Followers & reviewers as of 4/20/2013: DementedDementor101, Gloriana the Younger, CasperGhost, AlwaysGryffindor13, Darksnider05, harrylee94, Rileyshima, JediClaire, Soului, & Taturana

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 Eleven: NORTH

North did not like this land, this Westeros. Death and war had cut too deeply; it was a scarred, empty place. Day after day, Petrov took him through miles of rich, prosperous land where towns could have thrived. Maybe they did at one point. Now there was only desolation and the ever-present grey mist that fractured even the Guardian of Wonder's good cheer. By the time he made camp on the seventh night, he could not summon enough magic to conjure more than two gingerbread cookies, both of which he gave to Petrov.

The only other life they had encountered was a pair of carrion birds picking at the face of a horribly mutilated child. North had lost his lunch, but then buried the small corpse, a courtesy he wished he could have done for each body he saw. Now, with the grave long behind him and a relatively unmolested patch of grass serving as his pillow, North questioned the senselessness aloud. "Why do people do such horrors to each other?"

"Humans play dangerous, greedy games," Petrov told him. "The game of thrones is the most deadly."

"And the most stupid," he answered in disgust. He was glad the people of Earth had largely done away with monarchies. "It is game no one wins."

Petrov shook his mane in agreement, stamping on the grass to convey his general distaste for the human race. Suddenly, his head shot up, staring into the dark forest that bordered. His nostrils flared and he took a step closer to the fire.

"Petrov?"

"I smell men; many of them. They do not smell friendly."

North was on his feet in an instant, sabers in hand. The firelight gleamed off the twin blades and cast fearsome shadows across his face. His fingers drummed the hilts in anticipation while his sharp blue eyes scanned for movement. Slowly, steadily, his feet moved him in a circle, never leaving his back exposed in any one direction for too long. He would not be an easy target.

In the unnatural quiet, a twig snapped; it could have been the fire, it could have been a careless foot, it could have been a shuffling squirrel. Whatever caused it, it broke the spell of pre-combat. A wave of shadows charged from the trees, melting into men as the fire's glow hit them. With a bellow, North moved to meet them, his swords knocking aside deadly steel while his elbows and feet found flesh and armor, knocking his opponents to the ground and into each other. He would not strike them down with his blades; not if he could help it.

Despite the disadvantage of his mercy, North was a whirlwind, fierce and formidable. The men who faced him were poorly trained, barely able to compensate the weight of their overlarge weapons; made for crushing more than cutting; and the way they pulled their bodies after each swing. It would take time, but eventually they would wear themselves out. He was confident he could hold them off until then.

A sudden tingle ran up his spine and he whirled, raising a saber to parry a well-delivered strike that would have crippled a slower man. A quick survey took in the young man – still just a boy in North's eyes – and his belly rumbled knowingly. As if to confirm his instinct, a shaft of moonlight poured down on the boy.

"North!"

Petrov's cry was high pitched an shrill, a clear warning. With a laugh, North pushed the boy back, turning in time to see the swing of a crude club – and too late to stop it from connecting with his head. The world spun and went black.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

He did not know how long he floated through the dark void of unconsciousness, but when light finally pierced through his eyelids again, it was soft and flickering, moving in time with the buzzing of voices on the periphery of his slowly expanding circle of awareness. He opened his eyes, blinking the world into focus, and became aware of a number of things. One, he was in a deep cave next to a large fire; two, his hands were firmly bound behind his back – something he'd worry about more once later; three, Petrov was nowhere in sight; and four, most of his belongings were currently across the cavern being rummaged through. He could not stop the loud laugh that burst from his mouth as he rolled to a sitting position; what fantastic irony that he would find his princeling in the company of bandits.

His laughter attracted the attention of his captors, causing a fully armored man to storm over and stick a sword under his chin; one of his own sabers, he realized, glancing down. That was a blow to his ego that mellowed his chuckles, and they subsided entirely when the man spoke. The language that tumbled out was foreign to North's ears, revealing a problem he should have foreseen. No matter where he went, horses spoke horse and owls spoke owl; people, sadly, did not follow such simplicity. He could speak Russian and English (broken though it may be) and a handful of other languages where Christmas was relevant, but now he could only cock an eyebrow and screw up his face in confusion.

Only one solution came to mind, and it was one that would have had old Ombric beating North soundly about the head and shoulders – the old sorcerer had always been one for proper learning – but North had no other options. He would have to cheat. Ignoring the blade still at his throat, he screwed his eyes shut and began to chant the first lesson his old teacher had ever given him.

"I believe, I believe, I believe…"

Slowly the buzzing of half a dozen conversations faded, a few words becoming clear and distinct. They were small, but recognizable. That was good.

"I believe, I believe, I believe…"

Whole sentences started to make sense, punched here and there by unfamiliar words. Nearly there.

"I believe, I believe, I believe…"

The low voice of the man entered North's ears, growling a demand for answers. Who was he? Where had he come from and where was he going? Who was he loyal to? Blah, blah, blah. The Guardian quickly grew bored with it. "I believe those are mine," he stated simply, opening his eyes and dropping his blue gaze to the Cossack blade. The ropes tying his wrists fell away and he rose to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest, which was no less broad, despite the lost weight. Hints of his tattoos peeked out from the fur trim of his coat. "I am Nicholas St. North, and I have come for boy." His eyes fell to the boy who had nearly maimed him and he resisted a smile as every stare followed. "Man in moon has told me; this is son of king!"

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

A/N: Well, my muse ran of screaming after that hyper-update (I've accepted the fact that I can only disappoint you from this point on), but after seeing me flail on my own (and some coaxing with chocolate) it took pity on me and returned. Hope you enjoy this chapter. R&R guys, R&R. (Please)