17.84 million sq km (or 6.89 million sq miles).

Calculate density: 40 000 000 people divided by 6 890 000 = Density of 5.8 people.

The point that I make here is that Westeros has almost twice as much available space as Europe and yet has barely half as many people in it, not enough to justify a medieval level society as unified as the Seven Kingdoms even before the Conquest. So either there are way more people than 40 million or Westeros is a lot smaller. Seeing as the latter is harder to make happen with the Wall's length being a fixed and confirmed measurement, I've decided to take liberties with the population of Westeros for this story.

On a map the kingdoms may look cramped, particularly the smaller ones, but in truth those dots representing castles and cities wouldn't even be visible on the map if they were to scale with each building. Additionally, in the medieval ages there were hundreds of small cities with populations of around 10 000 spread across Europe, so Westeros can have a similar arrangement.

Total Population: 60 000 000 (still less than what Europe had in the medieval ages)

The Reach: 18 000 000 (France has just a little less in the 1300s)

The Westerlands: 9 000 000

The Riverlands: 7 500 000

The Vale: 7 000 000

The North:7 000 000

The Crownlands (including the Narrow Sea houses): 3 500 000

The Stormlands: 5 000 000

Dorne: 3 000 000

The Iron Islands (I don't count this towards the full population since they are relatively separated from Westeros, both geographically and culturally speaking, more so than the Narrow Sea houses): 750 000.

If you want to hear my reasoning for these numbers, PM me. Otherwise…it's what I'm goingwith for this story.