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 Twenty-Two: Battle of Morgund'dur, Part Three: The Ring

12th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC

The Pit, Morgund'dur, Skane

"SNOW! STOP!"

When Jon was finally able to bring himself to look away he beheld Hurok the Undying wheezing pathetically, his legs shattered beneath his bulk and his throat crumpling in Jon's grasp like aged parchment. He didn't remember how it had come to this, only the ring. Why was this bothersome Olog distracting him?

Jon took stock of his immediate surroundings and saw the war chief's hammer off to one side, the head snapped off and the haft further broken in half, some fading puffs of of smoke twisting and writhing up from the fragments.

"Death…" Hurok rasped, a glint of defiance still in his eyes. "Is not…the end."

Jon felt a thrill of satisfaction as his hand broke through and closed around something beneath the Olog's thick, grey flesh. "Tell me something I don't know."

With a single tug, he ripped Hurok's head off, dragging with it some traces of thick spinal cord. A geyser of rancid blood spurted from the stump, splashing over one side of Jons' face. Ser Davos let out a cross between a yelp and a disgusted groan as he was splattered, drawing Jon's attention to his remaining company.

"Ser Davos." He greeted them with what should have been warmth and relief, but somehow made the the old sailor step back as his already fair skin turned paler yet. "Tormund. It heartens me to see that you are both alright."

From their expressions, it seemed they could not say the same. Both smelt and looked as if they'd not bathed for days, their eyes ringed along the bottom with black bags and even the Giantsbane's great red beard had tangled into a worse mess than usual. Behind them, standing at the uppermost tier of the depression, was a hunched figure in a cloak and hood, framed in the torch lights. In the shadow of the hood he could see gleaming eyes…envious eyes.

And what didn't he have for others to envy? More power in one hand than any King could muster, dominion over the weak minded hordes and now…the most precious treasure in all of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond worn on his finger.

Let them envy him. It was only right.

"Snow." Davos' voice trembled. "Listen to me. Very carefully, lad."

"Why do you look at me with such unmasked fear?" Jon peered between the two older men.

"It's not you we're afraid of, lad." Tormund's hand shook as he pointed to Jon's hand. "It's that…thing."

"You need to take it off." Davos implored, holding his mutilated hand up while his other hovered by his side, gripping a roughly forged orcish blade. "Take it off before it's too late."

"Take it off?" Jon repeated, an unfamiliar levity in his tone as he held his hand up to gaze upon the ring's splendour. "Why would I do that?"

"We know what it does. We know what it's doing to you." Davos asserted. "You think that you want it, but that's what it wants."

Want? He could not want what was already his.

"You speak foolishness." Jon derided. "A ring can no more want than those bones you carried around could desire to be reattached to your fingers."

Davos inhaled sharply and took a step back. "How…how did you…"

For a moment, Jon wondered the same. He didn't recall ever speaking with Davos in great detail on his past. Oh he'd learned the broad strokes: his life as a smuggler, how he'd lost his fingers in the first place and his undying loyalty to Stannis. How such a dour and entitled man could inspire such loyalty from a man he'd maimed was an insult to all that was right and fair.

"You saved him." Jon reminded the old sailor. "Him and his brother. Saved them from starvation, risked your life to give them food to fill their bellies when they were down to eating rats and their own boots."

He chuckled coldly. "Then he knighted you, but only after you agreed to let him chop of your fingers. Hardly a hero's reward, wasn't it? Hardly the conduct of a grateful man. Why do you follow him like he's the Father reborn?"

"It's the ring!" Tormund hissed, slapping Davos on the arm. "Ignore his words. You know what must happen next."

Davos' face hardened. "Aye. So it comes to this." He nodded. "Last chance…take that ring off, or we'll take your whole arm off if that's what it takes."

Traitors. Thieves! They want it for themselves! But it's mine. Mine!

"This is mine by right of conquest." Jon growled. "You will never hold it for as long as I bear it and I shall never part with it for as long as I live."

"You aren't wearing it, boy." The old woman called down, shaking her head in disappointment. "It's wearing you like a glove."

Tormund hefted a large axe. "Enough of this." He stepped forth. "Sorry about this, lad, but you'll come back from it anyways."

Taking the axe in both hands, the Giantsbane raised it high overhead with a roar and swung it down with all of his might, enough that he might have cleaved a man in half from brains to balls. Jon sidestepped and twisted his body, slapping the palm of his hand into the flat of the axe. Put off course, Tormund's own strength threw him off balance and left him open to a backhanded swing from the same hand, Jon's clenched fist clubbing him in the temple. The axe clattered to the floor and Tormund crumpled to his knees, head swaying before Jon gripped him by the roots of his hair and forced him to look up.

"You dare…" Jon hissed. "…to raise your blade against me?" He twisted is hand and Tormund groaned, reaching up to grasp his wrist. "Against…me? I, who saved you, your children, your people from extermination?"

The ring blazed like a star upon his free hand as he held it close to Tormund's face.

"I think you've forgotten your debt to me, Giantsbane." Jon's mouth curled into a savage grin. "Allow me to remind you who you serve."

"JON!" Davos bellowed, drowned out by Tormund's wail of agony as Jons hand latched onto his face. "Jon, don't do it!"

"Snow…" Tormund wheezed, his one visible eye bulging.

"It only hurts at first." Jon told him. "Then…you won't feel anything."

"YGRITTE!" Davos bellowed. "SHE'D DIE OF SHAME IF SHE SAW YOU!"

The breath was stolen from Jon's lungs. His hand slipped from Tormund's face and let the man collapse, his face unmarked.

Ygritte…oh gods-

"Enough!" Jon's momentary weakness was taken advantage of…by the Bright Stranger himself, appearing to grasp Jon's head between his spectral hands. "VAK FRA UM!" He roared.

Fire courses down from his head and through every vein in his body, filling him to the tips of his fingers and toe and paralyzing him where he stood. This pierced the veil of his mind like a sword stabbing through his skull, fully shocking him back to his senses.

"Can't…fight…for long!" The Stranger snarled. "Your hand! Raise it!"

It was only with the Stranger's own influence aiding his will that Jon could manage this, slowly raising his arm out to one side. The ring felt like a band of white hot steel melting through his finger, digging its claws into his mind to try and reclaim power over him.

"Someone…get it- get if off!" Jon cried. "Someone-"

Metal sang through the air, and Jon's hand fell from his wrist. Jon experienced no pain, but instead felt like he'd been riding a horse or wagon only for it to come to a sudden halt, almost throwing him forward. He stared at the stump of his wrist, scarcely able to believe what his eyes told him. It had happened so quickly…he had barely felt it when the blade had parted hand and wrist.

He could still feel his hand there, feel his fingers twitch and curl at his command…and yet there his hand rested unmoving on the floor, the weirwood ring's markings emitting a fiery red glow.

But above that he felt a white hot pain shoot up his forearm, driving him to his knees where he cradled the stump. A strangled noise erupted from him, half way between a groan and a scream.

"For a time spanning generations I've sought this wretched trinket, biding my time and waiting for the opportunity where the Undying's guard would slacken even a little." The hooded woman sighed, a hand and a half longsword grasped in her trembling, boney hands. "And in scant a week of bumbling across Skane you just walk in and pluck it up without a thought."

She returned the blade, oversized for one of her stature, to a scabbard on her waist, prominently displaying the ruby embedded into the guard. "I suppose it goes to show you: this world is sometimes overly generous to the young and foolish." She glanced down. "Oh, well…that's one mess you don't need to worry about."

Jon's hand was gone, dissolved into mist which coiled up towards his wrist. Wrapping around his forearm, it engulfed his limb up to the elbow and when it dissipated his hand was back where it belonged, responding to his commands just like before-all without any ring to contend them.

He turned it over and felt it with his other hand. "My hand…"

"It is as I told you long before: you are barred from death…and the incorporeal need not fear being crippled." The Stranger told him, still present and glaring down at Jon with a stern disapproval that felt nostalgic. "But clearly they need fear weakness. Do not let that happen again."

A groan from Tormund made Jon's heart sink. "Tormund!" He hurried to his friend's side. "Oh gods, Tormund, are you alright?!"

"Urgh…fuck!" Tormund's fist swung up and struck Jon hard enough to send him sprawling.

"Stop! Stop!" Davos slammed into Tormund as he turned over and began to rise to deliver another blow. "It's off! The ring is off! He's back!"

Tormund snarled. "I know that!"

"Then why are you still trying to hit him?!"

"For bein' a daft fucker! Y'hear me Snow?! I've got another for you if you've marked my face!"

As the Giantsbane escaped from the Onion Knight's restraint, he was encircled by Jon's arms and had his arms pinned to his sides. He growled and struggled before realizing that Jon was not restraining him…but hugging him.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. "I'm so sorry, my friend."

Try as he might to remain wroth with the smaller man, Tormund soon succumbed and patted Jon's back with a sigh. "Alright, alright. Stop your bawlin', crow. You might be prettier than my daughters, but don't expect me to give you a kiss." He was able to ease Jon back a bit. "I'll forgive you this time. Do it again and I'll kill you…then we can drink and put it behind us."

"As touching as this is." The hooded woman knelt over the ring where she used a long, thin bladed dagger clearly made for stabbing rather than cutting to lift the ring off of the floor without touching it. "I believe that our host will be here soon, so I'd suggest that we leave now and you can have your reunion later…when I'm very far away."

She tipped the ring into a pouch on her hip and bound it shut tightly. "That'll do for now." She patted it and fixed the trio with an expectant look. "Well? Would any of you care to escort a lady out of this forsaken place? It's choked with dead Orcs and I can say from experience they start to smell a lot worse than dead men after a…while."

The floor trembled beneath their feet as she finished her sentence. From far above where the Pit connected to the keep, there came a low rumbling…and then the crash of what sounded like a great drum being struck.

At the top of the shaft, a great light shone down upon them all.

"Tar-Medine…" The hooded woman hissed.

"This is him?" Jon shuddered as the drumming grew louder.

"It," the woman corrected him, looking to the nearest light as every torch and sconce flickered out, "has shed its smirking cocoon."

Just before the last of the torches went out and the Pit was plunged into almost total darkness, Jon saw brown eyes, wide with fear stare straight into him.

"Run!"

Xxx

Morgund'dur, Surface

To Baldric it felt as if he'd been fighting all day, but the slow rise of the sun shattered that illusion. It hadn't been two hours since the fighting had started.

It was beyond him, how that seemed to be both too little and too much time. He'd led raids beyond the Wall, assaults on pirate dens in the Shivering and Narrow Seas. Once he had even fought as far away as the Bay of Lorath where for the blood price of one-hundred and thirteen heads belonging to enemies of some great Magister he'd purchased the skilled minds and hands of ship builders.

They'd always been quick, over in minutes- sometimes taking him by surprise when he realized there was no one else to cleave into with his axe. Was this closer to how mainlanders fought? Hours of bloodshed, dragging on from one street to the next where roads would become so slick with blood, shit and piss that one could be up to their ankles in it without noticing. He'd been long disillusioned of the idea of war and glory going together, yet still he could not help but feel ill…by just at home he felt, surrounded by so much death.

But his men would not see him show weakness this day. No, they would see the almighty Lord of Magnar as he was always meant to be, just as with his father before him and so further on to the Age of Heroes and beyond.

"Don't give in!" He roared, lopping off a head with one swing and taking off an arm at the shoulder with a downwards chop. "This is our moment! Ours! The gods stand at our backs!"

He saw several bowmen get into position. "Incoming!" He snatched up a discarded tower shield and held it up, taking shelter with another fighter as black darts sank into several less fortunate nearby.

Behind him, his present company peeked out and leaned back in twice before Baldric heard a bowstring being drawn back. An arrow sang past him, followed by three more in quick succession before the orc archers fell silent. When Baldric moved the shield aside he saw each of them laid out atop the barricade with weirwood arrows sprouting from their chests. Looking back, he was met with the sight of Rhae, the Sheepstealer landed far behind her near the base of the inner wall where he nursed a deep wound in his side.

"Will he be alright?" Baldric asked.

"Wouldn't have been if that fucker got a second shot off." She did a quick count from her quiver. "Snow must have it."

"Then we should pull back." Baldric urged, painfully aware of how many they'd lost up to this point.

"Not yet." She said firmly. "Not until he signals."

"And if he doesn't?" Baldric asked.

As Rhae pondered that, the ground shuddered beneath them. This tremor was felt throughout both baileys, rippling through the stones at their feet.

"What…" Baldric slowly looked up at the towering keep. "The hell-"

Fire erupted from the towers of the keep, emerging at the tops like great black candles. The Loyalist Orcs had stopped throwing themselves against the barricades and now cowered, seeking shelter as globules off molten rock rained down on the streets.

A man near Baldric and Rhae burst into flames with a shriek as he was struck. One of Grublik's orcs was flattened, leaving only their feet poking out from under the the stone. Sheep howled and swept one wing out, sweeping several men under his body, shielding them while his armoured hide withstood several smaller impacts.

"What the hell is that?!" Baldric screamed, racing Rhae back towards her dragon.

"The Lord of this fucking castle is what that is!" She dropped and slid feet first into the Sheepstealer's shadow where more than a handful of others had massed. "Brace yourselves, lads and ladies!"

Xxx

Whoever she was, the woman knew her way around the catacombs like the back of her hand. In a fraction of the time it took for Jon to find the Pit she had led them to the street level of the Inner Bailey. Tormund had to support him, but only at first before Jon felt strength return to his legs; though perhaps that had been related to earth shaking foot steps of their pursuer getting closer than he liked. It took every ounce of self control not to accidentally leave his companions behind after that.

When they emerged into the open it was raining fire. Great shards of molten rock slammed into buildings and streets, melting stone and setting alight wood. Orcs fled for cover where they could find it, none of them wearing the crest of Jon's Captains.

"The hell is that?!" Tormund cried out as they hurried along, keeping their heads low.

"The tantrum of a man-child whose favourite toy has been taken away." The hooded woman said dryly. "Boy! You brought an army, didn't you? Take us to them!"

"They're holding position by the inner wall!" Jon led the way as the keep further devolved into an inferno which rained death upon the rest of the fortress. "Stay close!"

Xxx

"Will this ever stop?!" A stoneborn screamed, falling to his knees as the rain of fire continued to pelt the surrounding area.

"Stand firm! You're a son of Skagos!" Baldric gripped their arm. "And we don't let a little rain scare us off, no matter how hot it is! We hold here until Jon Snow walks through that barricade!"

"But what if he's dead?!" Ser Narbert cried. "What if he never comes back?! What if-"

Just as Rhae, Baldric or any of the nearby captains were ready to shut the Knight's mouth for him, the barricade exploded in a flash of green light. Through the dust, several figures raced into view.

"More orcs!" Baldric shouted. "Get ready!"

"Hold, Lord Magnar!" The nearest of them cleared the haze long before the rest did, revealing Jon with his hammer in hand. "Enough good blood has been spilt today."

A chorus rang up from the group hidden under Sheep and other nearby pockets of survivors.

"It's Lord Snow!"

"The Grave Wolf returns!"

"Barhdgul!"

"My Lord's returned!" Dûsh the Obsessed proclaimed with a grin. "And with such showmanship!"

Jon raised the Fist of the First Men and called out. "Form up and prepare to withdraw! We have what we came for. Victory belongs to us today!"

His presence rejuvenated the remaining orcs, now down to perhaps just over three hundred, who charged back through the bridge gate as the Skani raised the portcullis. The remains of the combined Westerosi expedition, down by less than half their original strength thanks to their Orc allies taking the brunt of the Olog charge, followed behind with the green cloaked Skani nimbly scaling down the sides of the gate to bring up the rear guard.

Jon saw the still fresh wound in Sheep's flank. "Rhae, will he still fly?"

"Not for long."

"Long enough to clear a path back to the gate?" Jon pressed. "If he can manage that, we can fight our way out on our own and scatter into the forests and hills."

Rhae looked up with concern as the dragon unfurled his wings and lowered himself down for her to mount. "I suppose we'll have to see." She clambered into the saddle. "See you at the end, Jon Snow."

Sheep kicked off of the ground and took to the sky, flapping his wings with greater difficulty. Jon waited until the last of the company was through the gate before moving to follow. He saw the hooded woman being carried upon Tormund's back, escorted by Davos and an ecstatic Baldric who enjoyed a brief reunion as they crossed the bridge.

Before Jon could get halfway across the gate exploded behind him, causing the bridge to shudder and shift. Tormund tripped and dropped his charge, who shouted and waved off Davos' hands as she climbed to her feet.

"Forget it! The bridge is collapsing! Run, you fools!"

They'll never make it across. Jon realized as portions of the stone bridge began to give away. The bridge will go any second!

But then, something clicked in his head as his hand brushed the handle of the Fist.

By the strike of this hammer one has both the power to create and destroy. The Stranger had told him.

The power to create and destroy…make and unmake.

And yet the hammer did not create, not in the sense of conjuring stone or ice from thin air. It altered, reshaped, made use of what was around it to achieve its intended purpose. It could chill or superheat air and rock to create frost or smelt ore into metal, entomb the Builder's crypt beneath many layers of ice and rock pulled from their surroundings…

Could it not fix a single bridge?

Jon swung the Fist down and felt its energies spread throughout the bridge, reaching from one anchor to the next. He could feel it as if every last piece was an extension of himself, thousands of little pieces detached from him and fitted together…crumbling. But there were more pieces beyond the bridge itself, many pieces that were made of the same material. He pulled them to him, and reshaped them to his whim so that they fit in place.

Sections of the Inner Bailey's wall collapsed as their foundations were ripped out from under them and forced to fill the gaps left in the bridge. When the process was complete Jon felt the bridge stand firm and steady under his feet, as good as before the day he had partially shattered it in his flight.

"Oh. Well." The hooded woman looked down. "That's hand- EE!"

Tormund had scooped her back up as he hastened to the far end. "Come on, Snow!" He shouted over his shoulder.

But Jon did not answer. He was facing the shroud of dark smoke which had spread to the edge of the Inner Bailey, pressing against the border once established by the now mostly collapsed wall. Flames hot enough to be felt from a distance spread ahead of them.

"It's him." Jon whispered, feeling Tar-Medine's gaze upon him.

"Snow! Don't think to fight him!" The woman shouted. "His strength will not fade so quickly! You cannot beat him, boy!"

"I know!" Jon replied. "But you all need to get away from here! Go! I will hold him for a time, then join you later! Lord Magnar, see that this is done!"

The Lord of Kingston did not hesitate to comply, directing his men to keep pushing behind the rebel Orcs towards the outer gate.

The flames built as they pushed out onto the bridge, parting to allow Tar-Medine to step forth and stand before Jon. Gone was the air of self assurance that had followed him in their last confrontation, replaced by grim resolve.

"Give it to me." The Lord of Morgund'dur hissed. "Return what is mine, Gravewalker! Do so, and you and your army may depart with your lives."

"Bargaining?" Jon feigned surprise. "You were not so reasonable when I gave you terms before. Your reign is over, go now from this land and you may leave with your life. The ring is yours no longer."

"Who else but I can hope to wield it?" Tar-Medine countered. "It has touched you. Yes, I feel it…you have felt a sample of the power that it can command."

"Power, yes…and the heavy cost that will reap upon any that it can sink its claws into." Jon rubbed his wrist where the woman's dark blade had sliced clean through. "Its sorcery would have seen me make slaves of my closest companions. I now wonder how much of it was imprinted unto you."

"Fool." Fire licked at the edges of Tar-Medine's robes. "You assume much of what you cannot hope to comprehend. You may think that you understand what you have taken from me, but you haven't any clue if its value. The ring will be mine again…but first: I am going to finish what we started and cleanse this world of the Builder's bloodline. Down to the last mangy wolf runt."

Sweeping both arms up, Tar-Medine immolated himself in a pillar of smoke and fire. Beneath this shroud, Jon witnessed something vast and terrifying take form.

A pair of great bat-like wings unfurled out to their full length on both sides. Clover feet as a carriage pressed down against the restored bridge, attached to legs encased in black armour. A tail uncoiled and became marked by a mane of embers which stretched up onto the back of this new form. Upon the torso was the fearsome glare of otherworldly flames contained within the dark hide, brightest at the very centre.

A head flanked by horns large enough to impale several men rose out of the shroud with bright diamond eyes and the look of something risen from Jon's nightmares. Tar-Medine stood up to a height almost equal to Wun-Wun's, flames billowing from its flesh as it opened its mouth. The sound that came out was like nothing Jon could ever imagine being made by beast or man, it was like the rumbling of thunder combined with the cracking of earth, the roar of the world's greatest furnace and the howl of a storm that would engulf the world.

Jon heard the Stranger and felt the fear in his voice, condensed down into a single word.

"Balrog."

Xxx

Many leagues to the south, Skagosi fishermen looked up to see a storm rising in the north. A hot, dry wind swept down over the island as wild life both on land and sea fled. The wargs of Kingston howled in terror and writhed where they fell next to their bonded skins.

Deep within the forests of Skagos, Rickon Stark awoke with a shriek and could not be consoled even in Osha's arms. Shaggydog's howls were joined by the cry of the Old Horns who sensed that a great evil had awakened.

To the west, at the growing town of Queenscrown, Mother Mole gasped and leaned upon her staff. Making her way to the highest window of the tower, she looked out to the east, feeling the cry of gods of earth and sky calling out to her.

They cried out. Darkness! Darkness and fire!

Back upon Skane, within the shadow of the Heartree of Ashcrown, Daemon the Weaver shuddered and fell to his knees with a strained gasp. Overhead, thousands of creatures within the Heartree's branches raced about in blind panic. Greater things that lay dormant beneath the roots shifted in restlessness, sensing what had just revealed itself for the world to hear.

Many hundreds of leagues away, all across the North it would be felt by others to varying degrees. Thousands of leagues further on throughout Westeros and Essos it would be a distant echo in the nightmares of many. When they awoke they would remember only the image of a great shadow…and within it, two red eyes with a stare that burned its way into their souls.

And the same warning screeched by many.

Darkness and fire!

But to some things that heard this, it was not a warning…but a rallying cry.

Xxx

Jon felt like a flea attempting to stand against a force of nature, standing in the sight of his foe's true form. He wanted to run, to flee from Skane to the furthest corner of the world and pray that death would somehow take him before this monstrosity ever laid eyes on him again. Every instinct in him cried out to retreat, to live today than die against impossible odds. This was no longer a battle against shambling undead or Orcish aberrations…it was to become a slaughter, as one sided as a giant stepping upon an ant.

And yet his feet would not be lifted from their place.

If I run now. He told himself. Then everything I did to get here shall be for naught. Every life lost, every battle fought, every sacrifice made. The Starks of old shall look down upon me in shame. Jon Snow, craven and weakling, who antagonized a monster into stirring from its lair and then fled before it.

Gripping the Fist of the First Men in a shaking hand, Jon returned with a war cry of his own against the waking firestorm before him.

Every minute, every second that I buy is another that carries your tainted prize away from you! Without it you shall shrivel and die, as helpless as the many victims your petty kingdom has claimed to sustain itself. Come what may, even my own true death: you shall not pass!

The Balrog lurched forward, stepping out onto the bridge. It raised one arm up to sweep him aside, but as Jon prepared to meet it with a swing of his hammer a shadow blocked the rising sun in the east and then slammed into the Balrog, knocking it over the side of the bridge. The Sheepstealer howled and spat a jet of flames as it ascended again. In her saddle, Rhae jabbed Dark Sister into the air victoriously.

Jon raced to the edge of the bridge only to stumble back as the Balrog shot back up, taking to the air on its own black wings, trailing smoke and fire behind it.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Jon whispered as he watched the Balrog pursue Sheepstealer high over Morgund'dur's Outer Bailey.

Sheepstealer, while much bigger than Tar-Medine, avoided him like the plague and attempted to come about to face him head on, but the Balrog proved faster and slammed into the dragon's flank, locking them into a tumbling descent which they broke away from and clashed twice more. Jon hurried to get beneath the battle, trying to conceive of some means of reaching them at such an altitude. Sheep passed low once, building up speed to rise up once again and knocked over several weakened buildings with the mere gust of his wings before the Balrog followed after. Jon loosed an arrow, but it came nowhere close to striking the demon as it ascended once more.

Time and time again, the two great creatures clashed, clawing and biting at one another. Rhae struck out with Dark Sister when she had the opportunity, stabbing into one of Tar-Medine's arms as he tried to wrap them around Sheep's neck. This saved the dragon more than once, allowing him to break free and retaliate.

But for any small successes they had, it was painfully clear to see that they were outmatched.

The Sheepstealer was old, the veteran of many battles and apparently of greater age than history would have him believe from Rhae's words. But Tar-Medine was something else, something timeless that did not wither with age, but grew stronger. Maybe it had been the ring that made him this way, or maybe he had always been this way.

Either way, it had become only a matter of when the Lord of Morgund'dur would strike true, but it had bought precious time. Jon had seen his allies trickling out through the front gates, fighting off packs of disorganized Orcs who attempted to stop them. He saw Tormund among them, carrying with him the hooded woman and the ring itself.

But time was still not on their side. Tar-Medine was weakened, but not so much that he was still at any disadvantage.

Coming to a stop high over the island, the Sheepstealer twisted about so that he was facing downwards and dove to meet his old enemy. Tar-Medine cackled and conjured in one hand a ball of fire which shaped itself, extending out to a point until it resembled a longsword. Sheep and Rhae were too late to react to this, breaking off as the blade of fire cut deep into the dragon's body, carried by his downward momentum. Tar-Medine hovered, flapping his wings to maintain his position as he gazed down, giving a cackle like a crack of thunder as he saw that he had severed Rhae's saddle on one side, sending saddle and rider both in a plummet while Sheep struggled to right himself.

Rhae flailed as she fell further from her dragon, reaching out futilely and crying out for him, her own voice lost in the winds that raced past her. The Outer Bailey closed in to meet her until she could see individual bodies from the previous battles scattered about the street beneath her.

In the final instant she let out a scream, and then felt everything stop.

Was that it? She opened her eyes. I felt nothing…

What she did feel was an arm wrapped around her, pulling her close against an armoured chest. Looking up, she found herself in the arms of Jon Snow, whose free hand gripped his hammer where it had dug into the side of one of the few towers spared by the dance of fire she had engaged in.

"Are you alright?" He asked her.

"I…yes." Rhae used the hand not bound to Dark Sister's hilt to pinch herself, unconvinced that she was still somehow alive. "You caught me?"

"Barely." Jon looked up and his eyes widened. "Hang on!"

He kicked away from the tower just before it was demolished in a wave of decimation that followed the Sheepstealer, who had managed to achieve only a controlled crash which still sent him sprawling through several streets of the mostly burnt and demolished Bailey. Jon flung the Fist again and warped to the top of the outer gate. Below where they stood, the last of the rebel orcs and westerosi warriors were pulling out.

Jon leapt down and set Rhae on her feet to find Tormund and his charge still present. "Giantsbane! I told you to get her out of here!"

Tormund spun with a shocked yelp at Jon's presence. "Fuck! Never goin' to get used to that."

"I am not one of your soldiers, boy." The hooded woman cleaned Orc blood off on her cloak. "And I wasn't leaving until you got her here." She pointed to Rhae, who was looking urgently back to where Sheep had crashed.

"I have to get back to Sheep!" She said as Tar-Medine came in for a landing. "That monster will butcher him!"

"You'll only get yourself killed, girl." The hooded woman blocked her. "This isn't a fight for mortals." She nodded to Jon. "It's a fight for this fool, and it'll still be an uphill battle like no other with a dragon on his side."

"I'll keep the Sheepstealer safe until he can get away." Jon said, and reared back his arm to fling the Fist before Rhae held up an arm.

"Wait! Take this then." She began to unbind Dark Sister from her grip. "Whatever he is now, Valyrian Steel hurt him, if only a little. Maybe you'll do better than I did." She offered the legendary sword of Viserys Targaryen, a piece of history thought lost, to him.

"No. No." The hooded woman intervened. "Dark Sister is a fine blade, but she is made for a woman's hand. No, you fight with a bastard sword." She tapped her staff against Longclaw's hilt. "Here, something more your size."

Untying her own weapon from her belt, the old woman held it out with the ruby encrusted pommel pointed at Jon. The proportions were almost that of Longclaw's, only a little bigger, and undeniably a better fit for him to wield. Still, Jon tested it first by wrapping his hand around the hilt and pulling it from its sheath with a melodious ring.

Like Dark Sister, the blade was dark with a rippling pattern in the steel. Holding it up, Jon felt like the weapon had been made for his hand to hold. He had always had a period of adjusting to new weapons, even to Longclaw which had become like a part of him…but he felt that same connection as soon as he unsheathed this instrument.

And holding it close to Dark Sister, a jolt ran through Jon's mind as he realized how similar the two were, almost like twin siblings…

"Blackfyre." He whispered, gazing upon the fabled sword of Aegon the Conqueror and Daemon Blackfyre, once said to be the blade of kings before the reign of Aegon the Unworthy.

Not one, but both of the Targaryen ancestral weapons had been on Skane for gods know how long, along with a dragon and a line of dragon seeds…almost like they had been waiting for him.

Taking the scabbard, Jon sheathed the weapon and nodded to the old woman. "Thank you."

"Just go!" She waved him off and tugged Rhae along. "Come along, dragon rider. Our part in this is over."

Ser Davos nodded to Jon as he followed. "Seven be with you, lad."

"The Old Gods too." Baldric said, and called over his shoulder. "This almost makes me glad I didn't riddle you with arrows when you crawled to my doorstep!"

Tormund grasped Jon's forearm and gave it a squeeze. "Go take his head." He said with a smirk. "And don't you think of dying again, Snow."

Jon returned the gesture. "Get the fuck out of here, Giantsbane." He replied, and shoved him through the gate.

After securing Blackfyre to his waist, opposite of where Longclaw and the Fist hung, Jon raced to where the Sheepstealer had crashed. Some Orcs crossed his path on the way, but they were more focused on escaping the blaze than impeding him.

This was not their fight anymore, but had triggered the events that led to this moment, and now he would see it through to the end.

And he would do it with ice in one hand and fire in the other.

Xxx

End of Chapter

I won't lie, originally I had thought of ending the Skane arc with this chapter, but felt that it was starting to get long enough as it was. But the next chapter will definitely be the finale, so stay tuned and hold onto your smallclothes, folks!

Vak (v-AW-k) = Awaken (variants: Vaka = Awake.)

Fra (F-rr-ah) = From

Um (Oo-m) = Dark/Darkness/Night