A/N: Three chapters are more than enough to post warnings of spoilers. Besides, most of the story is original concepts from this point. I hope everyone is enjoying this so far. I have no way of knowing…*insert sad, dramatic music* Alas, so many readers, but nary a review in sight. On a related note, however: *grabs DementedDementor101 and Gloriana the Younger and smooches* Thank you for being the first followers of this story! *Also smooches CasperGhost* That was for being the first to favorite this. I was beginning to think that maybe I was butchering things so badly that people were just running off screaming "THE HUMANITY!" Thank you, thank you, and thank you!
Title: Winter Is Coming
Rating: T, may increase to M for bloodshed and general GoT-style awesomeness
Genre: Drama/Hurt/Comfort/Betrayal/Adventure/Action…basic ally a bit of everything
Category A: Rise of the Guardians
Category B: A Song of Ice & Fire/Game of Thrones
Characters: Jon Snow, Jack Frost, Ghost, Daenerys, probably heavy mentions of Arya because she's fabulous, appearances by assorted other characters from both fandoms.
Summary: The Stark words: "Winter is coming". But Jon wasn't a Stark. He was a Snow. A bastard. A brother to the heirs of Winterfell and a Brother of the Watch. He was a warg and a Wildling. And, unknown, but most important, he was Winter's champion.
Disclaimer: Sadly, I am not the genius behind A Song of Ice & Fire, nor one of the ones behind Rise of the Guardians. All I own is my own insanity, which I claim proudly and fully blame for this convoluted mess.
-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-
Chapter Four: JON
It was dark the next time he awoke. The fire that had blazed in the center of the hollow had smoldered down to embers; still warm, but not as brilliant. There was a heavy smell of ash in the air that told of the many logs that had given their lives for his. Though he couldn't see much, Jon knew he was alone in the warm space. Neither Ghost nor the strange "Jack Frost" were anywhere in sight.
Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting position. With no looming sense of fear or danger, his body decided to protest the movement, informing him how stiff his bones felt and how weak his muscles were. Slowly, painfully, he remembered how close to death he had been. Frantic fingers patted over his person, feeling the rips in his clothing, yet finding only the faintest traces of injury beneath them. Many days must have passed.
A sliver of argent light crept cautiously into the gloom, peeking through the opening of the hollow. Moonlight, he realized. It must have been hidden by the clouds. Jon pushed himself to his feet, taking easy, shuffling steps to the lopsided opening and out into the wintery world. Fresh snow crunched beneath his boots, the only sound in the sleeping world. The stillness was so deep and complete; he knew he was beyond the Wall. It felt strangely right. Almost like home.
"Welcome back to the living, Jon Snow."
He started at the voice, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there and casting his gaze around. All around him the forest stretched endlessly, white on white, sprinkled sparsely with the black coarseness of pines. Nothing stirred or breathed, not even the wind. There was only he and the smiling moon.
"Up. Why does no one ever look up?" It was a lament, but Jon obliged it, raising his eyes to meet the unnerving gaze of Jack. "'Death comes from above.' Is that not what they say?"
Jon had never heard such a phrase, so he shrugged, wincing as the motion pulled at his healing wounds. The words seemed strangely ominous coming from someone who claimed no ill will.
"Or maybe they don't here? I can't remember."
Now Jon was confused. He'd never been particularly good at riddles. Jack seemed to be nothing but. It didn't help that he was woozy and hungry. "You make no sense, Jack Frost."
The white-haired boy settled against the trunk of the tree he was perched in – a weirwood, Jon realized vaguely – and stretched his spindly legs out in front of him. Immediately, he seemed completely non-threatening. And very, very quiet. The only sound was the faint whistle of the wind through the bare branches. As it died, Jack spoke. "And you know nothing, Jon Snow."
"What?" The words caused a strange tugging sensation in his chest.
"According to the wind," Jack added with a laugh. "But I find that more amusing than knowing everything, no? To know something about everything, and maybe everything about something, would make one wise beyond measure, would it not?"
Again Jon shrugged, though this time it was more of a shuddering hunch as he massaged his temples. He was in no shape to be listening to someone talk in circles. It was more frustrating than any maester's lessons and more confusing than any of Old Nan's impossible (or not-so-impossible, now that he knew better) stories. And, he realized with a frown, it got him no closer to knowing more about this Jack Frost, whom he still did not fully trust. Grumping to himself, he flopped in the snow, propping himself against the weirwood. "Who are you?"
"I am Jack Frost, as I told you. Ask the question you really want answered; I will not lie."
Jon hesitated, staring out into the endless white. "What are you?"
"Many things. I am a Guardian, chosen by the moon. I am the keeper of Fun. I am a brother of bond and a brother of blood. I am a prince and a vagrant; a knight and a knave. I am a son of the Overland line-"
"Then you are a bastard too," Jon interrupted. He'd never heard of the Overland family, but there was much he didn't know about wildlings (and if Jack had brought him beyond the Wall, and – like he claimed - was not a white-walker, it stood to reason he was a wildling). He already knew they weren't as barbaric as people believed. They didn't bow to a king, but they did respect longstanding families. Maybe they had their own bastard names; if so, Frost would be fitting.
There was the sound of wood striking wood and a snowdrift landed on his head. He looked up to see Jack several branches lower than he had been (though there'd been no sounds of movement) peering at him through slightly narrowed eyes. "I'm better mannered than you," the ghostly boy added with a hint of venom and more than a hint of entertainment. "Bunny will find that amusing. But no, Jon Snow, I am not baseborn. I simply am. I would advise you to return to the shelter the weirwood made for you. I am bringing in a storm."
"You're bringing a storm? Are you a sorcerer?" With all he had seen since joining the Watch, Jon would not doubt anything.
Jack sighed, pacing along his branch, his staff slung across his shoulders. Jon noticed that he wore no shoes or wrappings to shield his feet from the cold. "What are your words, Jon Snow?"
Words? Jon frowned, brown knitting together. "Night gathers, and now my watch-" He stopped as Jack twisted around, a frown on his unnaturally pale face.
"Your words, I said. Not the Watch's words."
Jon just stared dumbly, confusion obvious on his face. The oath was the only words; he had no others. Jack crouched down, staring at him intently, head cocked to the side. When it became clear that he had no answer, he dropped his gaze and dropped out of the tree. Instinctually, Jon tried to scramble to his feet to break the other man's fall, but before he could rise, a gust of wind roared between the trees and Jack flew – flew – around the weirwood. Flurries of snow marked his trail.
"You should be better prepared, Jon Stark. My arrival cannot wait any longer." Without waiting for an answer or his words to sink in, the pale boy disappeared into the trees, the wind pushing him south. Snow fell heavier, layering another blanket upon the ground.
Jon watched him vanish, eyes wide and muscles tensed. He'd called him "Stark". Warmth materialized beneath his fingers, marking Ghost's silent return, and he gripped the direwolf's ruff; more to confirm that he – and therefore, everything else – was real. "Winter," he murmured, allowing a stray breeze to push him back into the warm hollow beneath the weirwood. "Winter has come."
-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-
A/N: If my opening author's note wasn't enough of a hint, reviews are welcome. I don't enjoy asking for them, as a general rule, but that doesn't mean I don't like them. Especially when dealing with a source as grand and epic as GoT. So, please, somebody, anybody, leave me a review. Even if it's a flaming rant about how I am a butcher and should not make any further attempts to write in the style of one George R. R. Martin (though I hope nobody thinks that way).