Jon tensed at Brynden's proclamation, backing away. He cursed his decision to allow the Children his arms, now he'd only the Thu'um to use as defense, and his throat was still in a poor way.
"How?" He demanded, fists clenched.
As if unconcerned by the man before him, Brynden chuckled, the roots that concealed his mangled remains returning to their positions, leaving the greenseer looking trapped once more. "The same way as you, I would imagine. She came to me."
"That is not what I meant!"
Brynden frowned, clicking his tongue. "More dragon than man, it appears. Little interest in the nuances of conversation."
"BRYNDEN!" Jon's paranoid rage was quick to grow. The translucent smoke of a soon-to-be-used Thu'um billowed from his mouth. The cavern shook with his anger, and the sounds of the Childrens fear echoed.
The albino ancient gave a sigh. "Answers cannot be given in a state of wroth, Jon Snow. Calm your spirit and ask your questions. You shall hear no lies from my person, but you shall hear nothing at all in this state."
It was a struggle to do. His Dovahsos was hard to hold back, especially in this circumstance. One sentence and Jon felt the grip of the world over his shoulders. Was Brynden of Tamriel?
Minutes passed, the mist of his mouth turning smaller and smaller, 'till none remained. Jon sat himself on a thick rot of weirwood, holding his head in his hands. During this time, a pair of roots made their way to Jon, a bowl of salt and a piece of bread in their tendrilled grasp. Genially, Jon dipped the bread into the salt and ate of it. Guest right was now proclaimed, and his fears fully removed.
"How did you become her Champion?"
Brynden hummed. "The Lady of Dreams and Nightmares is one whose power is subtle and hard to comprehend. Due to this, of the few that know of the daedra, secretive as they rightly are, fewer still know of her work. When I was a young man, my father sent me to Raventree Hall, the castle that my mother, Melissa Blackwood, once called home. There, I touched my first true weirwood, there I discovered my sight. It had been a thousand years since the last greenseer had been born amongst men, and my Mistress happened to have been watching our world at the time. Curious, she visited my dreams, questioned my judgements, and found her liking. The mouth of the heart tree opened, and her Orb was loose upon its tongue."
Jon mulled over the greenseer's words, nodding slowly. Brynden was not of Tamriel. Jon truly was a unique existence. "But how did you know of me?"
"My sight allows me glimpses into what may be, and when coupled with the Orb I can scry all involved, even should they be far from a weir. The Jon Snow I foresaw in the beginning was meant to be the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, later King in the North and rider to dragon. A great man he would be. I grew curious years after you were born, wanting to know what you were like now, so I searched for you, scryed you with the Orb, and yet you were hidden."
Brynden's one-eyed stare was hard. "To hide from the Orb should be impossible. The only time I was not able to see a person was in the case of my sister and lover, Shiera Seastar. I later learned she'd taken worship of the Lady of Whispers, her seductive and murderous nature appealing, and the Webspinner keeps her court selfishly. Only one of the Princes can hide a person from the Orb, and so I know you've taken to one."
"Mephal-"
"DO NOT!" Brynden shouted, the Children rushing into the room with bone and dragonglass weapons at the ready. Twig held Daedrend as if it were a sword. One of the other Children palmed Woe. Brynden hacked out a wheezing cough, struggled to regain his calm. "…Do not speak her name. Names have power, and the power of the Princes birthed this world. They will know. The Spinner especially, for each use of her name adds a string to her web."
He tapped at the root once more with his hands, looking at the Children with irritation. They felt his silent message, and scampered off, nervous. Only one remained, looking defiant. A female Child taller than Twig was holding a sword of smoke and steel. Dark Sister.
"…If that's the case," Jon slowly began, his eyes trailing from the sword back to Brynden, again and again. "Then why has the Huntmaster not taken to me yet? I spoke his name when I tamed my bear."
"The Father of Wargs cares little for the men of this world," wheezed Brynden, his outburst still harsh on his person. He shooed the last Child away, Dark Sister leaving with her. "They do not pray to him, nor do they hunt in his name. His name has been distorted, the Free Folk using it for their own young. Though those boys always die gruesomely for their unknown slight, it remains that speaking his name is oft safe. Certainly not smart, mind."
"But such things matter little in the now," Brynden said, looking at Jon speculatively, having noted his interest in the Valyrian steel sword. "Your own Prince, who would it be? The Pestilence, for your father, for the dragons that might spawn from you? The Glister Witch, for your future role against the living dead? The-"
"Night," Jon cut. If the names of the Princes were dangerous to speak, using their titles would be such as well. "The Night. I am Champion to Nocturnal."
Speaking those words aloud seemed to make the hovel grow darker, the shadows of the room warping around Jon's own shadow, a cold and dark hug that spoke of pride and punishment. This was the first time he'd verbally acknowledged his position regarding her in these past fifteen years.
"Unexpected," Brynden commented, white roots idly scratching at his chin as if they were his own hands. "That you were the follower of a Prince was my expectation, perhaps even a favored. Champion, though? And to the Night Mistress? You've not the build of her thieving subjects, nor the subtleness expected of such a station. I feared the Lord of Domination or the Prince of Plots held sway over you. This is welcome and more. Unexpected indeed…"
Jon knew this. He'd been a terrible Champion to Nocturnal, his loud and bumbling self going against much of her systems. And yet, she chose him. Whether it was for the sake of entertainment or something else, she chose him. She was the one to give him this second chance. He knew not what to do with it, but he was thankful all the same.
"Alas, we have been distracted." Brynden mused, nodding slightly. "You come to me as guest, and I have accepted you. You've ate of my bred and of my salt. What is it you wish?"
"Originally," Jon began. "I made to gain knowledge and Dark Sister. Uncle Aemon spoke that you knew the past, and I wished to relearn the secret of forging Valyrian steel. Now… Now I wish far more. Knowledge of this world, of those that worship the Princes, of the Children, of the Others, of the Valyrian's – I wish to know much and more that I do not yet know I wish."
"A tall order," Brynden frowned, looking out towards an opening where the night was plain to see. "A tall order indeed. On the 'morrow, as we break our fast, we shall speak. Now… Night is upon us, and in my old age I've need of sleep more than you. It has been an exciting day. Allow me my respite."
Jon nodded, he needed to sleep too. His day had been one of hard rides and crawling through tunnels. Speaking of rest had Jon into his own.
Twig returned then – Brynden must have summoned him. He held Jon's hand within his four-fingered claws and brought him into the tunnels, towards a clearing he'd not seen. The Children were there, staring at him in fear and curiosity and sadness, sitting on heavy leaves of red strewn along inlets of stone. A few were large enough to hold a man, and Twig brought Jon to one such firth.
His sleep was quick to take him.
A fog of blackness creeped along Jon's body, his skin turning paler than pale, his flesh falling into a painless heap, grinding and squishing into a sphere, mist pouring out.
From the darkness, a figure grew. A figure he knew well. The black fog turned liquid, bubbling into the form of a raven the size of a mammoth with wings stretched wide, purple slit eyes looking down balefully.
"My Mistress," Jon knelt. Tried to kneel. He could not move his body as he wished, could not feel it being truthful.
"You've claimed me," the raven said, voice feminine. It was wondrous and terrible all the same, just as the night itself was. "You called yourself Champion. As it is. As it should be."
"Years have I wished you to say such. To acknowledge such. I gifted you with power, I allowed you this life, and only now do you announce to the world what you are. My delight knows no bounds, Istin- No… Jon."
The ravens feathers fell through, and yet there was no featherless bird to behold. A voluptuous woman of crow-black hair and pale fair skin lay beneath the feathers, a robe of dark grey lace gilded in silver adorner her person.
"I am blessed by your coming."
"My kin know of you now, my child." Nocturnal announced. "They know that I have named Jon Snow my Champion. They do not know of your past, do not know you are Dragonborn, but they are ever watchful. A shadow is not meant to be seen."
She grabbed Jon's body, his mist-like form, and her hands bled a violet essence, his mist changing color to match, soon returning to his pale state, the smallest change in its coloration visible only to the Princes on high. Had he been able to feel, he would he screamed all throughout. The change she wrought upon him was not of the kind sort.
"I have returned your power through me, that and more. I hide you from their gaze, Jon Snow. I hide your actions from their hungry eyes. I hide your dreams from Vaermina's grip. You are mine. In doing this, their interest might further be piqued, but they shall not know where you be. Be clever, be quiet, be the night. Wear your allegiance to me as the honor it is."
"What of mine other Mistresses?" Jon asked. "What of Azura and Meridia."
A deep noise rumbled from her throat, both purr and growl. "Azura has gifted her Star anew to a mortal Champion bred of Nirn, your own second child. Be proud in your legacy. Meridia has hidden Dawnbreaker again, as she is wont to do. Call upon them as you wish, for your soul is no longer theirs to barter."
With that, she dropped him. His soul and flesh and person fell into the endless void that was her sphere, and Jon Snow knew nothing more.
He awoke with a startled scream, his voice echoing through the halls of the Children's home. Sweat bled down his brow, and Jon wiped it away with a panted breath. He stank of fear and confusion, stank of magic.
Jon knew this scent well. When Nocturnal first named him Champion, he'd been given her power, Shadowstalk. It held this scent as well, and in this second life he'd been born without.
But it felt stronger. More… He didn't know the words. There was something new about this, new and the same and seemingly more.
There would be time to experiment later, however. Now he was awake. Light filtered through the caves, small pocks of the sun blaring from the ceiling, intricate mirrors reflecting sunlight into the room.
Jon stood and stretched, falling to the floor to push his body upwards with his arms and legs. Then he left for the main cavern, where Children ate bowls of beef and broth. Garamun was here too, languidly chewing on a bloody bone.
In the morn, when the sun shone even in this cavern, Jon was able to truly see Brynden. Pale and skeletal, there was a scarred red blotch on the side of his neck and cheek. Leaves sprouted from his skull, mushrooms growing across his body, and dirt and dust thick in his hair. He'd half-morphed into the weirwood roots that surrounded him.
A Child gave Jon a bowl of his own and directed him to a gnarled stool of weir to Brynden's right. Jon took his seat and began to eat, and Brynden then spoke.
"I wish you a good morn, Jon." Rasped his elder. "Where would you like to begin?"
"Begin with what?" Jon asked, his brow furrowed as he chewed hard. The meat was gamey and rare, not to his preference.
"When last we spoke, I said I'd tell you as you wished. My fast has been broken already, and I've much time to spare. Ask what you wish to know, and I will tell tale."
"Valyrian steel," was Jon's quick response. He'd been curious of the stuff ever since Lord Eddard allowed him and Robb to look over Ice. Unbreakable steel that never lost an edge was certainly to his preference.
"Ah… Yes, we've a similar mind on the subject. The steel is a wonder all its own. Hm... We shall begin with its creation. To create Valyrian steel anew is no longer possible, I'm afraid. Mores the shame. It was crafted of obsidian and the heart of dragons, forge flames trickled in ground dragons' bones. The Prince of Pestilence brought dragons to this world, and so the molten steel need be quenched in his curse, waters infested in greyscale, giving it its rippling texture. The Valyrian's originally would craft their steel from their own fallen dragons, these arms and objects of vanity being their family pride. When they slew dragons of enemy families, often killing those enemy families as well, they made steel from those dragons and sold the wares as a final act of disrespect."
"Including Ice?" Jon asked, surprised. The history on how House Stark gained Ice was little known to the northern bastard. That it was bought was expected, but that the sellers sold it with such mindsets… Jon liked it little.
Brynden shook his head. "A story, if you will. Some five hundred years ago, Prince Artos Stark sailed to Valyria with a band of six heirs to his vassal houses, hoping to woo a woman of Valyrian coloring, for he found them beautiful. He was rebuffed by every household, as should be expected, for the Valyrian's found his lack of their features unworthy. Yet, in this time, he saved the life of the youngest son of the Monterys family, a middling assembly of dragonlords. The boy's elder brother had run afoul the Longaem family, a newer household of Valyrian nobility that had just one tame dragon, and they meant to kill the child in retaliation. For saving his son, Vaenar Monterys allowed Artos and his band to watch as he led his army against the Longaem's, killing them to the last and slaying their dragon. From this dragon were the seven Valyrian steel arms of the North made. Artos passed the weapons down to his friends, leaving the greatest of them as his own, and he named it Ice."
Jon hummed, kicking at a bone. This was a story he could appreciate, a tale that told of Ice's truth. He'd also not known that the North held seven Valyrian steel blades. Only Ice and Longclaw were made to Jon's knowledge.
His good humor turned foul soon, though. The making of Valyrian steel was truly lost. More than that, Valyrian steel was not even truly Valyrian steel. It was Daedric weaponry, tinged towards Peryite.
…But just because Valyrian steel was lost to Jon did not mean Daedric arms were so. Nocturnal herself said that the Others were originally denizens of Cold Harbor, daedra in their own right. Perhaps, when armed properly and prepped accordingly, he'd make way to the Lands of Always Winter and test his theory.
"What of the reforging process? I know the smiths of Qohor claim to know the spells involved-"
"Hogwash," spat the greenseer. "Lies to the same. To reforge Valyrian steel is the same as reforging anything else. All that matters is that the forge flame holds ground dragonbone, and that the steel is quenched once more in greyscale water. Valyrian steel cannot melt unless dragons are involved, and it cannot be cooled without greyscale."
"Huh." Useful to know. "I know the forge well. Perhaps I might make a blade my own from trinkets and such."
"You intend to take Dark Sister for your own, yes?"
"I do." There was no point in lying about such a thing. To wield Valyrian steel was a status of strength and nobility, and while Jon couldn't give a rats ass about being noble, he did want his strength known.
"And you wish the rest of my steel as well, I would assume."
"You've more?" If there was enough, Jon could forge a second blade from Daedrend and whatever else was left.
Brynden nodded. "If Aemon gave you my knife, he made tell of where I took it. There were other Valyrian pieces in the vaults of Dragonstone that I claimed for mine own. An amulet, a brooch, three rings, two maester's chain-links, and a comb once presented to Shiera by an Essosi suitor. My youthful obsession was… unbidden, as it were."
As he said this, a Child came into view. It was the same Child that held Dark Sister last night, the female that had proven stubborn. Dark Sister was in her hand once more. Almost as long as a longsword and half as wide, long and slender and black, its edge glimmered even in the faint tunnel light. Rubies were embedded into its pommel, white swirls lapping against its sharp edge. It was small enough to be held in one hand, but large enough to hack off a head.
"I cannot use my sword, and the Children like fighting little. She shall be your test," said Brynden. "Acorn she is called. Acorn will run, and you will seek. Catch her, and the blade is yours. Chase for as long as you are able, and continue again and again until you've gained your keep."
Acorn looked sad. All of the Children looked sad, but she was more than that. Sad and smug, somehow. "No man can keep me, nor hold or catch me. The earth is my keep, and my shield. Say what words you wish and let us begin this song."
Jon finished his bowl, slurping the last of his broth, and stood. Acorn was certainly small, small and quick and likely hard to catch. Within these tunnels, hidden and numerous as they are, it would be hard indeed to find her.
"I've three words."
Three words. Words that would allow him to rip Dark Sister from her grasp in that moment, words that would have him champion before the challenge began.
Words of power.
"Zun… Haal Viik!"
A misty blob encompassed the room, all within its path being hit. From her hands, Dark Sister was ripped, a field of energy keeping her from her prize. All of the Children lost their arms. Acorn's green-gold eyes went wide, as did all in the clearing, and Jon moved quick. He dove for the sword, his haste bringing him to pain as he held it not by the grip but by the edge, a small stream of blood flowing from his left hand. That would scar more than like.
"Wh- What was that?!" Acorn asked, shaken.
Jon flipped Dark Sister into his palm, laughing brightly. Garamun cheered from the side. "The True Tongue is not the only language of change, Child."
Weapon. Hand. Defeat. The Thu'um of Disarm was just as its name state, a shout that allowed its user to rip weapons from an opponent's grasp.
Brynden laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed, a cackle like that of a hyena, wheezing and hoarse though his age and position showed. He struggled to laugh and struggled to cry, and yet laugh and cry he did.
"I wished it so, that the Mistress of Mystery gave you power beyond ken." He wheezed. "That she'd trust you well. That Westeros would survive the Long Night once more. It seem my wish were made true."
His laugh ceased, his visage serious. "Take Dark Sister and mete out a legacy with her. Yet if you wish my other trinkets, with to create a new blade of Valyrian make using their steel, I have a task."
"Name it and it will be done," Jon announced, sheathing Dark Sister in that which once held Woe. Jon would happily do whatever it was that Brynden Rivers asked for the chance at another blade of Dark Sister's caliber.
"The Army of the Dead is soon to march, intent to fill their ranks with Free Folk," proclaimed the greenseer. "The ripples you bring to the future shall not change this fact. Take the Free Folk, the Giants, the Children. Take them from the True North, away from where they be thralls, and my wares are yours."
"That's impossible," proclaimed the Snow. "Wildlings listen to nobody. Giants are long lost. And the Children, they've to take care of you."
"The Children are barely three score, they've more important things to do than care for me," said Brynden. "I do not expect you to do this within a fortnight, time it will take and time it will need. When that time comes, all but a few Children will join you."
"And the Wildlings? They listen to no man. And the Giants are no more."
"The Giants are more numerous than the Children," said the greenseer. "They are strong and soft the same. Be clear and kind and they will take to you."
"And the Free Folk... You speak another falsehood." He grinned devilishly, a disturbing sight. Blackened teeth rot with mushrooms. "They do listen to man, one in particular. One man above all others."
Jon snorted. "And who'd that be?"
"A King."
Normally, it'd take a while before this got out. But then the S8 trailer dropped and most of my day was spent on the phone waiting for operators to pick up the line, so…
Inspiration and boredom hit all at once. It's a smaller chapter.
Not a ton happened in this chapter. Jon got a fancy new sword, regained a bit of power, and learned how to make Valyrian steel. I know some people are going to be disappointed that he's not gonna pop out works of Valyrian steel like clockwork, but ah well. I like the mystery behind the stuff, the idea that its creation is well and truly behind us. But he can reforge the stuff. That'll make him a well wanted man all on its own.
And now, we've got Brynden trying to egg him on to be king. King-Beyond-the-Wall that is. Mance Raydar isn't there yet, but he's almost at that point. How things'll go down- I dunno. Kinda just spat this chapter out and decided to roll with it.
I've got a quasi-understanding of how this story is gonna go.