Chapter 30: The Tooth


POV Jon 30th Day, 4th Moon

The rock was slick underhand, and Jon found himself once again thankful that he'd removed his gauntlets before he'd started his climb, even if cuts in his hands had opened up along the way. He wasn't as thankful for his lack of helm, he could do without the wind and rain that throwing his hair about and pelting his face, but he needed unrestricted visibility for what was to come.

Besides, following what he'd been taught, he was so lost in thought that he could barely feel any of it. The growing numbness actually helping this.

His mind had wandered to many places along his long climb, from whether or not he'd oiled his saddle sufficiently or brushed all the knots from Ghost's coat, to if he should have mentioned Ciri's stray hairs.

It was good, to pull the mind away from the building burn and from the push and pull of his legs and arms. But as Jon climbed, he found his mind had started to turn to heavier matters, once he'd run out of the lighter stock. It was inevitable, when you did something so repetitive for long enough, but he'd hoped to reach his goal before then.

Sadly, he hadn't, and he found his mind turning to Lady Stark. Or, more precisely, how strange she'd been as of late.

He couldn't remember very much about her from before Destiny had swept him away, in front of his mind's eye he always saw a beautiful and austere woman. Someone you'd always want to impress.

And she still was, of course. But now she also seemed... contemplative, or unsure. Jon did not know if it was simply because he was older, more perceptive, if he was simply remembering her wrongly, or if this was new to her. The last made for the most rational explanation, he thought, what with everything that has happened.

The war, the uncertainty of it all, and the loss that Jon couldn't let himself think about as he scaled the mountain. It would drive spikes of doubt or fear into anyone's heart.

Jon's hand then found a stone that was rather smooth and, hauling himself up, he found his first window. He'd been expecting one for quite a while now, castles could be dark and constricting enough without any sunlight. Castles carved into mountains could only be moreso. Sadly, like most castle windows anywhere near the ground, this one was much too narrow to serve, and he'd have to break the glass besides.

With Gwyn's eyes he'd known that already, but it showed that he was halfway to his goal.

Passing the too-thin opening by, Jon tried to bring himself back to Lady Stark, but he couldn't. It had run its course, and now he had finally run through everything. All but the final little thing he'd push into the very back of his mind.

Ciri was ill.

He wasn't entirely certain of it of course, but many signs were there. She was weary at all hours, she had dark bags under her eyes, a shake in her hands, and she spewed her guts out at least twice a day. She even smelt different, according to Ghost. Most damning of all, her spirit waned, she went about the days like a shade. Precious little of her fire to be felt.

Ciri tried to hide it all of course, but Jon knew her well.

She'd always been resilient, in all the years they'd spent beside each other he had only seen her brought to bed by sickness once. A fever she got from too long spent in the snow. Everything else she took in stride. And never had she seemed so... so absent.

But with this, with this she hardly left their tent, and almost compulsively held Ghost close. Not that the big pup would complain.

What worried him the most, however, was that Ciri still hadn't told him. Even with the fever she'd put up shows of strength, boasts that she was perfectly fine despite it. But with this it was only dispassionate refusal, closed away from him.

If it was so grave that she feared it would hurt him too much, it could be-

Then his hand hit empty air, and Jon found that he'd finally reached what he'd been climbing for since dusk.

A balcony.

The lowest balcony, to be precise. One of a little more than half a dozen that had been carved into the cliff-face, hundreds of feet above the valley and invisible from below. Even from Gwyn's eyes from above Jon had almost move on before managing to find it.

Now, what had started off as a mere hunch had become his hard-fought entry point.

As Jon heaved himself up and over the carved railing, he let all his worries, fear, and concern bundle back together in his mind. He ruthlessly shoved into a corner and stamped it down, just as he'd been taught to. A Witcher on task focused only on the task.

The balcony was a small thing, fit only for breathing in the fresh mountain breeze away from the stale air in the mountain or taking in the sight of the rising sun. It wasn't even large enough for a chair, the only furniture present was a small, gaudy golden table bolted to the stone floor.

But he wasn't here to judge, his only concern was the iron-banded door.

It was set in a depression in the rough stone, where it was sure to go unseen at any angle but right before it. A quick study of the frame showed that it was once the support for a mineshaft, or at least made to look like one.

Putting his ear to the wood, Jon let the sound of the storm fall away.

After a long moment of hearing nothing but the crackle of a dying fire within, Jon dug his fingers between the door's edge and the frame.

Then, gripping it best he could with his feet in a stable position, he pulled.

At first, nothing happened, the solid construction resisting him. But then there was a creak at the hinges, and a squeal around the handle.

It kept up its sturdy resistance for a while longer, but with a sharp crack the wood keeping the door in place gave way.

After leaning it against the rail, Jon swept a quick look into the room the door guarded. Fingding that he'd gained access to what must have been the main room of one of the castle's ladies. It was softly furnished, with the walls covered in tapestries depicting scenes from ballads and tales, and the floor dominated by a plush Myrish carpet.

Seeing no heads poking over the stuffed chairs before the dim hearth, and hearing no breaths or smelling fresh scents, Jon eased his way through the opening.

Once he was inside, Jon retrieved the door. Then, he carefully, gently , pulled the door back into its frame from inside. This would not be his exit, and if all went well he wouldn't even need one.

But when it closed and the storm was shut out, he found that his connections to Gwyn and Ghost had been... muffled, so to speak. As though a thick woolen blanket had been wrapped around his mind.

It was a concern, to be sure, and massively uncomfortable, but he would have to make do. It was entirely likely that, in a castle as ancient as the Golden Tooth, there was magic worked into the construction. How one would go about doing so, he didn't know. Runework and enchantments outside of curses and hexes were outside his expertise, but he did know it was possible to work a way to shut out certain breeds of magic.

No matter, he would just have to do without Gwyn's eyes until he reached somewhere with open air. And he wouldn't be able to check on Ciri...

Jon shook his head, he had to focus.

Quickly, but quietly, he set to barricading the doors to the chamber's adjoining rooms. The wrought iron firepokers that hung above the hearth served well enough, although finding the right positioning took some time.

Eventually, he was satisfied that whoever might have been in the other rooms wouldn't be able to simply jostle the iron out of place and made to leave.

Again, he pressed his ear to wood. Then, after he'd listened for any movement on the other side and heard none, Jon eased the door open and slipped into the hall.

It was dim, with a light burning only in every third sconce. A cursory inspection he showed that, rather than rushlights, they were candles. The wax was as thick as his wrist, and could only be bee's wax from how the flame burned. The costs of keeping them burning in this single hallway through night, not to mention during the day, would be significant, let alone when lighting the halls of such a vast underground castle. The amount of coin would b-

Shaking his head, Jon put his thoughts of such expenses out of mind and started down the hall, heading north.

He would follow the outside paths, nearest to the mountain's shell, thereby finding the way leading to the exterior castle that much faster. Hopefully.

As Jon stalked through the hall, he kept a keen eye on any doors or branching halls he passed, ready for any patrolling men-at-arms or late-night servants. Occasionally, he would see shadows move out the corner of his eye, only to find it was a trick of the flame. The sconces, he could see, had small... protrusions that surrounded the candle-light.

Said protrusions seemed to be shaped to look like men, and would throw those shadows onto the walls. When the flame flickered, as candle flames do, it would make it seem as though they came from moving men.

It was both fascinating, and infuriating. Neither of which was helping the discomfort brewing inside.

When it had made him tense for a kill for the thirtieth time, he had half the mind to strike them from the walls.

Luckily for the men who would have to replace them, Jon soon found what he was looking for.

Set into a finely sculpted stone frame, with the hinges hidden from view, were a pair a double door twice again his height. They were banded with bright steel, polished to a silvery sheen, and glistened in the candle light.

They were handsome doors, and decidedly unguarded.

He approached slowly, half expecting for some hidden door to open and men-at-arms to come rushing out. But there was nothing, all the way down the short stretch of hall to the door… nothing happened. Rather than abating his concern or loosening the growing knot in his guts, it made it all worse.

Aside from the strange interference on his connections, everything had been going far too well so far.

That was always a bad sign, especially when he was separated from Ciri.

Never-the-less, Jon continued, how could he not, and soon reached the exquisitely made door.

Just as those that came before, and those that would likely some after, Jon pressed his ear against the wood and listened.

He let himself fade into his ears, into the sounds, but found nothing. Not even the storm.

The doors may have been just that well made.

Giving in a little to the feeling in his gut, Jon stayed in place. Letting time go by, trying to hear anything, but still there was nothing.

So, Jon eased the door open, careful to keep it from creaking or groaning, only to find himself face to face with a confused man-at-arms.

Before the man could get over his shock, Jon's arm shot out and snatched the man by the lip of his cuirass and wrenched him closer.

He slammed the man's head into the edge of the open door and dropped him like a broken doll, then he quickly shoved the door open to slam into whoever might be on the other side.

The door swung freely, hitting nothing, but revealed a fleeing man.

Bitting back a curse, Jon ran after him, quickly pulling out his dirk as he did.

He swiftly sent the blade flying for the gap in between the man's helm and cuirass, careful to keep his mad dash from losing any speed.

Jon's blade flew true as ever, sailing to plant itself between the first and second links of the spine.

But then the man tripped, skidding across the wet stones, and Jon's knife disappeared in the darkness. Without the distinct sound of metal on stone, Jon knew it had passed over the wall somewhere, never to be seen again.

Shit.

The Witcher quickly turned his run into a sprint, heedless of the soaked stones, and rushed to his still-prone prey.

"Intr-" the man had barely managed to start before Jon fell upon him.

Jon grabbed him by his mailed shoulder and threw him onto his back, then smashed his fist into the man's teeth. Then he struck again.

And again.

And again.

Until the struggling stopped.

Then Jon heard the scuff of boot on stone, and his head snapped up to see a man-at-arms staring at him from a distance.

Lightning flashed, and the man ran.

Jon jumped to rise, and his footing suddenly gave out under him, the steel having slipped on the wet stones. Before he could catch himself, his knee crashed into the rock with a force that sent a fierce wave of hurt up his leg. He gasped, but in his pain, he found that the wool around his mind had lifted, and Gwyn quickly took hold of Jon's intentions.

The great eagle wheeled through the harsh winds, his shadow hardly seen in another flash of lightning. Then Jon felt him dive, the rush of wind exhilarating, but he kept himself from falling too deep.

It was a scream, shadowed in the crash of thunder, that let Jon know it had been done.

After a deep breath to refocus himself, to let the connections resettle and keep himself from slipping to Ghost, he threw the corpse off the wall.

As it sailed between the crenelations, Jon continued on.

Though it was dark, the shape of the gatehouse still stood out against the rain, and Jon walked a fast as he dared along the wall towards it.

It seemed that every moment, lightning brightened the world, and let him see more of the castle. In one flash it was the courtyard, filled nearly to the brim with canvas covered barrels and crates. Next it was one of the towers, then the stables.

Then the gatehouse loomed before him.

That it was still so tall despite him standing on the wall was impressive, but the construction of Westeros was a different beast from the vast majority of the planes he and Ciri had seen.

He put that thought aside, focusing on inspecting the door instead.

There was no handle to be seen, no hinges, and wood was pressed so tightly against the stone around it that it was nearly flush. He wouldn't be able to remove the door, and going through would be far too loud. Even with the storm to muffle it.

Jon sighed, and he knocked.

His fist boomed against the door, once, twice, and finally a third time.

Then he waited, the rain still pelting him and the night drawing on. Eventually, he knocked again. Louder this time, to make sure those in-

"Gods! Wait a damn moment!" a voice shouted from inside, the sound soon followed by a sharp clattering, then the slide of a steel bar, "Fuckn' greenhorn's these da-"

The very second the door's edge cleared the frame Jon quickly snatched it, ripped it open, and caved the man's head in with his fist. He almost cried out when something inside his hand cracked and sent pain flaring up his arm.

Through gritted teeth Jon scolded himself for forgetting his hands were bare, and charged through the opening, ignoring the wool rewrapping around his mind as the door closed itself behind him.

Inside, two more armoured men sat around a set of dice around a table, the younger of the pair gaped openly, but the older had already jumped for where his short-shafted spear leaned against a wall.

Jon rushed towards the man, leaving Ice in its scabbard for the room's size.

The old man was quick, enough so that he'd just about reached his spear by the time Jon had only just crossed the halfway point.

Gritting his teeth and pushing harder, Jon redoubled his speed. Glancing at the table as he passed it by, Jon saw that the younger guardsman still hadn't recovered. With a quick snap of his arm, Jon grabbed its edge and shoved it into him.

It crashed into his chest with a dull clang, and as he fell Jon refocused on the older of the pair.

Spear in hand by the time Jon's eyes were back to him, the older guard had even managed to get himself into a solid ready stance. Feet wide, knees bent, spear aimed at chest height. The mam likely meant to spear him with his own momentum.

A small growl making its way out of him and Jon went low.

The spear tip struck him on the pauldron and slid by with a screech that nearly made him wince.

But that hardly mattered, Jon was inside his opponent's guard.

Twisting at the hip, he slammed his shoulder low into the man-at-arm's torso. In the initial crash, Jon's meteoric steel forced a sizable dent in the steel cuirass. Once they both struck the wall, that dent deepened with a chain of cracks.

Once his momentum had bled out, Jon leapt back to strike out again, but the moment he saw his opponent's face he knew he didn't have to.

The man stepped off the wall, but all he had left in him was a bloody wet cough, and then he fell to his knees. His spear dropped from his hand along the way, and clacked away along the floor as he struck the stones.

The very second he was all the way down, Jon spun to face where the younger man had been, ready for another fight.

But he was still on the ground, head hanging limply to the side.

Jon blinked, and carefully walked over.

Still ready to jump back into a fight, he knelt down next to the guardsman and looked him over.

He was mostly still, the only movement being the occasional twitch of his eyes and limps, his armour hid whatever else. Deciding to inspect further, Jon put two fingers to the man's neck and searched for a pulse.

Once he found it, Jon found it to be slow and steady.

The heartbeat of a sleeping man.

A quick inspection of the head showed no blood, but a sizable bump was slowly growing near the base of the skull.

Standing back up and sweeping the room, Jon saw that the spears had fallen in such a way that the pair were neatly presented towards him.

He stood there a moment, looking at the weapons, considering. A moment later, Jon decided to take a chance.

After taking up a few of the spears, and maneuvering them into a more comfortable grip, he continued on.

It took some searching to find the chain-room, but Jon found it soon enough. Then, once he'd slid the barricade into place, he quickly got to looking it over.

The room was large, the ceiling easily ten feet away, with a strange platform in the center that seemed to be detached from the rest of the floor. It was made up of wooden planks, and stretched nearly from one side of the room to the other, then ends twisting down into the floor. The chainweels were perched at either side, nearly against the walls.

Each of them were massive things, huge drums or iron and wood, with thick protruding handles and rings. The chains that were affixed to the center of their drums were as thing around as his wrists, and hung limply from well-worn holes in the walls.

Not wasting even a moment, Jon quickly gripped the first wheel and, ignoring the lance of pain from his hand, wrenched it downward.

With a great slam of iron, the chain lost all of its slack, and Jon continued to pull as fast as he could.

He didn't have much time now that he started, someone was bound to notice.

Portcullises weren't known for their discretion, after all.

The wheel was slow moving, no matter how strongly he pulled or how quickly he moved it would take plenty of time. What mattered here was consistency.

It was crucial that he do this right, Robb and the rest of the men hidden in the shadows of the pass were depending on him. It was his own blunder that closed the Tooth as tightly as it was, he had to make it right.

Opening the way was the least he could do.

Slowly, painfully so, the length of chain wound around the wheel grew longer.

He was making progress, but already he could hear the rising din of great bronze bells.

It wouldn't be long now before the forces of the Tooth would be come down upon him with a desperate fury. Jon could only pull as quickly as he could, and last against them long enough for Robb to take the walls.

So, he pulled, and pulled, and pulled, almost throwing the wheel downward and the end of every one.

And, the very second that he couldn't pull any farther, Jon slammed the lock into place. Then he snatched up one of the spears he'd taken from the men-at-arms and wedged it deep into the small gap between the wheel and the groove it sat in.

He quickly snapped the shaft and rushed to the inner portcullis's wheel.

Jon had barely brought it up halfway before something started slamming on one of the gatehouse doors. From the sound of it, it must have come from the side he'd come in from.

Soon after, he heard the distinct sound of an axe cutting into oak, and knew his time was nearly up.

Checking on the length of chain he'd dredged up so far, Jon estimated that the portcullis still had about a foot to go before Robb's men could ride through safely.

Gritting his teeth, he thought he would be able to finish before they arrived, but he knew it would be cutting it close.

Eventually, the door shattered, and a cheer rose up in the near distance.

He kept pulling.

The stampede of men rushed through the halls, and the axe went to work on the door just to Jon's right.

He kept pulling.

Then, just as the lock slammed into place, the axe burst a hole in the door, and Jon rammed the other spear under the wheel.

He had just snapped it under the blade, when the door finally gave in and the men bringing it down rushed in with a roaring cheer.

The man leading them's own cheer turned to a wet choke of his life's blood, Ice having carved it's way through his neck.

At that sight, the cheering of the nearby men turned to chaos. Some roared in anger, others with shock, a few seemed to recognised him. All kept flowing through.

Some, thankfully, carried torches. Why they were doing so, or how they had kept them lit in the storm, hardly mattered. What did matter was that he would be able to send word out to Robb that he'd opened the way. A glance out of one of the winch-room's arrow slits showed that the rain had lessened only slightly, but Jon judged it enough for a flame to survive a little while.

Damned quickly, it was too late to force them to bottleneck at the door, but Jon stepped forward regardless.

He was not made to simply give up.

First to face him was one of the torch bearers. Curiously, the hand that held the torch was clearly his dominant one. In the other was a mace.

The man thrust his torch forward, as though he were some kind of night-beast, and Jon took full advantage of that misunderstanding.

Ice rose in a blurred arc, splitting mail and gambeson with only a hint on resistance.

When the grey blur touched the flesh itself, it gave way like it wasn't even there, Jon barely even felt the bone when its time came.

As both the hand and flame when wheeling into the air, Jon couldn't help but marvel at Valyrian steel once again. The sheer lethality beaten into the metal, the near weightlessness, the edge that no normal steel could ever hold. It was simply magical.

Pushing that wonder back to its place in his mind, Jon snatched the torch out of the air, jumped back to align with one of the narrow arrow slits, and, with a twist of his hips, he threw it out the opening.

The signal sent, he got back to the killing.

In the short time that he'd looked away from his foe, the man had already been pulled back into the crowd by his fellows. He was replaced an older man-at-arms, who had a massive, shield sheathed with steel in one hand and one of the thickest bludgeons Jon had ever seen in the other.

"Merrick" the man introduced, the light of the candles and torches in the room nearly shining in the brightly polished metal coating his shield. "It's time to put you down, Monster."

"I've heard that before, Merrick." Jon said, and truly, he had. Be too effective in your duties, look a little strange, and such things get thrown around, "Once or twice."

Even as they spoke, the older man crept forward, taking the time to increase the space between himself and the door to let more men inside.

This slow maneuvering was to Jon's advantage, however. The longer all these men stayed here to more time Robb and the rest had to charge in and take the walls. All he had to do was keep the chains up.

But Albin had taught him to be proactive in defense.

So, before Merrick could approach any farther, Jon brought Ice up to ready and closed the distance.

His opponent grimaced behind his nasal helm and brought his shield up high.

Once Jon was within range, he quickly changed his grip to reangle Ice downward and the whipped it up at Merrick. Something only possible with Ice's nearly absent weight.

The grey blade blurred, but his opponent managed to bring his shield down just in time for Ice to dig deep into it, rather than the man's leg.

But something felt off with the movement, it didn't feel like Merrick was reacting. No, it was-

Jon threw his head to the side, a flash of steal zipping through where the massive shield used to be.

Even with his swift response, cold line cut across his face. The spear that put it there slinked back behind Merrick shoulder.

"Quit moving so much ye old codger!" a gritty old voice said from behind, "Can't aim right, the Monster's slippery!"

Jon quickly freed Ice with a twist and a rip. The force of which forced Merrick into a small stumble. To capitalise on the opening, Jon swung up from the hip, to take one of the shield-bearer's legs.

"Shut the fuck up Arryk!" Merrick shouted, almost throwing himself to the side to keep all his pieces and mostly succeeding, Ice only slipping through his lower leg an inch or so deep.

The movement also revealed his partner.

'Arryck' was just as old as Merrick, but short and lean where the other was tall and stocky.

Jon kept from clicking his tongue.

He'd fought pairs like these a few times before, most were trouble.

When Merrick, after the briefest glance at Ice, threw his bludgeon aside and added that hand to his shield, Jon knew that these two just might be one of the worst.

In most, trust like that only came with countless battles.

"You lads stay back." Merrick said, not taking his eyes away from him, "If you come into this you'll only be throwing your lives away, and you'll hardly even be a distraction."

Jon doubted Merrick's honesty, and that the men would even listen to that order for long, not with the looks he was getting from the eyes he could see.

Even still, Jon kept most of his attention on the pair.

Merrick had started creeping forward, Arryck nearly pressing into his back.

They kept the same pace as Jon maintained their distance, stepping back as they went along and letting them make space for more off their fellows to enter. The more of them that joined the more difficult it would be for them to leave in a hurry. All the better for Robb to take the walls quickly.

He should be here soon.

But by the time Jon had retreated past the center of the room, one foot on the wooden track and the other on solid stone, he still heard nothing but the storm outside.

Did they not see it? Had the wind snuffed out the torch-flame before Robb's watcher could see it? Or was the distance greater than they had thought?

Heedless of his concerns, or even taking advantage if he managed to see them, Arryck suddenly pressed the attack.

Arryck's spear came quickly, merciless and unrelenting, hunting for any weakness.

His arm was fast, his technique nearly perfect as it weaved around the bulwark Merrick provided and reached for the mail between Jon's plate, along with his head. Worst of all, Arryck seemed to fully understand Valyrian Steel's cutting potential, the spear always rushed away whenever Ice came near.

But the threat of the smoky steel was a poor defense, whenever Jon warded away one jap, another came with a near superhuman speed from a completely different direction.

Nor could he go on the attack, Merrick's shield was thick and coated in steel, even Ice would get stuck again if he tried to rend it. Jon couldn't risk the opening, it took his all to do more than shift and weave away.

Sadly, his all wasn't something he could provide.

Because, as time went on, and Jon concerns over whether or not Robb's watchers had seen the signal or not took up more and more space in his mind. Among the other things that filled it...

As a result, his movements and technique became more and more wrote, his body fell back on instinct and memory as his mind grew more distracted.

The spearman took full advantage of that, Arryck's spear growing more used to Jon's movements as Merrick kept himself always in just the right place to guard against any possible reprisal. But there would be none, all his overstuffed mind could do was roil and lumber from one thought to the next. It felt as though his thoughts were swimming in honey.

At this point, even if Jon was fully focused, it would only mean a defense. For a proper exchange to happen, something would need to change.

Then, rather suddenly, that change came, and all the worries plaguing him were made meaningless. For when the spear quickly rushed back and out of his reach, the rumble he'd been waiting for finally made itself known to him. Past the sound of the storm outside, and the clamor of fighting men within, was the long familiar sound of charging cavalry. It thinned some of the honey.

This Gatehouse guarded the eastern end of the pass, that which led to the Riverlands and the many twists the River Road made through the mountains. Robb's forces needed only hide behind around the nearest bend. So, it really shouldn't have taken them so long to approach, but that hardly mattered.

Jon didn't let the niggling thought distract him, dropping his shoulder to avoid the spear's hungry tip, as that rumble quickly grew louder.

Soon, it was enough that all the men in the room could hear it and know it for what it was.

Merrick was no exception, and when eyes went wide and he glanced away towards the noise, Jon struck.

Ice came down like a breath of wind and, with the distraction, he knew that Merrick would have no time to mount a true defense.

Jon was proven right when the man could barely bring the battered shield up in time, but he had put much more force behind this strike than those before, and the injured leg that he had so expertly made up for up until then finally damned him.

His father's sword bit down to the shield's center, the steel covering the shield shrieked, and the valerian steel ground to a halt just as it cut through the first few bones.

Merrick kept his cry behind his teeth, even as his leg audibly gave out and he fell.

In the corner of his eye, Jon could see Arryck's panic clear in his eyes. It was a deep thing, primal in a way Jon knew well.

Despite that, and how gut-wrenching the man's cry for his partner was, Jon switched his grip to reverse and planted his foot against the gauged steel.

Then, with all his weight behind it, he drove Ice down.

It would take some time to pull the blade back out, especially if it happened to plant itself into the stone. But he had to be sure in this, taking any chance with Merrick surviving this was much too dangerous. Even with Arryck rushing over.

But, instead of fighting to stall Ice's tip rush from the hollow of his throat, Merrick turned his head to Arryck and shouted "Sharphand!" just before Ice slid through him.

Jon stomped the shield the rest of the way down, and ripped Ice free from the wooden track in the same breath.

But Arryck had skid to a stop, and didn't move even a Jon turned to face him.

Instead of rushing foreward to avenge Merrick, Arryck only clenched his teeth until his jaw went white. With his face twisted into a rictus of hatred and pain, he stamped the butt of his spear and cried out.

"ATTACK!" he roared, his throat hoarse.

With roars of "For Merrick!" and "Kill him!" the crowd that had built around their duel stormed forward. Arryck stood in place, and disappeared amongst the bodies.

There were still more men outside the room, but crowd had grown so thick in their fight that Jon hardly needed to look for a target, with every swing he would take a man out of the melee. An arm off at the elbow here, a leg at the knee there, at times more than one.

But he knew what this was, and he couldn't let himself fall into complacency. That way led to ruin in a scrum such as this. Especially with the hunter hiding in it's smoke screen.

So, Jon made it certain that every time he swung was with purpose, taking away Arryck's cover and hunting the man down at once. So long as he kept himself from injury, Jon would be able to put the rest of the men down.

He'd just cut the legs out from under a shieldman, when a whistle came to his ear. Jon quickly twisted, and as he did a blade rang across the back of his pauldron. He swiftly spun away from the spearhead that nearly punched through his skull and to the source, Ice whistling along to split the man's gut open under his cuirass.

But Arryck had retreated back into the crowd the moment he had struck, leaving Ice to carve another man open in his stead. By the way the man had stumble just before the end made it seem like he'd been pushed into it.

The severed rings of his mail hit the ground before he did, but Jon was already turning away to the next.

He repositioned his hands quickly, and brought Ice down with a fury.

His father's blade blurred as it came down, cutting the steel off a spear and a hand from its arm on its path, before sinking deep into an axeman's shoulder right beside the edge of his cuirass.

Just as he was about to rip it back out, a rough blow crashed into his shoulder, strong enough to throw Jon's left side forward. The force of it also tore Ice from his dying foe's flesh, and without that anchor he started falling.

But as he fell Jon twisted his hips, and slid his feet over the stones to whip himself into a tight spin, getting Ice to force his foes into making distance or risk losing something important.

The melee's gotten even thicker, and that spearman's getting learning. He's starting to read me.

It reminded Jon of that day in Rivia, where there were so many bodies pressed in such a small space that most could hardly move their arms. Although this lacked the raw confusion of that, where half the people there were mere townsfolk caught up in it all. That, and the danger of Arryck was infinitely more targeted than a mob's hate.

But he was alone, here, without anyone within his guard ready to strike nor Gwyn above to give him a bird's view of the battlefield.

Ice came down once again, chasing and missing a darting spear, but still cutting open a man's thigh.

Jon twisted, eyes searching for Arryck's bristly grey beard as Ice whipped about to keep the press from getting too close.

As a small group of spearmen gathered towards his left, he slid a foot towards them and pivoted on it, Ice a twirling blur around him. The blade's tip sliced through the wood under the steel of half on the first pass, and took hands on the second.

He straightened as they scattered.

Then world nearly went white, and pain erupted from his left arm, just below the shoulder. Jon could feel a blade cut through something important, important enough that the fingers of his left hand instantly slackened and fell from Ice's grip.

Growling behind his gritted teeth, Jon threw his left side forward and the steel out from him.

Without giving the man enough time to do so much as savour the blow, Jon whipped Ice around as he spun. Even with only one arm behind it, Ice split the man in two just above the hip.

Finally fast enough.

Arryck's halves stayed together just long enough for the man's eyes to show their hate, before a simple nudge from the crowd sent them tumbling.

Still, even with stinger gone the rest of the men-at-arms were a sizable threat. And he couldn't feel his arm, without the feeling of its weight on his shoulder it could have been gone for all he knew.

What was worse, they were cheering, their morale was at an all time high after Arryck landed his blow despite his death. A strange part of his mind compared their elation to that of a hunter having maimed a bear, taking pride in wounding the beast despite losing a hand in the process.

That small part of him led to another, then another, until the whole of him wanted nothing but to prove how wrong they were.

An animal is at its most dangerous when cornered.

And what were men, but animals with overgrown minds?

So, amongst all these lesser warriors, who hid behind Merrick and Arryck's skill and did nothing but mule around as they fought to their limit, Jon moved.

His feet slid over the stones in an age-old pattern, both as it had been taught by his many masters as well as how his body and mind had discovered along the way. The balls of his feet never went any higher than an inch, all obstructions were pushed away, and his feet went around the others like they weren't even there.

Ice flew around him like the moon does the earth, whirling this was and that smoothly, without stopping. Always taking the path of least resistance, and greatest effect. Even the arm that hung limp at his side was used, its weight swung about to bring his balance just the right way.

Blood came down like rain, and the sound of fighting men went like passing thunder.

Eventually, Jon found that the feeling in his extremities had faded. Yet, even as his fingers and toes started going numb, Jon kept moving, his feet sliding through the blood between the bodies and weapons, with his right arm keeping Ice whirling as the other hung lip.

When his vision started failing, and the numbness grew so deep that he could no longer feel Ice with his hand, he kept moving. He depended on the slight pull on his shoulder to know his father's blade was still in his hands, and how it all moved.

He knew he was fading, but a stubborn strength thrummed in his chest. And it kept him moving, kept him killing.

Albin always told him that the Greatsword's greatest defense was its offence.

Death and fear make the Claymore great, he'd say, the right fear can make a man weak. That weakness leaves him open for death.

So, Jon kept moving as smoothly as he could, at times purposefully sloshing his feet through pool of lifeblood to leaves rings along the floor, and bringing Ice high so all would see its edge.

When his sight had gone to blurred figures and a low buzz started to build in his ears, Jon kept moving.

But then, even to his dimmed hearing, the roars grew louder. Quickly, the clang of weapons and shuffle of feet grew more chaotic, the crowd's muffled shouting more hurried as wooden bangs started up.

Robb?

His brother's forces within must have expanded then, he thought, fighting up the stairs and taking more of the walls or towers. That was good, but made no matter. He would keep these men here, the fewer out there the better.

So Jon kept moving, even as the sounds grew distant and the feel of his own breathing faint.

It was only when he heard the murmur of whisper from a familar voice that his movement lagged. After hearing it a second time he started to slow.

Then the rest finally started to slip away, and he fell into... something.

Something warm.

Something that held him close.


Gods, what is that weight?

It pressed down on him, nearly crushing him into the... the outstandingly comfortable surface below him.

Even still, it felt as though his skin was two sizes too small, stretched painfully over his flesh. Jon felt that any movement would pull too far and tear it.

That, and a growing ache stemmed from his shoulder.

He could only barely move his fingers on his right without much pain, but he soon felt cloth between them. Bedding, if the feel was right.

By the lack of camp sounds, Jon guessed that he was in a proper room. Where that might be, or whether it was as a prisoner or not... he'd have to have a look around to get closer to knowing.

The mere thought of that sent a waving ache behind his eyes.

Ignoring it, Jon forced his eyes to open and he discovered what the weight was.

It was Ghost, the big pup was lounging over him. His big head, with his tongue lolled out, was mashed against his own and the rest of him was decidedly atop Jon. Not a single bit of the weight was taken up by the perfect mattress below him.

Jon couldn't so much as shift his torso, only his feet and arms below the elbow were able to move in any meaningful way.

Groaning weakly, he slowly grew more aware of his body and everything that burned him. As the moments passed, his skin felt less and less like wet paper pulled over dry stone, but the tears, cuts, bruises, and breaks made themselves known more and more starkly. Most of all were the layers upon layers of stiches pulling inside his upper left arm.

He ignored it all, and searched.

Roving over the white fur, the hairs slowly becoming clearer, Jon struggled to parse anything out through it.

Sluggishly, his thoughts having slowed to a crawl, he resolved himself and started to turn his head.

His bones ground together, his tendons creaked, and his muscles slithered dryly over each other as he slowly turned his head to the right.

And he saw Ciri.

She was obviously sleep deprived, dark rings circling her eyes, and her hair was wilder than ever.

But it was the dried tear tracks that struck him the most.

The sight of them put a chill in his chest, they were his fault. If he'd only been better...

"Ciri, I-"

The moment the sound left him she snapped awake and nearly threw herself into standing straight.

Her eyes quickly found his and she almost threw herself at him, only to pull back before she even so much as touched him.

"You're awake!" she cried, her trembling hands splayed out on the bed a hand's span away.

Such a short distance had never felt so far.

"How long... have-" he tried to ask, but a dry cough racked his chest, cutting him off and painfully shaking him.

Frantically, Ciri grabbed a cup from a side table. "Days." she said, putting the rim up to his lips once the coughs had abated, "Robb was the one to find you, near the end on the last push to take the walls. He had some of his Guard stay with you, to stem the bleeding." the water was cool, somehow, but he hardly tasted it past the weariness in her eyes, "The very next thing he took was the Maester's quarters, and here we are."

Her eyes went distant then, and the bags under them seemed to darken, "They're still pushing into the mountain, and the sun- the moon has... so it's been... four o-or five days since then." she finished, her hands still trembling.

Gods, she's been awake that long?

"I'm sorry."

She let out a wet huff, "You better be, going off like that. Like this was some kind of heroic story." Ciri then brought her shaking hands to her face, only to stop them and fold them together. Then they squeezed so tight her knuckles whitened, "You have me a scare, you big lump. Even the Lich wasn't so bad." she tried to laugh, but it only came as a cough.

"You-" he started but then Ciri snapped her hands open and snatched a cloth bundle from the side table.

"Your brother told me to tell you that Greywind found this." she said, pulling up the bundle and unwrapping it, "It was stuck hilt deep in a tree he said." Ciri finished, revealing his dirk.

He smiled, even as the new hairline scratch along its face hurt his heart.

"I'll have to thank them both, then." he said, as she laid it on the table next to the washcloth.

They fell into one of their companionable silences then, and all Jon wanted to do was pull her close and breathe her in as he held her together, but his worry was like a drum banging in the center of his mind.

"I know... that something is wrong, Ciri." he said, and it pained him the way those words made her eyes snap open.

"No! Nothing's wrong!" she said, more panicked than he'd ever seen her before, "You're here, you're safe, you're healing! Your arm will be fine!"

His stiches tugged, but Jon ignored it, "Not that." he said, shaking his head weakly, "You. You've been hurting, keeping what's causing it from me."

Ciri's panic quickly faded, replaced with another mood he'd so rarely seen. Trepidation.

Jon continued, "You've been sick for weeks now, almost paranoid, your moods have been changing like the wind." it hurt him, but he brought his hand up to cup her cheek. "What's wrong, love? You don't have to protect me like this, you know that."

She leaned into it, grabbing his wrist to relieve the pressure on his arm, "I know." she said, eyes somewhat distant, "But not yet."

"Ciri..."

"Nothing's wrong, Jon. It's just complicated." she sighed softly, "I just have to find the right way."

"Not with me."

Ciri took a deep breath, and the woman he loved came back to herself in full, her eyes now filled with resolve. "When you're healed." she said, in the very same tone their grandmother used to use, "I'll tell you then, not a second sooner."

Jon smiled despite the not-so-compromise, Ciri was more herself in that one moment than she'd been in the past few days. That alone was enough for him, for the time being.

Now, if only he wasn't so tired.

Then he could see his Ciri longer, instead of drifting off to sleep.


Notes:

Now, I might have been able to mention this in the chapter itself, but I couldn't really find the place for it, but the balcony is too small for Jon to use Ice to cut the lock. Hence the pulling.

Since the West is stupid wealthy, they're able to afford things like full candles to light their hallways and steel banding their more important doors. And, since the Tooth is high up there in rank, they have to do so.

In some of the stuff I've read about some of the larger RL castles, that had an advanced set of portcullises, the gatehouses had a sort of treadmills that oxen or bulls would walk on to pull up the portcullis! I thought that this was interesting, so I put it in!

Also, with the spearheads wedged under the wheels, where the soldiers would be able to see them without really looking, it would take at least a few hours to get them out. Plus, if they took the locks out, the weight of the protcullis would only drive them deeper underneight. Thankfully for Robb, that didn't happen, so he gets control of the gates pretty quick and doesn't have to replace any parts.

For those perceptive ones, you might have noticed that the Golden Tooth's dampening effect on Jon's warging abilities (And other non-seven supernatural stuffs) also mugged up his mental faculties. In this story, that was actually purposefully done on the part of the GT's builders! It was made to defend against magic users who were either the priesthood or of the Leffords. Much like how Winterfell is aware, but on a much lesser scale. Ciri is unaffected because of the "outsider" nature of her magic, plus it's dimensional aspects.

At the end of Jon's stand there was no one left in the room, some went to face Robb's forces as they came in, but the rest were killed slowly but surely. In the end Jon was basically "dancing with no one watching" with Ice.

Yes, Ciri is procrastinating, but she's also concerned for how the news would affect his health. He would definitely get both excited and worried, and she knows that would exacerbate his injuries despite his good healing.