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.
Also, a Public Service Announcement.
This year has been an ordeal in and of itself for many due to the outbreak of COVID-19. What is important right now is to help in addressing and eradicating the threat it represents. So to that end: stay. The hell. Home. Don't go out if you need to, remain away from others unless necessary and never gather in large groups- don't even tell me if stories regarding 'Coronavirus Parties' are true or my faith in humanity might dry up.
There are many people who refuse to acknowledge the threat and persist in leading their regular social lives to the detriment of others. The best thing that you can do is remain home, only leave for necessities or arrange for them to be delivered to you if possible (Or if it is for offering your time in helping others to cope: For example, I volunteered and spent this morning packing groceries at my local grocery store to be delivered to people who have been in isolation for days or weeks).
Do NOT travel between towns and cities, across state or provincial borders and especially not international borders!
Do NOT assume that because there are no confirmed cases near you that you have no chance of being infected. Practice common sense and basic sanitary diligence.
Do NOT assume that the rules governing prevention do not apply to you just because you don't feel sick (asymptomatic carriers are a thing, people, and this virus has killed 40 year old health nuts and left 60 year olds on cruise ships with just a sniffle, so don't take a chance).
I found a youtube video by one Charlie Hopkinson, a brilliant impressionist who flawlessly replicates the voices of some of our favourite characters. He used his talent to create videos with his impressions where Gandalf the Grey cites the importance of small, personal sacrifices to get things back to normal. He also had a more humorous version where Tyrion Lannister must cope with the seven deadly stages of quarantine while trying to survive his father's conspiracy theories and aspirations to build a paper mache horse at the worst time; and another where Thorin Oakenshield (aka: Thorin TP Hoarder) finds himself besieged by an army of elves following Curry Night. I'd recommend checking them out, as humour sometimes is the best way of getting a good point across and help relieve some tension.
It can't hurt to carry around a bottle of hand sanitizer, either.
Xxx
Chapter Twenty-Three: Battle of Morgund'dur, Part Four: Ice and Fire
12th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC
Morgund'dur, Outer Bailey, Skane
The Sheepstealer had not landed elegantly. Left limping following his crash-landing, he was easy prey for the Balrog, which swept down and slammed into the dragon as he attempted to rise onto all fours. This bowled Sheep over and left him on his back, howling feebly as the years and the battles stretched across his life reaped their toll upon him. The Balrog perched upon his scaled breast, sneering down at him.
"Our long war ends today," Tar-Medine hissed, expelling flames through his nostrils. "Old friend."
He pressed one cloven foot down onto Sheep's neck and held up one arm. Hellish flames collected in his palm and expanded outwards, forming a new weapon: this one a great whip of fire which coiled around Sheep's neck, digging into his scales and triggering a new agitated cry from the old dragon. In Tar-Medine's other hand formed a long glaive which he poised to plunge down into Sheep's skull.
"Take one last look at your precious island, Dannendîr." Tar-Medine taunted. "For from its ashes…shall rise the Kingdom of Tol Dìnen."
Tightening the snare of the fire-whip, the Balrog raised his glaive up and thrust it down. Before his attack could land however, something struck him in his shoulder and caused his blade to move off to one side, stabbing into stone which hissed, bubbled and melted from the extreme heat. Before he could recover, the Sheepstealer used this distraction to latch his jaws around the arm holding onto the fire-whip. Tar-Medinae howled as he was flung off to one side, crashing into an demolishing the remains of a barracks.
He pulled himself to his feet and snarled, finding his path barred by a figure wielding a sword in one hand and hammer in the other.
Jon Snow glared up at the Balrog. "You shall not harm him." He declared, a faint green glow framing one side of his face down to the hand which wielded the Fist of the First Men.
Behind him, the Sheepstealer groaned as he climbed back to his feet. At first the dragon positioned himself to face his foe and let loose a brief jet of flame before Jon shouted.
"Go!" He turned halfway and glanced between dragon and Balrog. "Fly! You cannot fall today, your people still need you!"
The Sheepstealer squawked at this command, torn between surprise and indignation from the look he gave Jon.
"I. Said." Jon manifested the Bright Stranger partially and locked eyes with the Sheepstealer, briefly viewing himself through its clouded eyes, seeing himself as a figure one-half that of a young man in his prime, the other a shrivelled and luminous figure cast in pale green light. "GO!"
Recoiling, the ancient dragon turned and took to the sky. Tar-Medine made to throw his glaive after him, but paused as Jon reared back his hammer.
"Don't try it." He warned.
A chuckle escaped from the Balrog, who dismissed his weapon. "I am torn between being astounded by your stubbornness…or impressed by your audacity, Gravewalker."
"Without audacity, little of worth is ever accomplished." Jon said. "Today has reaped a heavy toll and claimed many lives, but if it ends with your final breath then I will learn to live with myself."
"But you won't live, not truly." Tar-Medine leaned down. "You must know by now that while a natural death is no longer over the horizon, your days as Jon Snow have grown shorter than ever before. I'm almost tempted to take your original offer just so that I can return one day to bear witness to what you shall become."
Something in the Balrog's words sent a spike of fear shooting through Jon. Not fear of the demon standing before him, but of something far off, peeking at him from across a distant horizon. There was a certainty in Tar-Medine's speech, as if he had seen others like Jon before, other Gravewalkers…and the fate that they met with.
But whatever that fate may be, he would not face it today.
"You've exhausted my mercy, there will be no escape for you today." Jon lowered the Fist to his side. "You've lost, my Lord. Your ring will be beyond your reach, your power will fade and you shall wither."
"Death is nothing for me to fear, Little Gravewalker."The Balrog rumbled. "I have felt its embrace and clawed my way back time and time again. You may destroy my form today, but this world- this…imperfect, intrinsically flawed world shall allow me to rise once again. But before that happens, I shall see you suffer for the offence you've inflicted on me."
Standing up, the Balrog cast his stare to the west. "From the Neck to the Wall, from the Bay of Ice to the White Knife and from Flint's Finger to East-Watch…all shall feel the fallout of what you have done here today, Son of Eddard. Wherever I cast my shadow, fire shall spread and ash shall blanket the lands where no sunlight shall ever shine again. And the last thing that your people shall hear shall be…"
With whip in one hand and crackling blade in the other, the Balrog boomed. "Hail, Jon Snow! Harbinger of the Last Winter!"
The whip cracked against the ground as Jon threw himself to one side. As Tar-Medine stepped forth, Jon struck the Fist against the street, which rose up in a wave that rippled outward and slammed into the Balrog, who threw an arm up to brush the shower of stone aside. Down came the blade of fire and nearly cut Jon down, but he met it with an upwards swing of the Fist where two polar opposite flavours of magic collided explosively. To one side, a rush of air colder than any ice found beyond the Wall formed frost and extinguished fires, forming a coating of glare ice which gleamed in the morning sun; to the other a wave of fire scorched black all in its path.
Tar-Medine roared and cracked his whip again, but it caught around Blackfyre's blade and pulled taut as the two grappled. Jon began to lose purchase, feeling his boots scrape across the ground. He swung the Fist up again and watched as the whip flare and burst into nothing, this effect spreading back to its master's hand to leave him bereft.
Jon used the opening to fling the Fist towards the Balrog's feet and warped to it, reappearing close enough to cut into the side of one leg. A sound of tearing metal filled the air as Blackfyre cleaved through the hide, spilling out fire and molten lifeblood. Jon repeated this with the other leg and rolled as he landed, the sound of Tar-Medine's agony a sweet song to his ears.
"Is this all?!" He shouted, turning as the demon's wounds melted shut. "Is this all that the King of Skane can muster?!"
Tar-Medine answered by forming his glaive and sweeping it out in a wide swing, tearing up or shattering anything in its path. Jon leapt over it and charged for the legs again. The glaive stabbed down in his path, and as he moved to one side to avoid it he felt the ground crumble beneath him.
Taken off guard, he fell a considerable distance beneath the streets of Morgund'dur and slammed into solid rock.
Xxx
"You've done it." Daemon sounded impressed when Jon opened his eyes. "No shame in running now."
"I can't do that." Jon scrambled towards the Weaver's seat. "He is not beaten yet. In his death throes he will destroy my homeland and no man nor instrument crafted by the hand of man can stand against him. He needs to die here! Now!"
"And if you die at his hand, you might be gone for good!" Daemon exclaimed. "Lad, you can't save everyone. Time and strain will weaken him, if you just- where did you get that sword?"
When Jon opened his mouth to answer he felt something bite into his arm. "Fuck!"
"No-no-no don't you wake up yet you motherless-"
Xxx
"GHÛL!" The Bright Stranger bellowed in his face as Jon awoke to find himself being mobbed on all sides.
Dozens of creatures, all of them with emaciated figures and hunched postures clawed at him and sank their teeth in where they could find purchase. Jon kicked and thrashed, driving his fist into the jaw of a set of jaws hovering before his face, causing a breath of rancid air to be expelled just in time for him to remember that he no longer needed to breathe. His other hand had hold of Blackfyre, but with so many of the wretches piled onto him he could barely lift his arm much less put the Valyrian steel to use.
"The Fist!" The Stranger shouted, standing over Jon. "Get to the hammer!"
Jon realized his meaning and warped to where the Fist had landed several meters away, leaving the Ghuls to fight over empty space. In their frantic urge to feed they barely noticed he was gone as they began to bite and claw at one another.
Jon stood up and sank Blackfyre into the face of one that hadn't been close enough to be bought in by his disappearance. "What are these things?!" He kicked out at another and shattered several of its teeth.
From a better angle he could now see their rat-like heads and bulbous glowing yellow eyes.
"Ghûls! Wretches! Nocturnal carrion with venomous bites." The Stranger sneered at the growing mound. "It seems we disturbed their slumber."
Jon had landed in a cavern that was teeming with these Ghûls, many of which were clustering together to glare hungrily at Jon while more spilled in from nearby passages or dug their way through the walls and floor.
But before they could pounce, a glow from above drew both their and Jon's attention. An inferno rained down on them from the same shaft that he had just fallen from, partly obscuring the figure of Tar-Medinae as he burrowed his way down after him. Molten rock rained down in droplets which scattered many of the Ghûls, with the rest breaking as fire erupted in the midst of their nest.
"RUN!" The Stranger roared.
Jon already had manifested his bow, seeing an opportunity in the flow of Ghûls now forcing their way out of the chamber through any means available to them. He used them as stepping stones, firing one arrow and using it to warp to them as they were punctured through their head or chest, then carrying on and repeating this with another further ahead. This allowed him to gain significant ground, skipping dozens and then hundreds of feet which he put between himself and Tar-Medine.
But in his haste he had not thought to seek one of the passages to the surface. Instead he found himself returning to a familiar area of Morgund'dur's presently crumbling underbelly: the western watch point where he had not so long ago infiltrated the catacombs. Only this time instead of the perch beneath the Inner Bailey, he'd found himself staring at it from a counterpart beneath the Outer Bailey.
"Climb!" The Stranger urged him, the sound of collapsing rock and blasting fire all the encouragement that Jon needed to move to one side of the opening and search for a handhold which he used to swing himself out onto the cliff face before a jet of fire erupted from the cavern mouth.
Jon felt the cliff begin to heat up under his hands as he moved to scale it, finding easy purchase until the entire shelf seemed to fall apart beneath him, crumbling away as Tar-Medine demolished the foundations of his own fort, sending an entire outer section plunging into the Shivering Sea.
"Why do you run, Gravewalker?!" Tar-Medine called out, now exposed to the daylight in a cavity he'd melted into the cave systems large enough to accommodate his stature. "You seemed so courageous a short time ago!"
The Balrog held his hands out and shaped a long spear. "Perhaps you don't really care for that frozen wasteland after all."
He reared back his arm and flung the spear at Jon, who launched himself to one side and plummeted until he could grab onto an outcropping. The spear exploded and rained down much debris onto the rocks at the cliff's foundation. He saw the Balrog prepare a second spear before a rush of wind swept past Jon, who found himself being snatched off of the cliff at the last second by a set of claws so large that they formed a cage around him.
"Sheep!?" He shouted as Tar-Medine howled in frustration below. "I told you to go!"
He felt the dragon touch the edge of his mind again, briefly giving him a glimpse of the dragon's flight path. Jon tried to maintain the link, but be it from inexperience or his undead nature he could not hold it for more than a handful of moments.
In that time the dragon was able to make one thing clear to him: this was his fight as much as it was Jon's, and he'd waited multiple lifetimes to see it to its end. He would not let this chance be taken from him, even by a Gravewalker.
Save me from the stubbornness of dragons.
Behind them, Jon saw a set of black wings flare out. "He's coming after us!"
The Sheepstealer acknowledged this, veering to one side to pass over the peninsula and dive down towards the eastern shore, conveying his intent through their sporadically bridged minds to drop Jon somewhere safe.
"No! I have an idea!" Jon shook his head, and felt the dragon's curiosity- an invitation to elaborate. "Fly up! As high and fast as you can manage."
The dragon protested, fearing rightfully that the Balrog would overtake him.
"I know, but we need to be high up for this!" Jon argued, and the dragon relented, rising as sharply as he could manage in his condition as the Balrog pursued, steadily closing the distance.
Once Sheep came close to passing above the lowest clouds, Jon grasped the Fist of the First Men and held it out through the cage of the dragon's claws. An updraft roared past them, carrying the Sheepstealer higher as hot air was drawn up and away from the ocean and isle, rapidly cooling as water vapours became rapidly growing dark clouds that cut Tar-Medinae off from his prey. The Balrog ploughed through the cloud cover, undeterred by the crack of lightning around him.
Then he finally emerged, rising above a dark field bordered by great rumbling clouds on all sides which obscured his vision, blocking out the sun in the east but showing him a glimpse of clear blue sky further up.
"A clever trick." Tar-Medine admitted. "But you cannot hide in here forever."
Then, from overhead, the Sheepstealer erupted from the nearby cloud cover and slammed into him, driving Tar-Medinae downwards and latching his jaws onto the Balrog's neck. Both fighters and their passenger plunged back into the storm, struggling blindly even as the clouds dissipated as quickly as they'd formed, exposing the glittering waters of the Shivering Sea and the dot of green that was Skane.
The Balrog's claws tore at the side of Sheep's head, managing to rip himself free of the dragon's jaws. Sheep now struggled simply to get his head free as Tar-Medinae dug his claws in.
"BURN!" He roared, and enveloped Sheep's head and neck in his otherworldly fire, scorching the dragon's scales and making him howl in pain. "BURN WITH THE REST OF THEM-"
Another crack of thunder split the air, and Tar-Medine lost his hold. Something had hit him in his chest, dislodging him and splitting him and Sheep apart. He flipped himself over and attempted to spread his wings, briefly slowing his descent before he felt something cut through one of his wings like wet parchment, slicing a long line down through the membrane. With another shriek the Balrog's plummet resumed, now joined by the Gravewalke, Blackfyre in hand.
"WRETCHED RUNT OF THE LITTER!" Tar-Medine's hand closed around Jon, enveloping most of his body below his chest and drawing a pained cry from the Gravewalker, the grip like hot metal pressing against him from all sides.
And then the Sheepstealer slammed into him from above, weakening his hold long enough to snatch Jon away.
"Sheep!" Jon howled. "NO!"
Sheep spread his wings and let Tar-Medine finish his plummet while trying to veer away from the ground. The dragon had cost himself the chance for a safe landing in his haste to catch the Gravewalker. He only just managed to turn a straight fall into an uncontrolled crash. His wings crumpled and he lost what little control he'd managed, tumbling down to smash through several dozen trees before coming to a stop, a broken and bloodied heap.
And in his claws, Jon remained protected both by the dragon's talons and by his own sturdy and regenerative nature, alive but drifting in and out of consciousness yet again.
"Sheep…" He murmured, closing his eyes for just a second…
Xxx
…and opening them to Daemon leaning over him. "Steady, Jon." He placed a hand on Jon's chest. "Gather yourself."
"Sheep!" Jon gasped. "He's hurt!"
"I know." Daemon whispered, looking and sounding older than ever before. "I know, lad."
"The Balrog-"
"He lives. Barely." Daemon helped Jon up. "That sword. Blackfyre. Where did you come by it?"
"Who cares about a bloody sword?!" Jon demanded. "Some old woman who was in the fortress gave it to me! Sheep is dying right now!"
"Describe her! Please!" Daemon pleaded, actually getting down on his knees and grasping Jon's surcoat. "Please…"
For whatever reason, seeing the usually proud man grovelling compelled Jon to indulge him. "Dark skinned…like a summer islander. With a slit nose. I saw little else of her, save a few grey hairs."
Daemon gasped. "It's her, then…she was there all this time and I…" He placed a hand on his head. "Gods forgive me, I left her there alone…"
"Daemon, whoever this woman is, we have bigger problems!"
"I'm aware of that!" Daemon pushed himself to his feet. "And I know what must now be done. When you awaken, keep Sheep safe just a while longer. I need time before I can help you."
"What do you intend?" Jon asked.
"Never you mind. Just do as I say!" Daemon snapped, falling back into his more familiar demeanour. "And…tell Rhae that I love her. In fact, give my love to both of them."
"Both of them-"
Xxx
Jon gasped and sat up, almost bumping his head against a single one of Sheep's digits. The whole forest was trembling, as if Skane was set to shake herself to pieces. Fires spread from the west, joined by Tar-Medine's howl.
"GRAVEWALKER!"
Jon crawled out between Sheep's claws and moved away to get a full view of where the ancient dragon now rested. His wings were shattered, both of them- perhaps beyond any hope of being mended without the expertise of the Ancient Valyrians themselves. He still somehow drew breath, his chest still rising and falling while one of his eyes was half open, staring at Jon.
"Gods, Sheep…" Jon set a hand on the dragon's snout. "It's alright. He won't get you."
A low rumble answered him, a weak attempt compared to what the dragon was capable of bellowing before. Something within Jon tore, knowing that this had been a result of his plan, however unintended and unanticipated it might have been.
"GRAVEWALKER!" Tar-Medine raged, the fires spreading further east towards them.
Jon turned and drew Blackfyre, coming to face a number of Orcs who trickled in from the trees. None of them were his, and they seemed most fixed upon Sheep where he lay.
"You will not touch him." He hissed, manifesting the Stranger visibly again for them to see. "THE NORTH REMEMBERS!"
Xxx
Ashcrown
Daemon limped to the base of the Heartree and fell to his knees, tossing his staff aside. "Hear me!" He cried, drawing back the sleeve of his robes. "Hear me, gods of Earth and Sky! Of Ice and Fire! Of Sun and Shadow! Hear me, Mother Skane! Your children beseech your aid this day!"
The roots at the base of the Heartree groaned and shifted, unwinding themselves from long set knots and easing apart to expose a hole too small for a man to fit into…but just right for the little figure which crawled out into the light of day.
Its flesh was grey and like the bark of a dead tree, its eyes black orbs and its teeth sharp, yellowed fangs that it bared in a grin. It wore what looked like the red leaves of a Heartree shaped to create a dress which adorned its small, child-like form.
"Do you call upon the Dark Mother's boon, Weaver?" It asked of him.
Daemon nodded. "I do."
"Be you prepared for the cost?"
"I am."
Reaching down to one side, it revealed a blade of pure obsidian bound to a weirwood hilt. "Then you know what you must do." It whispered. "Say the words…awaken her, Weaver."
Daemon's shaking hand accepted the dragonglass dagger. "From the Great Wood we are b-born." He stammered, dragging the blade up one of his forearm on the underside, from wrist to elbow. "To the Great Wood, w-we return." He repeated this with his other arm and grasped the dagger in both hands, pointing it towards himself. "By the blood of your servant, I awaken you. By this offering of blood and water, I beg your favour- aaaagh!"
He sliced through the front of his robes and sank the dagger into the centre of his rib cage. He struggled to breath, forming the final words.
"Blood…and water…" He wheezed. "For Sheep..."
Others like the child emerged from beneath the Heartree through the now enlarged gap in the roots and seized him by his robes. Their leader's grin had grown by the end of his speech.
"The Dark Mother hears you, Weaver." A long black tongue licked at its cracked lips. "For your long service in her name, your boon shall be granted."
They dragged him beneath the Heartree, down into the damp darkness. And there, in his final moments as Daemon felt many things crawl across his body, feeding upon him, he whispered through a mouthful of gnashing pincers and skittering legs.
"Hail…Mother Skane…."
Xxx
Morgund'dur
"Keep pushing!" Ser Narbert Grandison barely had any strength left in his sword arm, and yet he still would not let himself be anywhere but the van with his several remaining men. "We're almost to the pass!"
The hordes of Morgund'dur were not finished yet. Outposts across the territory were sending Orcs to try and cut off the pass to the south, and without the dragon to clear these obstacles it had fallen to him and his knights to lead the charge. For all the unflattering things that could be said about him and most in his command, they were not mere brawlers who had been gifted knighthood, but trained fighters who had drilled relentlessly under his Lord-Brother at Grandview and bloodied at the Blackwater.
The Stormlands had never fielded armies as numerous as any of the kingdoms besides Dorne, nor was it as wealthy in that same regard. The Durrandons had always gone to war counting on being outnumbered, especially during their campaigns in the Riverlands and what was now the Crownlands. The Marcher Lords were particularly known for their martial values, producing some of the finest bowmen in Westeros and Essos. Once the Durrandons had extended their reach as far as the Neck and had fought tooth and nail even while losing these holdings to Ironborn and fending off Gardener Kings.
By no means were they the Ghiscari or Unsullied Legions reborn, nor could every man who wore a Stormland sigil be counted on as a reliable fighter, but Ser Narbert showed the Orcs that the seven raging Stormland Knights cutting through their ranks were nothing to be scoffed at. Their armour was blood stained and dented from many hits, with, at least one man's skull bleeding beneath the layers of padding and metal. Their weapons were becoming dulled and weak, but still they pushed on, cutting and beating anything in their path while behind them the more numerous forces of the Skagosi and Skani held the flanks, and the rebel Orcs held the rear where the enemy's forces were at their greatest.
Parrying an overhead strike from a club, he bashed his sword pommel into his attacker's face, pressed the edge of his blade into their throat while bracing it with one gauntlet-clad hand and dragged it across while flinging them to the ground. An axe clanged off of his helmet and rung his skull like a bell, making him drop his sword. He stumbled down onto one knee and fumbled for a dagger in his boot, feigning weakness until he saw the leg of the culprit enter view through his helmet's visor. He plunged the dagger into their knee, grabbed their axe-hand by the wrist and drove the spiked knuckles of his gauntlet into their face until it was a mess of pulp and shattered teeth.
"Ser Narbert, reinforcements!" One of his knights shouted.
Narbert looked up as men wearing the Lord's Brand surged out of the pass into the south, chopping down the few remaining orcs in the way from behind with minimal losses. The tall, red clad figure of Melisandre joined them, appearing with an almost ethereal glow that parted the mist which had fallen over the pass.
"Ser Narbert." She greeted him as wounded were hurried into the pass. "You have pleased the Lord of Light this day, but there is one last thing which he must ask of you and your men."
Barely able to find the strength to get off of the orc corpse, Ser Narbert stumbled over and bowed his head. "My lady…His will shall be done." He was joined in this by his remaining knights. "Tell us what He commands."
"The Lord has asked for much to be sacrificed in his name, but in my folly I had squandered his gifts, believing that it was in Kings' Blood that power would be found." Melisandre bowed her head in penance. "But he has shown me the truth: that beneath him, all from the poorest popper to the most devout ruler are all equal, so too is their blood. It is in their fealty to him that the power lies, and in the actions which they take in his name. Blood is but a catalyst through which his gifts can be accessed with his blessing."
She pointed to the burning fortress in the north. "Nor does he accept sacrifices of the unwilling or nonbelievers. No, Ser Narbert…what he requires today is for you to willingly offer your life up in one final act of service so that the world may be spared the machinations of the pretender who perverts the Lord's gifts, this Tar-Medine."
"My life is His, Lady Melisandre." Narbert looked up. "Tell me what must be done."
Melisandre looked to the rest of the assembled knights. "You need not join in this if you do not wish to. The Lord asks for only one life, not seven."
"We stand with Ser Narbert to the end, my lady." One of the knights answered. "We fight in the Lord of Light's name, and we shall not cower in the face of his enemies. Tell us what must be done."
"Jon Snow needs your aid to vanquish the pretender." Melisandre said, her eyes wandering to where Baldric Magnar was carrying a wounded Skani ranger over his shoulders while Tormund helped a young woman with a shattered leg to limp onwards. "In fact…he will need all the help that he can get."
Xxx
Another Orc's head exploded as their body was overtaxed, their life force fed into Jon to revitalize him from his fall. Another leapt from an out cropping and stabbed down with a spear, but Jon grabbed it by the haft and used their own momentum to fling them away, flinging the spear through a third that tried to go for Sheep. Three score had tried to reach Sheep and been laid low, some by one another but most cut apart by Blackfyre or crushed under the Fist.
But hundreds more came, sensing easy prey. They heralded their master's arrival, seeking to wear down Sheep's lone defender through attrition. The Gravewalker unleashed ice and spectral fire upon them, blinking from one end of the battlefield to the next as he fought on multiple fronts to hold the line singlehandedly.
For a time, Jon entered a rhythm. He would appear and fling the Fist to his next destination, sometimes striking an Orc in the process. Then he would cut down as many as he could in the time allotted and then warp to the Fist, using it more than once to shake and shatter the earth itself, shaking the attackers about and buying him precious seconds to move on and begin the cycle anew.
But it was not enough, not with long it took for Daemon to do…whatever it was he planned. As the tide became too much for Jon to hold, much less turn back, he used the Fist to rapidly construct a fortification around Sheep. With a few well places trikes at key areas the dragon was enveloped by a ring fort of jutting stone spikes jutting up from the ground and pointed outwards and managed to skewer more than one Orc that had been too close.
Jon stood atop the highest point to keep watch on the surrounding, staring into a sea of Orcs that howled and sneered up at him. The mass parted for Tar-Medine, who cared not if any were trampled underfoot or set alight, the tattered membrane of one of his wings dragging behind him as he advanced. Forgoing his usual mockery, the Balrog wielded a great axe fit for a headsman of giants and approached the ring fort.
"TAR! MEDINE!" The Orcs chanted, bashing the bases of spears into the ground and clanging blades against shields and armour. "TAR! MEDINE!"
The Sheepstealer groaned as he tried to push himself up to no avail. When that failed he expelled a short-lived jet of dragon fire towards Tar-Medine, but only succeeded in scorching the top of the ring fort's wall.
"Stay down, Sheep!" Jon ordered, mustering the Fist's elemental energies for a single attack.
The Balrog raised his axe up, grasping it with both hands.
Is this akin to what my father saw in his last moments? Jon wondered. Helpless to do anything but watch, just like Sheep?
Only Ned Stark had no one to stand in his defence that day. The Sheepstealer would not come to harm, even if Jon had to against his would-be executioner all on his own.
As the axe began its descent, something whistled through the air and slammed into Tar-Medine's chest. A second projectile followed, striking his shoulder. Each impact pushed him back half of a step but he did not react to it with any indication of pain, but rather annoyance. He turned his head to the source and saw two wheel mounted ballistae, much like the ones which had lined the walls of Morgund'dur. Siege weapons had been made for the inevitable day wen his good work might resume, yet it appeared that the rebels had managed to procure some for their assault.
Jon personally recognized them, for they had been his contingency for the Carrion Blades failing to open the gates.
"Reload!" Ser Narbert Grandison boomed, the image of a man who had crawled from one end of a battlefield, to the other and back again.
"Narbert, you fucking idiot!" Jon bellowed. "Get out of here!"
"A friend of yours, then?" Tar-Medine's smouldering gaze passed between Jon and the knights manning the ballistae.
Many of the Orcs had turned and begun to race towards the knights, but stopped as their master called out. "Leave them! Butcher the dragon and keep the Gravewalker entertained."
"No! He's no friend to me!" Jon argued as the Balrog began to turn away. "Stay and face me, coward!"
"And yet you care enough to protest…good, then you may watch him die. That feeble lizard isn't going anywhere in the meantime." Tar-Medine stepped away from the ring fort. "Nor is my army. Patience, Gravewalker. You and I have all of eternity to settle matters between us."
Jon made to pursue, but saw the Orc ranks surging forward to all sides of the fort. Orcs began to look for a way in, some chipping away at the rock while others climbed it by hand or with assistance from their kin who boosted them up.
Damn you, Grandison!
Jon worked to keep them from spilling over the top of the fortifications, moving quickly to get at the first Orc to climb up.
"Lead us from the darkness, O my Lord!" Ser Narbert cried out over the howls and laughter of Tar-Medine's legions. "Fill our hearts with fire, so we may walk your shining path!"
The Knights finished reloading and launched a second barrage, which their target shrugged off. Jon attempted to dominate the minds of several Orcs so that they might hold the line for him, but they fell almost as quickly as he recruited them. Some got close enough to Sheep to since their blades in, making the dragon cry out and forcing Jon to race to his aid.
Ser Narbert's men abandoned the ballistae, but did not flee as Tar-Medine came to tower over them. The Balrog stared down in a mixture of fascination and puzzlement as men, rather than flee his approach, abandoned their weapons and walked closer to him. Long were his memories of the terror his very presence brought out in the hearts of lower beings, humanity in particular. To see the seven knights approach him while shedding their outermost armour was a foreign and surreal thing to the Balrog's eyes.
"Fire worshippers. How…nostalgic." He mused. "Tell me, followers of R'hllor…will your false god avail you of MY fire?"
The Balrog began to flare brighter than before. Grass and trees near him were set alight at once with the effect spreading outwards. The Knights halted, raising their hands to shield their eyes before their leader carried on. They followed him with no hesitation.
"R'hllor, you are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins." Ser Narbert was joined in his chant by his men, who removed their gauntlets and drew back their sleeves.
"Yours is the sun that warms our days." They each produced a dagger and dragged it up the underside of their forearms, from wrist to elbow and repeated this on their other arm.
"Yours the stars that guard us in the dark of night." They dropped their daggers and held their arms high, standing so close now that the heat radiating from Tar-Medine made their eyes water and skin redden.
"Run!" Jon tried to shout to them, driving Blackfyre through an Olog's mouth and out through the back of its skull. "Run, you fools!"
"Lord of Light, defend us. The night is dark and full of terrors. Lord of Light, protect us!" The knights pressed on even as the hairs on their heads and the beards on their faces began to smoke.
"R'hllor who gave us breath, we-" One of the knights gasped, falling to his knees as the heat overwhelmed him, setting fire to his surcoat and clothing beneath while making his armour hot to the touch.
"-we thank you!" Ser Narbert shouted, now setting foot upon burning ground as steam hissed from his opened veins. "R'hllor…who gave us the- AGH!" He choked on his scream as flames travelled up his legs. "-who gave us the day! We thank you!"
One by one the rest of his men collapsed, dead and immolated as the Stormlander Knight stood close enough that Tar-Medine cold have reached out and touched him. How he had not been burnt to ashes was beyond Jon, who was helpless to do more than man the fort and watch the Knight of Grandview's slow, agonizing demise.
"GRANDISON!" Jon screamed, driving another attacker from the walls with a kick.
He had not cared for the man as a friend. He had detested his attitude towards Northerners and other faiths, he'd had no patience for his knightly entitlement, yet Jon had not truly held any ill will towards him. The knight had not done anything, to his knowledge, that merited a fate so cruel. And Jon, unable to block any of it out, felt as powerless as the night when he'd been stabbed by his own men.
"FOR THE NIGHT IS DARK!" Ser Narbert, now a pillar of embers with his arms spread to both sides howled. "AND FULL OF TERRORS!" He let loose a wordless shriek before finally falling silent, his form crumpling just as a blackened tree fell upon him.
The Balrog looked upon this scene with satisfaction, though it was short lived. Something within the fires still stirred, something inhuman, magical…and familiar. He felt himself standing within the gaze of something infinitely his superior, something that had been ancient before he had been conceived.
"No…" He realized the error of his action. "You…you cannot still live."
It laughed at him as it twisted the inferno of his making to its will. Every last ember was torn away from the forest, forming into many tendrils which spiralled towards a single location. At the same time, he witnessed green light coursing through the blackened ground, tracing the course of ancient Weirwood roots that spanned the entirety of Skane.
Light and fire converged upon Jon Snow's ring fort.
"To them?!" Tar-Medine howled. "You would give your boon to them?!"
Xxx
From a safe distance away this was witnessed by Melisandre, who knelt and prayed with her remaining Branded followers. Behind them, the few hundred remaining fighters of Jon's army watched in terrified silence as fire was woven and shaped like fabric by invisible hands.
"Did you know she could do this?" Tormund asked Davos.
"No." The Hand of the King shook his head, scarcely able to stop himself from grabbing the nearest weapon and driving it through the Red Priestess' heart. "No I didn't."
"R'hllor has heard our cry, brothers and sisters!" Melisandre cried. "He stands with us tonight! Go forth! Go to his champion's side! Go to Jon Snow!"
Xxx
Jon bore witness to fire twisting and slithering like a snake, carving a path through the ranks of his enemies. Many did not even have the chance to scream, with those caught directly in its path combusting in a flash and then ceasing to exist altogether. Others were set alight and had time to test the claims of the Red Faith about death by fire being a pure, cleaner death.
Beneath that, he felt the island itself pulse, like something beneath it had just awakened. This pulse was distant at first, almost easy to mistake for the pounding of his heart until he remembered that his heart beat no longer. Then it grew closer, travelling under flat plains of green grass and foothills, then winding north through the forest.
It manifested as green light which moved under the rock and earth walls towards the Sheepstealer while the flames leapt over the top…towards him.
Light and fire struck almost in unison. Jon held up a hand to shield his face before he was wreathed in the hottest fires that he had ever touched, greater than even than that wielded by the Lord of Morgund'dur. Yet for that fact, he felt no pain from it. Opening his eyes revealed to him that the fire had coiled around his outstretched arm and was sinking into his very flesh, burning away his sleeve and melting his vambrace.
And within it, he could hear something…a voice.
Snow…
Jon wanted to respond, to know what it was. But he could not summon the words.
You are not alone…
Then it was over. Jon stood atop the wall he'd struggled to hold, staring out over the same devastated landscape. Many of the loyalist orcs had fled in the face of what had just happened, leaving maybe a hundred confused and stunned survivors spread out beyond the wall and several more inside who offered no further attempts at battle, for they were more concerned with escaping the very circle they had fought so hard to breach.
Bones snapped into place and sinew was knitted back together. From within the fort came the same emerald glow that had passed Jon by. At its source, the Sheepstealer slowly rose to stand up with wings mending themselves before Jon's eyes. The dragon's more recent injuries were similarly vanishing while many of his more severe scars became faded.
The dragon unleashed a roar which would be heard all the way to the foothills in the south and far out to sea in every other direction. He then pushed through the wall of the ring fort with ease.
Tar-Medine looked upon this and saw only the end of his ambitions manifesting in broad daylight. Two different spells had been cast, two powerful rituals of blood magic had been invoked to turn the tide against him at the moment when his victory had seemed certain.
And now two revitalized enemies, a dragon and his rider, faced him at his weakest. And from the south came more: Wildlings, Skagosi, Skani, Northmen and his own traitorous servants. They fell upon his loyalists with renewed energy despite spending the past several hours in almost constant battle.
"So that is it then?" He whispered as he saw the last of his forces break and scatter. "This was your plan? To bring me low, to make me the monster for your hero to slay for glory and recognition? Little more than a footnote to be attached to Jon Snow's story?"
The Balrog brandished his axe and charged forth. "So be it then!" He hissed. "But I shall not go quietly! I am the Lord of Morgund'dur! I shall not meekly submit to your designs!"
Jon saw the Balrog's charge and drew Blackfyre, handling it with his now bare arm. Next to him, Sheep bellowed out another stream of dragon fire in challenge.
"We take him together, Sheep." Jon was met with no discernible objection. "Good. I'll give you an opening."
He warped ahead with the Fist, stopping halfway to the raging Balrog where he hung the hammer in his belt and grasped the sword of kings in both hands. Tar-Medine did not slow down at the sight of him, drawing his axe back for a swing to bat him out of the way on the way to his true target.
You are not alone…not alone…
Blackfyre became wreathed in a sheath of fire as Jon dove feet first ahead, slipping in past the Balrog's guard where he cut into his ankles like before, only this time the wounds did not heal as Tar-Medine collapsed to all four with a howl. Jon warped up onto his hunched back and dragged Blackfyre up to the base of his neck where he leapt off and severed one of its horns on his way down.
Sheep was on him again before he could recover, closing his jaws around the Balrog's shoulder and flinging him to one side. The dragon, finally able to fight on equal footing, gave no quarter and pounced, latching both hind claws into Tar-Medine's chest. With a mighty beat of his wings he slowly lifted the struggling Balrog off of the ground and then dropped back down, sinking his talons in deeper as his crushing weight pressed down upon Tar-Medine's chest.
Jon, with a blade of fire in one hand and a hammer radiating an unearthly chill in the other, warped high into the air over the brawl.
Wait for it…
Sheep saw through Jon's eyes what was coming, and moved aside at jut the right moment. Jon sailed down past him and sank Blackfyre into the Balrog's molten heart until only the hilt stuck out. Tar-Medine shrieked as Jon raised the Fist up with one hand and called down a new bolt lightning, feeding it down through himself and into Blackfyre.
A flash of diamond white light erupted from within Tar-Medine's chest as he gave one last cry…and then fell limp and silent. The volcanic glow within dulled and faded out of sight, leaving only a hint of light in his eyes as he drew feeble breaths.
Jon pulled Blackfyre free. "Your rule is at an end." He declared, levelling the blade at the Balrog's throat. "And it was not short enough."
A cough turned into a rattling chuckle. "You…cannot conceive…of what you've…done today."
Slowly raising his head to meet Jon, the Balrog gurgled as a thick, oily substance spilled out of his mouth. "You…are one…" His eyes lit with malicious glee. "But we…are many…and the others…will avenge me."
"There are more of you?" Jon demanded.
"There always have been." The Stranger answered. "I don't know how I know but…seven. There are seven of his ilk. No more, but soon to be one less."
"Ah…there is a face I remember." Tar-Medine sneered. "Glâneidiron…look at how unkind death has been to you?"
Jon took a step back. "You…see him?" He asked.
"You know of me?" The Stranger demanded. "Speak, and we shall ease your passing!"
"So you do not remember…just as was promised." Tar-Medine let his head fall back against the ground and laughed weakly. "I should have guessed…this would be your work. You…never were satisfied…with your place."
"Damn you, speak plainly!" The Stranger roared. "Who am I?!"
"You…are the Old One's most devoted servant…and most treasured pet. And just like a rabid dog, you were put down for biting your master's hand. But he still possesses you, in life and death." Tar-Medine spat out a globule of the thick sludge. "I only wish…that I could be there to see it. When you remember who you are…and when your precious vessel rejects you for it."
The Balrog let out another wheezing laugh as the light faded from his eyes…and then fell deathly still, a blackened carcass bereft of life and warmth.
Why doesn't this feel like a victory? Jon asked himself as Sheep raised his head and unleashed a victorious cry which was picked up by hundreds of other voices which drew closer.
Jon look to find a crowd of men and Orcs massing around the carcass.
"Tar-Medine is dead!" Grublik-Four Fingers hooted. "Let all of Skane hear this!"
"I knew you would do it, my lord!" Dûsh the Obsessed crooned.
"This means one thing…" Tarak Limp-Leg, hunched over in his saddle, looked up at Jon. "Hail Jon Snow! Hail Barhd'gul! Lord of Morgund'dur!"
"HAIL!" The Orcs chanted. "BARHD'GUL! HAIL! BARHD'GUL!"
This chant was taken up by men as well. A few at first, but soon men from Skane, Skagos, the North and Beyond the Wall were included and threw in their own variations.
"BARHD'GUL!"
"WHITE WOLF!"
"DEMONSBANE!"
But there was one name called out among it all which drew his attention.
"YOU CRAZY BASTARD!"
When Jon hopped down he was enveloped in a crushing hug by Tormund. "You!" The man growled. "You're the craziest man I've ever met, Snow!" He then laughed and set him down. "And the only one I've seen kill a real fuckin' demon!"
"I had help!" Jon nodded to Sheep, whose snout was being hugged by Rhae. "Lots of it!"
"Aye, true. Couldn't 'be done it without me." Tormund chuckled and turned to the crowd. "Oi! Quiet down! Hey! SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
Jon raised one hand and the crowd fell silent while every Orc fell to one knee.
"…my friends, this victory today is not mine alone." Jon said. "It belongs to you, who fought and survived. It belongs to our allies who fought and died. But most of all…it belongs to the Orcs of Morgund'dur, who are now free of Tar-Medine's tyranny. I did not come here to conquer and rule, but to liberate."
He beckoned his Captains forward. "Takra Limp-Leg, Grublik Four-Fingers and Dûsh the Obsessed. You and your warriors fought valiantly under my command. If you would agree to help forge a lasting peace with the people of Skane, I would bequeath to you what remains of Morgund'dur and its surroundings lands. They have seen scarred by Tar-Medine's rampage, but I believe that there can still be a future for your people here."
"Peace with the spiderlings in return for a wrecked fort and a scorched forest?" Takra rubbed his jaw. "…Eh, I've heard worse deals. Besides, maybe without that flamin' fuck to pit us against one another for his favour, we can stop worrying about getting knived in the night and poisoned in the day."
"We could do even more than that!" Grublik rubbed his palms together. "I've always had plans. Ideas! But he'd never approve of them. I want to tinker, I want to build, I want to invent! But most of all…I want off this island! My whole life this is all I've ever known! I want to see what's beyond these shores!"
"Ooh, I'd like that. I'd like that a lot." Dûsh grinned. "I'm not one for a…domestic lifestyle, you could say. But there are always wars out there." He drew a knife and juggled it in his hand. "And plenty of throats that need cutting. I'm sure you could think of some for me to do my work on, boss."
The thought of bringing the Orcs off of Skane…was not a comforting one. Many would be terrified and revolted by them, yet…if they could be made to follow…
"We can discuss that after we've seen to the dead and wounded." Jon said. "Takra…I've not heard you speak of wishing to leave."
"Because I don't, m'lord." Takra shook his head and was helped down from his Cazarin. "I'm older than these two. Older than most of this lot and any other Orc you'd find on this spit of rock and weeds. If you want someone to keep the peace and make something of this land, then I'll gladly serve as Overlord in your name." He bowed his head. "Many of the Captains were slain in battle. I can appoint new ones who will keep control of whoever is left. And if more of our kind were to arrive here from where ever we're brought, I'll see that they're informed of the…change in leadership."
The Stranger appeared. "He is a good choice. Reliable, experienced and with only so much ambition as one ought to have."
"Very well then." Jon nodded. "Takra Limp-Leg, I hereby name you the Lord of Mrgund'dur, to rule it in the name of both myself and King Stannis Baratheon. Rule well."
Takra smirked and held a fist to his chest. "By your command, Barhd'gul."
The Orcs murmured his title with the same reverence as before. Towards the back, Jon could see the red clad figure of Melisandre looking at him with pride in her eyes, like Catelyn Stark whenever Robb performed well at anything. But Jon felt anything but flattered by this, remembering that there was one last detail to be sorted out.
After getting the warriors to disperse, he went to where Rhae and the hooded woman were looking over Sheep, the former acting like a distressed mother hen while the latter simply rubbing the dragon's snout. Sheep was nuzzling her affectionately as best as a dragon of his size could manage without knocking her over, causing her to laugh and reciprocate.
"It's good to see you again, old friend." She said lovingly before switching to a flat tone. "What do you want, boy?"
"I have one last matter which must be addressed." Jon told her. "I need the ring."
"After what it did to you before? You really are crazy." The woman snorted.
"Snow, I'll cut off both your arms this time if you wear that fucking thing." Tormund threatened.
"I won't wear it…but I made a deal with Melisandre, and I must see it through." Jon informed them.
"No." Ser Davos shoved his way past Tormund. "You can't give it to her! She's already dangerous enough!"
"Ser Davos." Jon placed a hand on the knight's shoulder. "This is something I need to do. I swear to you…what happened in the Pit won't repeat itself. I won't let it. Not with me, or her or anyone Loe. I need you all to trust me on this."
"Well I don't, not with this." The old woman stated plainly. "And I see no reason to change that."
"Daemon asked me to give you and Rhae his love." Jon told her.
He saw her tense up under her cloak. With a shaking hand, she drew back her hood to reveal a head of long, grey hair and dark eyes which stared at him. "…what did you say?"
"…your son sends his love." Jon repeated, holding out Blackfyre and its scabbard for her to take back. "He told me about the Ring, about Tar-Medine…but he hadn't known that you still live. When he found out…he told me he knew what needed to be done and bade me to tell you on his behalf."
The woman's eyes watered. "…because he knew he'd never get the chance to say it himself." She lowered her head and wiped one sleeve across her face and clutched Blackfyre to her chest. "Daemon, you fool…my precious little fool boy…" She sucked in a breath. "…do you promise that this thing will never harm another soul?"
"I do." Jon nodded.
"Say it."
"I will not allow this ring to cause harm to another innocent."
"Good." She tore the pouch off her belt and tossed it to him.
"For gods' sakes, Jo, you can't uphold that!" Ser Davos argued. "As long as that thing exists it will corrupt anyone who sets eyes on it!"
"I know." Jon stepped past the former smuggler. "Wait for me here."
He stopped before Melisandre and her Branded.
"Have you something for me, Jon Snow?" The Red Priestess asked with a knowing smile.
"I have what you want." Jon looked to the Branded.
"Our deal stands." She reminded him. "I shall release my hold on him after you part with the enemy's gift."
"Yes…that is our deal." Jon nodded, opening the pouch. "I thought it to be a small sacrifice to save the lives of innocent men..." he tipped the ring out of the pouch and into his palm.
The whispers came again, calling to him.
Take it. They told him. She cannot stop you! Take it, and strike her down!
Jon imagined the same gust of cool air that had struck his face atop the wall. He saw the green lands of the Gift stretching out before him, the frozen lands beyond the Wall behind him…and Ygritte by his side. The happiest moment in his life, when being a bastard or a deserter meant nothing to him for several minutes with his love at his side and the open world before them, filled with possibility.
You know nothing, Jon Snow.
Jon opened his eyes and the ring was still there, but nought else had changed.
"…but that was before I knew the power it holds." He unhooked the Fist of the First Men from his belt.
"You swore ahead oath." Melisandre said. "The lives of these men will remain mine to do with as I please if you renege."
"They will." Jon agreed, and dropped the ring to the ground. "For all of my life, I only ever wanted to be seen as honourable as my father. For people to hear my name and know that my word could be trusted, that my actions would serve a greater purpose than advancing myself. And yet…my father was executed as a traitor for adhering to honour, my brother discarded his when it did not suit him and clung to it when it did until it cost him his life, his wife, his child, his mother and his crown. They both forgot that honour is only what should be, not what is…or what must be."
He jabbed a finger towards the ring. "And this thing must be destroyed. It will bend minds and hearts of any near it into coveting it at any cost. Kin will slay kin, servant will betray lord and King, wars will be fought and thousands will suffer and die so that one or another may bear it. If the lives of these men and my honour are the price to pay for keeping it from reaping greater destruction, then so be it!"
Jon brought the Fist down. Wood crumpled and and something shrieked as a mist escaped from beneath the hammer's head, rising upwards only to dissipate into nothing. When Jon removed the Fist he saw the crushed remains of the weirwood ring slowly rotting away until nothing was left of it.
Melisandre's face was unreadable, and Jon spared her not a moment more before storming back towards his companions. Davos had hung off to the side and listened to the exchange up to this point, only choosing now to step in.
"Did your god tell you that would happen?" He asked.
She raised one hand, and the marks upon her Branded flowed a violent red. Ser Davos looked away, ashamed for any satisfaction he'd felt a moment ago. But when he looked again he saw them all still standing…with their faces unmarred. The sailors and soldiers looked around until one saw Davos.
"Ser Davos? How…where are we?" The man asked.
"You don't remember?" Davos replied.
"I was…on the ship, the Steffon." Another sailor recounted. "…how long ago was that?"
Davos rounded on the priestess said she walked away. "What is this?" He asked. "Is this another part of your game?"
"It is no game, Ser Davos. My lord's will was quite clear." She stopped and looked back at him. "I told you before that I had been chastised for my blind zealotry. But he told me something of much greater value: three signs of his chosen champion. The first would be his birth following the bleeding star and the gathering darkness…or rather, his rebirth. The second, like before, would be his awakening of dragons from stone."
She looked towards the Sheepstealer. "Did you know that Skane, in the old tongue, means 'pebble'? Or that legends of the stoneborn speak of Father Skagos and Mother Skane once being a single island?"
"And the third?" Davos asked, waiting to hear what detail she'd tailored to fit her agenda.
"…that he would sacrifice honour for duty, and prove that he is the one who shall lead against the forces of the Great Other." Melisandre stared at the black clad form issuing orders to man and Orc alike. "I was wrong, Ser Davos; wrong about Stannis, about everything. Jon Snow is Azor Ahai reborn. He is the Prince-who-is-Promised."
Xxx
Taken from a Sindarin dictionary
Tol = Island or Isle
Dìnen = Silent
Tol Dìnen = Silent Isle
Glâneidiron: Taken from the Sindarin word for bright and the non-canon Sindarin word for usurper or supplanter (as it seems no canon definition exists, though I've been wrong before. PM me you have it.)
Clarification: If anybody feels that Tar-Medine's decision to abandon killing Jon to kill Grandison was unwarranted, consider his thought-process at the time. He knew that Jon would likely dodge or counter with the Fist as he'd done multiple times before, and that at best Jon unleash its powers to continue keeping Sheep secure. So when he saw how Jon fretted over Ser Narbert and his men, he basically thought the following.
'Alright, either option A: he follows after me and abandons the dragon, my army kills the dragon and I finish him off myself. Or option B: he stays there, my army keeps him busy, and I get the pleasure of forcing him to watch his comrades die…and THEN I go back to kill the dragon anyways. That'll leave me plenty of spare time to go get my ring back without a Gravewalker or dragon to get in the way. Barring some deus ex machina pageantry bull shit, my odds of winning are good either way! This whole morning has been the worst for me in a long time, but maybe I can make it end on a high note and finally get that Kingdom I've always wanted up and running! Yep, it's a good day to be me.'
And let's face it…Lord of the Rings villains are always undone by their own arrogance much like Game of Thrones 'heroes' as we perceive them are undone by trying to do the right thing.