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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 Seventeen: JACK

The whispers woke him, the sound of a thousand voices, long since passed, lingering in the twists and pockets of the dark caves. They were faint and indistinct, but familiar and welcome. "Brynden. Did the Singers bring me to you?" Jack rose to a sitting position, fixing tired eyes on the man who was more tree than flesh. The weirwood roots had claimed more of him in the years he'd been away.

"No," the greenseer replied slowly, his voice as soft and faded as the dead echoes. "It was the young crow and his white beast. An odd balance, that pair."

Jack nodded his head in agreement, slumping against the cavern wall. There was no need for pretenses around Brynden; it was unexplainable, but the man was even older than he was. It was evident, however, that his life was beginning to slip away. "I see your piece of the puzzle found you."

"You have met the broken boy?"

"Yes and no."

There was a long stretch of silence where Jack might have dozed off again, returning to consciousness when Brynden spoke again. "Why are you stagnating, Jack Frost?"

"I was too late returning to this world. People grew foolish in my absence and went to war."

"And now you try to salvage some of the damage, but hurt yourself. You know you must shepherd winter into the Seven Kingdoms."

"People will die."

"People will always die. They are dying now. But in the face of winter, maybe some can be saved. Maybe some will stop fighting." Brynden's voice took on an odd strength and he managed to move his head a fraction of an inch, tilting it to stare down at Jack. "If you dam up your power much longer, you will die. And you will plunge Westeros into a cold darkness that it might never rise out of when that power flees your corpse."

Jack did not reply, staring at the floor in thought. Brynden spoke the truth. He always did. Small, sporadic storms helped, but he could not contain much more energy without imploding, creating an Ice Age that this land could not afford. Especially not now that the seals containing the white-walkers and their masters were starting to fracture. "Earth is not nearly as complicated," he said finally, missing his other world.

Another long, peaceful silence settled between the two as they soaked in their respective weakness, broken when the light of a torch approached. It was then that Jack realized the light he'd been seeing by was a faint blue glow that came off his own skin; magic leaking out of his body, taken on by the weirwood roots that surrounded him. Such splendid trees, weirwoods. It was a shame they no longer grew much farther south than Winterfell.

With the effort of moving a mountain, Jack rolled his head towards the approaching flame, smiling as one of the Singers came into view. He greeted her by name, his tongue rolling through her language with some hesitation; it had been so long since he'd spoken it. She smiled warmly in return, moving to place a bowl of water and some scraps of cloth beside him. Steam curled ominously off the surface of the liquid. "Is this necessary?"

As answer, the small woman tugged off his cloak, folding it carefully before setting it down across the chamber. Despite her delicacy, flakes of ice floated off the fabric, melting into the dark earth. Jack sighed, but obediently shrugged out of his remaining shirt before the Singer got notions to cut it off him. It was the only thing he had, after all. The movement sent pains through his body and he soon felt the uncomfortably familiar trickle of blood seeping from his many wounds.

"Those match mine." The new voice broke the quiet and Jack glanced over at Jon Snow, standing in the mouth of the cavern, laden with bandages and salves. A confused, wary look was on his face; Jack could not even muster the energy to laugh at how little it varied from his other expressions.

"To the length and letter," he answered, hissing as the Singer pressed a damp cloth to one of the lacerations. The water on it was only lukewarm, but to his naturally cold and recently oversensitive skin, it might as well have been molten steel. "I took them from you. You're of no use dead." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jon place a hand to his torso, presumably over one of the mostly healed scars from his betrayal. "Regretfully, I lack the expertise of my siblings. Winter is not the best at healing."

Letting Jon absorb that information, Jack focused on his injuries. Or more specifically, on not freezing the little Singer solid every time she pressed the damned hot iron to his skin. The blue glow soon overpowered the orange torch, flowing freely into the weirwood roots as they did their best to soothe his hurt and protect the others in the cavern. As the excess magic was siphoned away, Jack felt a weight lift out of his chest, the remaining power beginning to swirl freely. The dribbling of his blood ceased as tendrils of magic moved to seal the cuts; he was still not well enough to heal himself entirely. But he felt tremendously better.

"Who do you trust, Jon Snow?" he asked after a long stretch, raising his blue eyes to meet questioning grey. "The time is very close to turn back to the south, and you will need allies at your side. Decide now who you will choose. Brynden," he turned to the greenseer who had slipped into a dying man's slumber. "I have need of your birds."

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A/N: This…did not work like I wanted it to, but I wanted to get something up before I head to the beach. Enjoy.