The Sword of the Morning

One moment, Gerold was fine. The next, not so much. Even after running at distant man with none of the technique he'd drilled into his brothers, with his arms flailing and his shattered leg shaking, his sword wobbling in his loosely grasping hand and his breaths being forced out in uneven gasps, Arthur wasn't particularly worried for him—he was the veteran of a thousand battles, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and it would take more than some unwashed barbarian from the far north to get the better of him.

And then he fell.

It happened in an instant. His sword snapped and fallen out of reach, and his white cloak slowly blossoming crimson, Ser Gerold sank to his knees before his head plummeted into the ground as if he were no worse off than a man who'd had one too many at the tavern.

Arthur knew better. He'd witnessed wounds like these before and could see them for the death sentence they were. Despite this he stood frozen, praying that Gerold might miraculously rise, even as the figure moved forward coming ever closer to their group. His brother was gone, and Arthur had done nothing to stop it.

'Form up!' The young Stark had no such fault, however. His was the voice of a commander, and Arthur, ever the loyal knight, followed the order without hesitation. 'Lyanna! Aegon! Oswell! Run back to the camp. Tell them what's happening!' They ran without a word of disagreement, although Arthur could see Lyanna looking her nephew with a pained expression as she began to move. She'd failed her family enough, Arthur knew, and was reluctant to do so again. 'Move in tightly! Don't let the fucker get between us!'

Shoulder to shoulder with Oberyn and Robb, Dawn in hand, the Sword of the Morning felt alive for the first time since facing off with the Kingswood Brotherhood all those years ago. Harrenhal had been naught more than children play-fighting with sticks and Dorne had been little more than the final spasm of an already-dead body. They were unworthy knights who'd been doomed from the start, and Arthur found it oddly fitting that the finest sword in the Seven Kingdoms had been felled by a frog-eater with a dagger, even if it had been Ned Stark to strike the final blow. This was a real fight, and he was near ecstatic to feel his heart beating out of his chest for the first time since crossing blades with the Smiling Knight.

By now, the man—no, the creature—that had killed Gerold was close enough for Arthur to truly see it, not appearing as a Night's Watchman nor a wildling, but something altogether worse. He was reminded of his father's stories at Starfall—theirs was the blood of the first men, and as such they had been told of their ancestors during the long night; how they'd travelled through Westeros to the last frontier in the North, how they'd fought alongside all the men of the continent against the oncoming storm—how even in the darkest moments, the Daynes had always shown that the dawn was coming.

Ser Arthur Dayne realised he was looking at one of the Others.

It was a hellish sight to behold. Cracked white skin resembling unbroken snow stretched tight over a skeletal frame, and hair, wispy and white, looking like scarce more than steam evaporating from the skull, with long fingers gripping the white shaft of a short spear, tipped with a cruel-looking icicle for a point. It was the eyes, however, that gave him pause. They were not the eyes of a mortal creature that bled and could be killed, but of a predator on the prowl, one which had already killed and would readily do so again the first opportunity it received.

Said opportunity came barely a moment after the thought formed. With flawless technique, the Other thrust its spear at Arthur, with Dawn deflecting it at the last second, the star-forged blade holding up far better than the snapped steel lying next to the corpse of the Lord Commander and remaining in one piece, even as it let of a horrific screech against the ice of the spear. Unfortunately, it appeared to be faring better than any other steel; the Stark boy's sword had shattered against the creature's neck, and Ser Lyonel was now wrestling with a hilt, the blade gripped painlessly in the beast's hand before it headbutted the knight with such force that he was sent immediately to the ground. The creature, engaged by Oberyn's flurry of blows, gave Robb a swift kick to the chest, and the young wolf went crashing into a nearby tree, his body lying prone in the snow.

They were now two against one, but that did naught for their chances; the two famed warriors were no more effective than children attacking a dummy with sticks, as the Other parried and dodged, moving at such a speed that Arthur felt he was moving in slow motion.

And then Oberyn was out of the fight, as the creature clubbed him in the head with the butt of its spear; the prince of Dorne sprawled to the ground, his breaths shallow but steady.

Thank the Gods, Arthur thought. He might be a prick, but he's a damn good fighter, and we'll need men like him if we're to fight any more of these nightmares.

His relief was interrupted almost immediately when Dawn was sent flying from his hands, the milky blade almost imperceptible in the frozen ground.

Fuck.

The creature did not attack immediately. Maybe it was more human than he'd given it credit for, relishing the moment of realising that its opponent was at its mercy and not merely killing him in the heat of the moment. And it was that sadism that saved Arthur.

The Other stood before him, the tip of its spear resting an inch from his throat. Arthur was going to die—that much was obvious, and there was no point in avoiding that. After all, he'd died before, and it wasn't really such a big deal the second time around.

And then he blinked, and the creature was gone, leaving only a pile of frost and a panting Robb Stark in its wake, Dawn clasped tightly in his shaking hands.

'W-what,' the young northerner stammered, staring at Arthur with wide eyes. He swallowed. 'What the fuck was that?'

By now, Lyonel was on his feet again, wincing as he held his bloody nose between his forefinger and thumb, helping up the red viper with his free hand. 'I hate to spoil the mood, boys, but…' he pointed off into the distance, where staggering human forms could be seen ambling towards them, appearing to gradually pick up speed in their approach. '…I'm not sure we're done just yet.'

Brandon

'It was an Other. I'd stake my life on it.'

'Are you sure it wasn't a grumpkin, sister? Or maybe a snark? Oh, I know! It was one of the children of the fore—Ow!' Brandon rubbed his arm where his sister had punched it a moment before.

'I'm serious, Bran.'

That, for Brandon, was the strangest thing. His sister was serious, not crazed in the slightest, but rather completely rational with Whent and the Targaryen she'd been with seemingly the exact same.

'It had blue eyes and white skin and Ser Hightower's sword did nothing. It snapped against his skin and the Other wasn't even slowed down.'

Brandon looked at the others. 'Is this true?'

They said nothing, merely nodding.

'There was a deserter.' Ned spoke at last. 'Before Robert came to Winterfell. Benjen spoke highly of him, saying he'd been a good brother, loyal to his oaths. Then his ranging party died beyond the wall, and he was next seen hiding in a barn a mile south of Winter Town. He too spoke of the others. I thought him to be crazy and executed him. He was lying, I was sure of it.'

Around the camp, all were staring at Brandon's brother, as if he'd make some unforgivable mistake in ignoring the ravings of a madman. No-one said anything, but it could all be seen on their expressions; judging him, as though they would have acted any differently.

'Well, you couldn't have thought he was telling the truth.' Brandon broke the silence. 'They hadn't been seen been seen in eight thousand years. They were gone, for fuck's sake! How were you supposed to know that the man who was rambling like a lunatic was telling the truth?'

His brother smiled sadly at him but said nothing.

'The strangest thing was how it hunted us.' All eyes turned to Oswell. He spoke slowly, as if he were still formulating his argument even as he spoke. 'Our numbers had been fewer before we met up, all of us. There'd only been the four of us walking there, and then when we reached Arthur, Oberyn, and Gerold, they were asleep against a tree, unarmed and not at all ready to fight.'

'And?' Robert said, growing tired of the knight's musings.

'Had it perceived you as a threat, it would've picked you off, one by one. You'd hardly have posed a challenge; a bunch of half-starved outsiders fighting it in its own territory, on its own terms,' Aegon broke in before Oswell could continue with his theory. 'Therefore, I can only argue that it had something to prove. That would imply some kind of pride. If they have pride, they must have personalities. And if they have personalities and are not just the mindless killing machines of the legends,' he continued, a dangerous glint forming in his eye, 'then they must have weaknesses. If we can find these weaknesses, gentlemen, then—'

Lyanna coughed pointedly.

'My apologies, gentlemen and women. As I was saying. If we can find these weaknesses, then we can defeat them.'

No-one spoke. Until—

'Sorry, Aegon. Did you say that you intended to defeat them?' Orys asked. His voiced was tinged with incredulity.

'What else would we do?'

'I don't know, run, maybe? I spent a lifetime fighting the wars of others—I fought in your conquest, I fought those fuckers in Dorne, I lost my fucking hand! I died! I love you as a brother, Aegon, but I've fought enough for my lifetime, so now I've been given another chance why should I keep fighting, and not just fuck off to Essos to live in peace?'

'By all means, leave. From what we've heard I certainly would not blame you. Just answer me one question.' Aegon's voice was steel—cold, sharp, resolute. 'Based on our present company, I'd wager good money that they—whoever they might be—brought back warriors, leaders, commanders. Those who could make a difference in battling this threat. What need would they have for a coward?' He looked at Orys, his eyes betraying nothing. 'Are you a coward, Orys?'

Orys said nothing in reply, but stood slowly and began to pace, his brow growing more furrowed and his cheeks even redder with every passing second.

'FUCK!' With an almighty shout, he punched the tree closest to him, again and again, pummelling it repeatedly until bark and blood were flying in equal measure, before dropping his fists and staring at Aegon with an equal mix of fury and grudging respect. 'No. I'm not.'

With that, he practically collapsed into the snow, sitting down as though nothing had happened to the confusion of all in his presence. All, but two.

'What the fuck just happened, Ned?' Brandon asked his brother under his breath, who had a wry grin on his face.

'Aegon used the oldest trick in the book for making a Baratheon do something he doesn't want to do—just call him a craven, or a woman, or something that implies he isn't quite the man he believes himself to be, and let him do the rest. I did it all the time at the Eyrie.'

Gods, his brother was a crafty fucker. Either that, or the Baratheons were truly that simple. Possibly both.

For a moment, being distracted from the fury of a stag and the threat of the Others, Brandon grinned. He was with his brother and sister for the first time since that damned tourney, he could feel the snow beneath his feet instead of the stone of the black cells, and he was free—truly free, from being the heir, from his betrothal, from the expectations of his father—for the first time in a long time. For a moment, life was good.

And then the others returned—Ned's lad and the tall Baratheon with two others in tow, running through the trees.

'They're coming!' the Baratheon—Lyonel, was it?—shouted breathlessly. 'They're close! We need to go!'

No words of protest left anyone's lips.

They ran, fast as they could.

It may have been hours, or it may have been minutes, Brandon frankly didn't have a clue. They ran in the direction they'd established as being South the night before. His heart was pounding and his lungs were burning and his legs were aching.

He didn't stop.

And then he saw it.

The Wall.

The Crow

Just as she'd foretold before Jon's untimely resurrection at the hands of the red priestess, they came thundering out of the haunted forest, a chaotic mass of bodies desperately seeking sanctuary from the evils behind them. They were thirteen in number, as had she'd also foretold. The fourteenth remained behind.

Jon had felt the cold steel of the daggers and then he'd felt nothing at all. The darkness had closed in while the cold winds wailed around him, and he felt the breath leave his body as his lifeblood stained the ground of Castle Black.

And then there was light, the pale shine of the moon reflecting off the scales of an onyx dragon positioned as though it was about to strike.

'It's just a statue.' The voice came from behind him, strong despite the shaking, wizened woman it belonged to, propped up on a mountain of pillows in a spacious bed. 'There'll be dragons, mind you, but not here, and not like this. But those are just statues.'

Dragonstone. It was Dragonstone—Maester Luwin had shown him an illustration when he was a boy, having asked about the exploits of Aemon the Dragon-Knight only to receive a lecture on the ancestral seat of house Targaryen as a response. Out the window, he could see the Narrow Sea, crashing against the foundations of the island that the castle inhabited as a storm raged above it.

'Gods, you're young. I never knew you'd be so young.'

Jon bristled. First he'd been stabbed by his brothers, now he was being patronised by some strange woman. He was ten and seven, for fuck's sake, a man grown.

'I'm sorry.' As a bastard, he'd learnt to stay courteous when confronted with a situation he didn't understand, especially in the presence of a noblewoman. After all, there was no point rushing into anything—he was already dead anyway, so what was the worst that could happen? 'Do I know you?'

'Know me? No. I'm long dead, I'm afraid. They called me Daenys when I was alive. Daenys Targaryen.'

The Dreamer? She'd been dead for centuries, although that didn't necessarily mean anything since death was clearly a relative term—he himself was dead, and he was still having a conversation. The woman clearly saw his confusion and chuckled, but broke off into a coughing fit, her body convulsing each time.

'Not to worry, boy. You'll not be joining me amongst the dead. Not yet, anyhow. You've much to do, much to do indeed. Time is short, however, so I'm afraid we'll have to dispense with pleasantries.

'The dead march on the wall. You've seen it, I've seen it, any of the gods you care to mention have seen it. They've also seen—pardon my language—just how fucked you are.'

'I don't understa—'

'Quiet, boy. As I said, time is short. In any case, your predicament has been noted, and aid is on the way.'

'Aid?'

'Are you deaf? Yes, aid. Help. Assistance. Whatever you wish to call it. Kings, warriors, leaders, who must fight what is coming, shoulder to shoulder against the coming darkness, or you are doomed.'

'Who?'

Her eyes seemed to glaze over. 'Your mother and your fathers, your brothers in blood and your brothers in arms, stags, dragons, wolves, the sun and the stars, the spear and the sword. The tower will fall, but the wall will not. Must not.' She looked at him, her eyes regaining focus. 'You have seen them? The Others?'

'Aye. Wait, what do you mean "fathers?"'

She ignored him. 'I asked you a question, child.'

'Aye. I've seen them. Now tell, me, what do you mean, "fathers?"'

Again, she ignored him.

'Then you know what comes.' She coughed again, and when she spoke once more she sounded more frail than she had previously. 'We don't have long. There'll be thirteen of them, the fourteenth making his grave in the far North. There's nothing that can be done for him. He'll have served his purpose in the end.' She looked out the window. 'The end is coming for me. But it need not come for everyone.

'You have a day. Look north, to the land of the ice and the trees.'

'Tell me. You spoke of my mother and "fathers". What did you mean!?' His voice had cracked and a tone of desperation had crept in. The thunder outside grew louder. 'Tell me!'

'The blood of the dragon is strong in you. As is that of the wolf. Fire and Ice.'

'What Do you mean!? Tell me!?'

A winter rose. A dragon's egg. A falling sword. Those were the last things he saw before—

He'd awoken, Davos and Melisandre stood over him.

'North.' He'd said nothing else.

A day had passed, just as she'd warned him it would. A day to deal with the traitors and the scum, now swinging in the icy wind of Castle Black. Then they'd arrived.

They'd clattered into the gate. Battering against it with all their might. It stood fast. But they were out of the way, and that was all Jon needed to see.

'Nock!' At his order, the brothers of the Night's Watch—few as they were—nocked their bows, arrowheads dipped in burning pitch.

'Draw!' In unison, hundreds of arrows were raised into the sky, ready to rain down hell from atop the wall.

The enemy, however, had not yet appeared. And then—

They burst forth, like water breaking through a broken dam. There were at least fifty of them, skeletal figures, dressed in the tattered remains of black cloaks and furs alike, all charging toward the newcomers in a bestial frenzy.

'Loose!' It was as if the sky was collapsing on them, fire and steel raining down upon them. They never stood a chance.

One remained. Before any Night's Watchman could redraw his bow, the creature lurched forward, its jaws ready to rip and tear and destroy anything in its path—a strategy that was ended with brutal efficiency in a single swing of the hammer one of them wielded.

The gates opened. There was no longer any reason not to open them, not after what Daenys had told him. They entered, battered and weary, receiving only stares from the sworn brothers surrounding them.

'Now,' Jon said calmly—despite feeling anything but calm, his heart hammering in his chest—as he walked towards the group. 'Would someone like to tell me just what in the name of the gods is going on?'

A man stepped forward—dirtied, bearded, but strangely familiar.

'Robb?'

A figure sat atop a skeletal horse and narrowed its eyes. It had failed. It would not do so again.

Robb

It was surreal to see his brother again like this.

'Next time I see you, you'll be dressed all in black,' Robb had said.

'It always was my colour,' Jon had replied. He hadn't been wrong—this wasn't the surly bastard of Winterfell, moping around under the watchful glare of Robb's mother that stood before him, but the leader of Westeros' last line of defence against the nightmares beyond the wall, his black cloak billowing in the wind as his hand rested on the hilt of a sword; he was a warrior, a leader, and—if what his father and aunt had told him was true—a king.

It still didn't make sense to Robb. He'd spent his life believing that Jon was his bastard brother, that his father had been disloyal, that his aunt had been kidnapped, and that the rebellion had been a tragic story of lost love. And then it had all been false, one instance of twisted truth after another, woven into a tangled web of deceit. His father had only ever loved his mother, his aunt had never loved Robert, and the rebellion was based on a lie.

And Jon was not his brother. That was what hurt the most.

But right now, walking through the gates into Castle Black, Robb found that he didn't care. Technicalities be damned, Jon Snow would always be his brother. He proceeded, pulling his best friend into a tight hug, all the questions Jon was asking him washing over him without any attempt at comprehension.

'Hello, Snow.' Robb released him, taking a good look at him as Jon stared incredulity at the spectre stood before him. 'Surprised to see me?'

'I…I'm not sure.' Jon looked confused, to be sure, but not altogether shocked.

Robb's brow furrowed.

'Pardon?'

After all, it wasn't every day that your brother rose from the grave. Even if he hadn't been dead, what in the name of the gods would he be doing north of the Wall with half his dead family, a trio of Valyrians, and an abundance of famed warriors, lords, and kings?

'I…I'm not sure how to explain. It's complicated.' With those words, Robb saw how tired his brother truly was, as if he had the world on his shoulders, ready to crash down at the first opportunity. 'I promise I'll explain all I can, but we should probably get you lot inside. We already seem to have an audience.'

He wasn't wrong—five score men (at the very least, Robb noted) were surrounding them, all armed with bows that looked as though they'd seen better days.

Jon continued. 'Follow Satin here. I'll find you something to eat and be with you soon.'

Robb moved to follow the man without another word, suddenly realising just how fatigued he was—he hadn't eaten in days, he hadn't slept a wink last night, and his body was still jumpy at the thought he might have to face another of those creatures. All noises faded and his legs felt like lead as he began to walk, putting momentous effort into pushing one leg in front of the other.

'Stark!'

Robb span around at the sudden noise to see his brother-turned-cousin grinning—tiredly, but grinning nonetheless—at him, just as he had when they'd been boys at Winterfell all that time ago.

'It's good to see you.'

Robb smiled back. 'You too brother.' He turned back around and carried on walking. 'You too.'

A/N:

So, here's another chapter, hope you're enjoying it so far.

I'm very lazy and cannot usually be arsed to proofread properly, so apologies for any mistakes or anything. In the same vein, I'm doing little to no research beyond A Wiki of Ice and Fire, leading to this unholy mix of book and show before you.

Gonna try leave it longer between updates so that I'm not rushing out chapters I'm unhappy with (which in hidsight is all of them so far).

Feel free to leave a review!

-Kinginthenorth1

Force Smuggler:Glad you like the premise. We'll definitely get more fallout from Robb in terms of Jon, his father, and aunt, but as I was writing Lyanna's story, it didn't feel right to shoehorn in Robb's opinions. In terms of Lyanna and Elia, I figured it made sense in hindsight, given that all the narratives we're usually given of Robert/Lyanna/Rhaegar/Elia rarely come from Lyanna herself. She was a naive child at the time (which a lot of people seem to overlook when writing her) and was desperate to escape her arranged marriage. Would she have realistically done that/felt that way? I don't know. I'm not GRRM.