Followers & reviewers as of 4/15/2013: DementedDementor101, Gloriana the Younger, CasperGhost, AlwaysGryffindor13, Darksnider05, harrylee94, & Rileyshima
Wouldn't it be great if, by the end of this fic, the above list takes up a page by itself? I think it would be fantastic.
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.
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Chapter Six: NORTH
It had been a long time since he had seen the effects of war, but as he looked across the ash-smothered field, North decided it had not been long enough. Another thousand years would not be long enough. Bodies littered the ground, too numerous and unimportant to have warranted burials. Instead, they were left to the scavengers; first to be stripped clean, and then to be picked to the bones. Despite his body being somehow returned to youth, North had never felt more like a tired old man.
There was a rustle of movement behind him and he spun around, raising his sabers. They lowered again as a horse emerged from the bramble; saddled, bridled, and flecked with blood. A warhorse, the man noted. "Tell me, my friend; what has happened here?" he asked, though his horse was rusty and his tongue tripped around some of the syllables.
The dappled behemoth raised his head, staring at North with the closest thing to surprise a horse's face could manage. "A great battle of the armies of the kings. Many men died. Many more fell to the wolves of the river forest. Many of us died too."
"That is very sad. Does your master live? What name does he call you?"
The animal pawed the ground, tossing his slate-grey mane. "My master fell. I have no name."
"Then, might I call you Petrov?" North suddenly felt nostalgic, remembering his first comrade from so long ago. "And may I ask that you carry me on my quest? I am searching for a boy."
The large equine was silent for a moment, staring at North. "There are many boys in Westeros," he said finally, moving to stand beside the man. He turned to present his saddle, inviting North to ride. "But not as many as there were. I, Petrov, will help you find the one you seek."
"Much thanks, my friend."
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Petrov lived up to his namesake, carrying North away from the battlefield swiftly, tirelessly laying miles between them and the putrid horror. He was a beast bred for strength and endurance, and boasted proudly of his lineage, claiming that his grandsire had carried Robert Baratheon on the day he won his crown. North, of course, did not know who this Robert was, but he gladly swapped tales of glory with the horse, answering each fierce battle with a daring escapade of his band of bandits.
"Sadly, my friend, it has been a great many years since those wild days," he lamented with a belly laugh, smacking Petrov's neck jovially. "Now, I race through the sky with gifts for the children."
"You lie," Petrov snorted, tossing his head. "Men cannot fly. Only things with wings can fly. This is known."
"I thought so too; once. But now…now I know better. Wiser men than I have taught me that just because something is unknown, does not make it untrue."
There was a stretch of silence, and then Petrov, not convinced, decided to change the subject. "This boy you seek; what do you know of him?"
North stroked his goatee, musing silently. "Very little," he admitted with hesitation. "The moon told me to find the son of the king. He said he would be a brave lad with a true heart."
"The moon?" Petrov stopped, looking up into the sky. A sliver of moon peeked over a cloudbank. "You speak like a mad man, horse-speaker, but you do not smell of one. There are many kings; I do not know which ones have sons."
"I shall know him when I see him. I'll feel it…in my belly." North rested a large hand over his non-existent stomach, momentarily missing his paunch. Thunder rumbled distantly and the ground started to become uneven. "Let us stop here, Petrov. We can wait until daylight to continue." He dropped to the ground, digging into his pockets and procuring some gingerbread men. He held a handful out to the horse. "Here; eat these. They are delicious."
Reluctant lips sampled the cookies, and then, with a whinny of delight, Petrov snatched up the rest of the offered snacks, munching noisily.
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A/N: Pure, unadulterated fluff. North seems to inspire that, go figure. But hey, think of it as establishing setting. North is somewhere around the riverlands and, in this story, is going to look like he does in the books; i.e. young and kick-ass. Don't ask why. And what do you all think of Petrov, Second of His Name? (Petrov [First of His Name] was North's horse in the books =D)