Burning Cold
Chapter 1
Bastards and Broken Things
It was cold.
Jon had always known it was cold, and yet he felt it more than anything else, the biting chill spreading all across his body. He didn't even feel the slight gasp of wind, nor the staggering pain in his right arm, as he stood alone in the darkness.
He reached for a torch at his belt, and with a flick of a flint, the light shimmered as he finally saw where he was.
It was the crypts of Winterfell, the narrow passage and the statues of the Stark Kings and Lords stood all around him. The swords on their laps or the direwolves at their feet stood tall, and Jon almost wondered why they weren't all either one or the others.
Some part of him knew, but he… He couldn't think. His head was swimming in pain, and as he reached up to touch it with his burned hand, he felt blood beneath his fingers.
He attempted to walk down the steps, further in, an inescapable urge to see what was down at the bottom, but a shuddering pain rose up in his left leg as he tried.
The statues stared at him with judgement in their expressions. Their grey eyes, in life and in death, were cold as iron, and their features were grim, and Jon remembered what the old kings and lords of the North were like.
Brutal, ruthless pragmatists who ruled with an iron fist. He wondered what sort of ruler he'd have been, if he was the eldest trueborn son instead of Robb. Would he have led the North against the Lannisters, and won every battle? Or would he have failed and lost?
Would his father be alive if he was the trueborn heir of House Stark…?
He didn't know. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, for the only way he'd ever have been heir would be if he was the sole Stark alive, and that was a terrifying thought.
For all of his dreams, he never would want it to come at the cost of his brothers and sisters. He might have been only a bastard, but he loved them all the same.
Do they feel the same about you, a thought rose up amidst the fogginess of his mind. You abandoned them for the Wall, remember?
A memory of bright blue eyes rose, unbidden, and Jon could only shiver in response. He imagined Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon and Robb rising as wights, their blue and grey eyes fading for those of the dead, staring at him as he wielded a torch and Longclaw.
He cut them down. He burned them. He even pushed them off cliffs, or sent them into spikes. Ordered men to fire flaming arrows at them, all without a moment of hesitation or doubt.
He then saw what stood behind his siblings that had risen from the grave. It was his father, with hair whiter than ash, and the armour that changed colour as he moved. There was a moment of stillness, but then he saw himself cut the white walker in half with a slash of his sword.
The ruthlessness and horror of what had happened frightened him for a moment. He couldn't imagine himself doing that, but… He had just done so. Would he truly become as monstrous as the Mountain if it meant defeating the Others?
Jon couldn't let that happen. They might hate him for abandoning them, but he would protect them, no matter how much it hurt.
The crypts seemed to slowly fade away in front of his eyes, the statues of the Starks still staring at him, their expressions not fading in the slightest. He was still not welcome, they were saying, a bastard never would be within these walls.
He was standing in waist high water, in front of Qhorin Halfhand. The older man had his eyes closed and his face was looking at the dark sky above. Jon looked up and saw a red comet soar overhead, shining through the sky, the only source of light he could see.
"They want you, Jon Snow." The old ranger said, opening his eyes, where Jon saw that one was an obsidian black, and the other was bright blue.
Jon opened his mouth to say something, when he realised that his mouth was bound, sewn tight by wires of metal.
"Isn't this what you always wanted? To matter to someone?" Qhorin continued, smiling, his teeth blackened with rot, as he grabbed him firmly by the shoulders.
Jon struggled fruitlessly against the man, as he was pushed underwater. The freezing water rushed through his nostrils, and past his sewn lips, stabbing at him like knives of cold.
As his lung filled with water, the ranger suddenly lifted him back up, as water and snot flew from his nostrils, a small amount dribbling from his lips. "You're important now, Jon Snow… Don't you like it?"
He was thrust back into the water, trying his hardest to keep himself awake. This time, the cold did not spare him the pain - his ribs were screaming in pain, his leg was broken, his arm shrieked at being jostled and he felt the freezing water meet his head wound, and could barely resist the urge to scream.
"Don't you see, Snow?" Qhorin declared from above him, as the water changed him, as he saw wounds flicker onto his chest like flames, and black blood pool into his hands. "I threw you off that cliff, and look what happened to me."
The wight grabbed him by the throat, and forced him up from the waters. "Are you dead too?"
No, Jon thought desperately, as he struggled fruitlessly against him.
"Then why are you dreaming of me?" Qhorin barked. "Wake up, Snow! Or do you want to die like I did?!"
Was he truly going to just quietly go into the night? He had always had the image of him dying with a sword in his hand, fighting for his life with every breath he had, and yet…
Jon suddenly remembered his siblings, his vision of his father as an Other. He thought of Ghost, Sam, Mormont and his brothers on the Wall, and then… Of the Halfhand, the one who was now haunting him.
He saw nothing for a moment, as he faintly realised that he was beneath the water. The apparition had disappeared, and he was left staring at naught but the black of a river, numb of the cold.
Raising his head, he saw moonlight glint past the surface, his lungs pierced with frost blades as Jon began to swim, even as his shattered left arm screamed in pain at the forced movement, and his broken shin protested violently.
His clothes were weighing him down, as he struggled against them, as he reached out for the surface of the water… And felt the distinct texture of bark of a log that had tumbled into the water. Grabbing hold of it with his right arm, he heaved himself out of the water, gasping.
Jon immediately spit out some water, as he began to swim towards what seemed like a small bank, covered in a faint icy frost. It took almost all of the strength he had, but he clambered onto the rocky surface, and lifted himself up, barely managing to get himself to sit up, much to the protest of his likely, broken ribs.
He immediately began to vomit, thankfully over the side and not on his clothing, blood, spit and water flowing from his mouth. His throat burned, but he continued until he couldn't no more, feeling utterly drained by the experience.
He couldn't help but feel strange at how dull the thought sounded. The cold was so great, that the pain all blurred together into something almost manageable as long as he focused on anything else. In the goal of keeping that up, Jon Snow began to tear off small parts of his wet clothing, his scorched gloves going first.
He flexed his burnt hand, the bright red sore on his palm weeping angrily. He'd burned it again, he realised, when he'd pushed that undead shadowcat into the wights. The only thing that had saved his hand from being unusable, were the gloves he'd just thrown to the ground.
He reached for his cloak, but felt a flash of hesitation as his head throbbed painfully. He couldn't describe why, but he felt that if he did this… He was giving a part of himself up. Unintentionally or not, he'd always wanted a cloak - as a child, it'd been a white one like many other boys, but as a man grown…
Jon finally tore it off after a moment, his left hand flaring, as the piece of his attire flew uselessly to the ground. He was tempted for a moment to get more of his clothing off of him, but he knew that'd be as good as diving back into the river and allowing himself to drown.
He'd lost Longclaw in the struggle, he realised, as his belt revealed naught but the dragonglass dagger he'd barely managed to sheathe before he was thrown from the cliff. Had he just handed the wights and their masters a Valyrian steel blade, he thought, feeling terror rise within him.
The undead that he had fought with the Halfhand and the other rangers had mostly been lightly armed, and he couldn't help but feel that if more of them had been… He didn't wish to contemplate it.
A flake of snow fell in front of him, and Jon knew he had to get moving. As he attempted to slide down the rock and onto the bank, the pain returned.
It slowly rose from his ribs, seared as his arm was jostled and burst from his leg as he impacted the bank. Jon let out a scream, gasping in pain, tears flowing from his eyes.
I'm a brother of the Night's Watch, he thought desperately, feeling like he was only now, truly aware of how much he'd been injured during his fall as he saw a tree to the far side of the bank.
Jon felt like he must have been a truly pathetic sight, as he limped off the rock with pain rearing itself so strongly, that he almost wanted to just let the cold numb him again. But that'd be death, he knew, so he continued anyway, looking around for a walking stick.
His good leg tapped some wood with an audible thunk, he kicked it slightly, shaking off the snow to see that it was some rotten branch that had almost disintegrated when he'd kicked it. He limped over it, wincing as his bad leg trailed over it, jostling his shin.
I'm a brother of the Night's Watch, he repeated, as he clenched his teeth to avoid crying out, leaning on the bark of the tree, relieved to avoid putting so much pressure on his injured leg. Grabbing the obsidian dagger, he looked up at the tree branches, trying to vaguely judge which one would be best for what he needed.
Jon reached up with his knife and began sawing the branch closest to him, that seemed to be sturdy enough to hold his weight. He was tempted to cut it in one swing, but he was so… tired, that he settled for sawing, despite his misgivings.
He was mildly worried about the dragonglass breaking too, if he was being honest. He remembered Maester Luwin telling him that it was brittle if extremely sharp, and thus considered impractical for battle.
He couldn't help but wonder, as he worked, how the always rational maester would react to the Others and their wights, and the whole notion that the legends believed to be just stories, were realer than anybody could have imagined.
The maester would probably ask questions, he thought. They were the true enemy of the Night's Watch, that much was clear to him now, and there was little he knew about them, besides their weakness.
Perhaps that'd be enough, but the cold pit in Jon's stomach at the idea told him otherwise. He had to focus on surviving right now, but the languid pace of sawing through the tough tree allowed his mind to wander, if only slightly.
He cut off the branch suddenly, as it clattered to the ground. It was a tall piece of wood, almost as tall as Jon, and it was wide enough to grab firmly. Picking it up off the ground, he tested it, grimacing at the exertion but he found himself satisfied with it soon enough.
Jon glanced at his broken arm, that hung loosely at his side. He thought of putting it in a sling, wishing desperately he knew exactly how to do it, and with what. An idea came unbidden, and he glanced down at his belt contemplatively.
He could use that, he reckoned. His trousers would hold up on their own, with some careful tightening around his hips, and he already knew how to do that.
Unhooking his belt, Jon was careful to throw it over his shoulder, and lifted up his arm, letting out a gasp at the pain. Quickly passing it beneath his arm, he then closed his belt, letting out a small sigh of relief. It wasn't perfect by any measure, but it would have to do.
Jon contemplated just staying here and making a fire, but… He was getting colder, and his wet clothes had to be dealt with sooner rather than later. Which naturally meant that he needed shelter.
He looked around the valley for a moment, taking in his surroundings for what felt like the first time. The tall, rocky face of the surrounding cliffs where the Frostfangs stood, seemed to be covered with a thin layer of snow, and seemed to curl in over one half, and then back over the other into a remarkably complex set of mountains.
To his back was the Fist, and Jon considered that too for a moment. It wasn't as tall as the Frostfangs, but where he could see a plausible way to climb them, even if he couldn't find the starting point, the hill itself was seemingly overhanging the valley, albeit only subtly. The only tell that it was so, were the telling angles of the shadows that leaned inwards. It also didn't help that the rock face itself was utterly perilous.
He knew that last part almost too well, he thought, as he touched the back of his head delicately, feeling the spots of sizable pain wherever he touched. He even felt blood, which was disquieting, but was at least evidence of his injury.
Jon clenched his teeth as he considered his options, which were decidedly lacking. He remembered the wights on the Fist, and thought of the Others' attention that he'd gotten, finding that he couldn't bring himself to go back.
It'd be brave, and perhaps he'd have risked it if he were in a better state, but as he was… He wasn't sure of it. He briefly imagined himself fighting a wight as he was now, and couldn't see any way that fight would end in his victory.
He would walk towards the Frostfangs then, and with a little luck, find a cave where he could begin to warm up and begin healing. Then after that… Jon didn't know what he'd do, strangely enough.
He knew he was to go back to the Wall but as he thought of the enemy, he then thought of the wildlings. He thought of Mance Rayder, and of the host he must command, the size of which he knew little of, but concluded had to be big enough for the man to think of invading the Wall.
If the Others take that host under their command, Jon thought, managing to think past the fogginess, as unsettled as he was by that possibility. They'd be so much stronger then they already were, and… What would happen then?
He knew what would happen, and the idea frightened him enough that he didn't wish to ponder it. But, he imagined it briefly, as he began to walk slowly towards the other side of the river, clambering over rocks and being careful not to slip.
The Wall would fall, he could see it distinctly. If the Night's Watch made a mistake, and the Others capitalized on it with their newfound host of undead… And he couldn't really imagine mistakes not being made, when faced with an unstoppable horde of wights and the nightmarish legends of their childhood staring them in the face.
Jon didn't know how he could stop that from happening, but he remembered the oaths he had taken, and one part of it in particular was on his mind right now. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men, he thought contemplatively as he reached the bank on the other side.
"The shield that guards the realms of men." He said aloud, his voice still hoarse from what had happened earlier. He wondered if the wildlings counted in that vow or not, but from what he knew of the history, it was doubtful.
The walk along the banks of the river felt almost insufferably long, as he tried his utmost to not aggravate any of his injuries. He was feeling pretty unsuccessful, shivering as the cold rose up his spine as his wet clothes clung to his skin.
He blinked as he saw what he could only describe was a small crack in the rocks in front of him, covered by a few stray leafless trees. Approaching it, he found that it was wide, but oddly small, as if it had been made for a creature smaller than a human.
Jon briefly considered continuing on his way to find something better that wouldn't force him to bend and contort his bruised and injured form, but he felt the biting wind rise and decided that he could suffer through some more pain if it meant that he could get some shelter.
Tossing his walking stick through the opening, feeling he didn't need it for now, Jon reached for his dagger and began once more sawing through the branches of the nearby tree. A few minutes later, and half a dozen branches later, he began the slow process of passing the wood through the tiny entrance, as the snowfall began slowly and slowly to intensify.
It was sordid, boring and painful work, his body seemingly protesting at every effort, but he didn't falter… Or perhaps more appropriately, he couldn't falter. Jon knew that he was at the end of his strength, and if he stopped now, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to start again.
He began to put his body through the hole, grimacing as he slowly lifted his broken leg through the hole. Gods be good, this was going to hurt, he couldn't help but think as he began hissing in pain.
Jon gritted his teeth as he twisted in the tiny space to let his leg rest, his ribs screaming at the strain. Shuffling along the tiny amount of rock, he put his foot on the other side and began to slowly get himself out, gasping as he stood, leaning against the wall.
The cold wind from before had intensified massively, tossing around snow, and causing a deep echo to reverberate around the cave he found himself in. Glancing around, he found it was dark, but he couldn't tell how massive it was. He saw frost crystals brightly on the extremely high ceiling, wondering briefly where they'd come from.
He limped towards the other side of the wall, gently kicking along the pile of wood he'd made, before he eventually slumped against the wall, feeling the icy walls prickle his skin. Jon felt the creep of sleep rise in his eyes, but he ignored it.
Picking his walking stick off the ground, Jon gathered all of the firewood in front of him and began the process of starting a fire. His mind started to wonder after a moment, even as his body protested at the effort he was making.
He thought of a brief trip he, Robb and Theon had taken into the wolfswood, scarcely two years ago from now. He remembered that they'd convinced their father that it was good training for whenever they were on campaign, and with some reluctance, he'd allowed it.
In truth, Theon had heard a silly rumour of direwolves inhabiting some of the old abandoned holdfasts and had dared them to see the truth of it with him, or be declared craven, so he and Robb had come up with an excuse.
Jory, Hullen and Fat Tom had come with them, to ensure their safety, and then…
Jon stopped remembering for a moment, overwhelmed for a brief moment with sadness. The knowledge that something like that would never happen again. Robb was a King, Jon was at the Wall, Theon was fighting for Robb, and… Jory, Hullen and Fat Tom were dead, murdered without reason.
It was a bitter thought and he never could quite accept it. What had happened to his family, and those who had served them, it hurt even now, when he was supposed to forget about them.
My mind might be sworn, but my heart isn't, Jon reasoned. Even the Old Bear admitted that his heart had been torn at what had happened to his son, and what is now happening with his sister and her children.
The fire was now roaring to life, as his flint finally took to the wood with a spark. He looked at it for a moment, still lost in thought, before he finally began to slowly stand, and take off his armor and clothes.
It was a daunting task, especially with the sling, but after a small extremely painful while, he had draped the clothes around the fire, and was standing in naught but his smallclothes, thankful for the fire and the protection that the cave provided.
The light from the flames brought several things about the cave into focus, he noted. The cave was seemingly massive, perhaps larger than the courtyard at Castle Black or even Winterfell, and was covered in a thin layer of ice that seemed to just naturally layer over one another. The only part of the cave that was seemingly exempt, was the corner he'd found.
It was utterly magnificent, Jon reflected, appreciating the wild beauty it presented. It seemed… natural too, he surmised. Was every cavern in the Frostfangs like this, or had he stumbled on one of few?
Then… Suddenly, part of the ice shifted, slowly but in front of his very eyes, shaking. Jon grabbed for his dragonglass dagger, and began to shakily stand up, his body protesting at the sudden exertion, as he watched.
He looked around in the darkness, staring ahead with a readiness he did not feel. There was a small chill in the air now as the ice burst, shrieking around in the empty space. It was gone now, but Jon didn't know what had come from it.
He saw it, a massive pair of bright blue eyes, staring at him from the darkness. A terror rose in his throat, as he raised his dagger.
It was a slow realisation as the creature seemed to get closer and closer, its size slightly shaking the cavern as it approached. But as he stared into its eyes, he realised that they didn't look like stars…
They were like crystals of ice, he saw, as it came into the light of the fire, finally revealing to Jon what it was.
AN: Trust me, even I am surprised at my own productivity right now.
I have to thank my discord buddies, Kingadent and Azure for helping me with the chapter, as well as Seri, Skysong and more for a few ideas.
Next up... Well, I think you all know that now.