authorsnote: sorry this took a minute! but gods this was a fun chapter to write
warning: jon goes full video game hero and its awesome
do review!
songrecs: Dead Before the Dawn - GOT Season 8
'Why here?'
'So the gods can see'
- Cersei Lannister and Eddard Stark
-x-
When Jon awoke with a groan, shooting pain up his side, face, and just about a soreness everywhere, he wasn't sure if it was for the better or worse that no one had found them, that they remained, lying in the clearing, Ghost and Greywind watching over them, Robb awaking next to him with a moan, the bodies around them immobile and clearly dead, but no rescue on its way either.
Jon knew as he forced himself into a sitting position with a curse that it was for the better, that they didn't want to answer the hard questions that would come with being found like this, but as he felt blood trickle between his fingertips, where he'd managed to press his hand to his wound, he worried they wouldn't be alive to answer any questions if they left it much longer.
"Are you mortally wounded?" Robb coughed out, and Jon shook his head, yes, he was being dramatic, he knew the blows he'd taken, though painful were not fatal, it was only the one in his side that worried him, and he knew that wouldn't kill him if it were treated properly.
If, and soon.
"No" He managed to say for it was partially true, coughing, wiping his lips, blood staining his tunic, the clothing ruined, the least of his concerns, "You?"
"No" Robb replied back and Jon grunted, happy, they'd somehow both come away alive from such a dual, at least somewhat.
He wasn't sure who'd had it worse.
Robb fighting multiple opponents at once, competent fighters, good fighters even to stand by the Mountains side, with Greywind aiding him and Ghost more often than not.
Or Jon who'd defeated the Mountain and still stood?
Okay, probably himself, but it had been a close run thing, too close run.
"We need to get back" Jon said as he rolled over, forcing himself to his knees. He let out a groan, agony shooting up his side. The rest of him ached, it was sore yes, but nothing like his side, he could tell that wound was different.
Bad different.
But for now, he couldn't worry about that, wounds could be fixed, but heads couldn't be put back on, and he knew that was where he'd be heading, straight for losing it, if anyone found them as they did now, both hunched over, surrounded by the dead men, dead Lannister men.
They were two Northerners in the South, one a bastard, and they had just killed a Southern Lord, and the mad dog of a powerful man; Tywin Lannister.
Jon didn't know much about him, but what he did was enough.
He knew the Head of House Lannister and Warden of the West would not accept this insult, for one of his men to be felled by two Northern green boys (in Lord Tywins eyes), and who would believe two Northerners proclaiming they'd been attacked? Who would stand against Lord Tywin if he demanded Southern perverse justice?
Part of him wanted to admit they'd killed the brute, show the fact the Mountain had dueled with him when he'd lost to Ser Loras as evidence, but Jon had little fate in the Southern system, in fact he had none at all.
Robb would probably escape, heir to the North, but Jon, bastard stained might not. He couldn't risk it. He could not risk being put on trial or worse none at all for killing a Southern Lord.
His trust in the South was nonexistent and he had cause to believe he was right for that lack of belief.
'Stark men don't do well in the South' They never had done.
He remembered receiving the news at the Wall, the curling pain in his heart, the cold in his stomach, that the man who'd been his Father, or the closest thing to it, had been slaughtered, beheaded for Southern lies. No, Jon wouldn't follow his Uncles head into the grave, as he had in another life, he wouldn't risk it.
No, this secret would die with them, but they wouldn't die out here too, they couldn't, they had to go on.
"We need to go" He half grunted, half managed to say, and Robbs nod told him they were on the same page, no good could come from taking credit for the Mountains slaying, bar the boast of it, and their egos weren't worth nearly as much as their heads.
Or Jon thought, cold seeping through his blood at the thought, an assassin in their bed chambers, first his and then Robbs, sent by the Queen or Lord Tywin, to cut them down for their insult, no, it was not worth the risk.
And so he heaved himself to his feet, a gasp of pain leaving his lips, but Jon had felt worse, this wound was bad, and he needed aid, but that didn't mean he couldn't endure it.
He'd endured far worse.
They made no move to move the bodies, they hadn't the strength, and Jon knew wild animals would do the job for them. They were far off the beaten path, in the deep of the forest, by this time on the morrow these bodies would just be lumps of flesh, and then nothing at all.
It was where they all ended up in the end.
Except for him.
Jon did pause as he and Robb hobbled to the edge of the clearing, Ghost and Greywind far more spry as they followed, and turned back, Robb didn't comment as Jon relieved Ser Gregor of a dagger at his side, with the House Clegane sigil, and then the same sigil he wore carved rough on a wooden chain around his neck. Both he pocketed, both he claimed, both he would keep just in case.
"This stays with us" He said quietly to Robb as he joined him back at the edge of the clearing, they both glanced back.
"By the Old Gods" Robb replied and Jon nodded, they clasped hands, winced as they did so, but it was done.
They turned away, and didn't look back.
Only dead men lay behind them.
Sneaking back into the Red Keep was easy enough.
By the time they made it back to the Keep it was bordering on night, the walk back taking many hours without horses, they sent a message to the King apologizing for getting waylaid on a different trail, it was easy for Robb to flag down a page as they entered the main keep, the message they gave him claiming they'd caught the scent of a stag with their wolves but ultimately failed in their bounty.
A lie in more ways than one.
They had claimed something after all.
Jon tucked his bounty, the dagger and necklace, in a spot where he dislodged a bit of stone from his bedroom wall. It wasn't the most secure space, a skilled thief would spy it, but anyone amateur would ignore it as he slotted the stone back into place.
It would have been wiser to throw the things away but something compelled Jon to hold onto them.
Evidence, even if the secrets died with them, sometimes it didn't always work that way.
Jon knew that more than most.
And so they had parted at their doors, Robb was battered but Jon knew he was the one worse for wear. They shared a wry smile at their doors, before masters and wolves parted, and Jon, door bolted, Ghost guarding it, was alone.
The trek back to the Keep had taken hours, and he and Robb had been mostly silent, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, gulping down the food they had in their packs, water they had in their skins, Jon a hand clamped to his side, Robb a walking bruise.
They would regroup tomorrow, for now they needed to hide and lick their wounds. For Jon quite literally.
Now he was alone he could take the opportunity to examine said wound and as he did, he winced as he uncovered it.
It wasn't to the bone he was thankful, but it would leave a deep scar over his ribs. He didn't care about that, but he did care about getting it closed, that was essential.
It was with gritted teeth and then a wad of tunic stuffed in his mouth he prodded the wound, the bleeding hadn't stopped as much as he'd hoped, but Jon knew he couldn't go to a Maester, not only would he struggle to explain it, but he trusted no Southerner to treat him.
And so, self-surgery it was.
Quest!
A Stitch in Time
Stitch yourself up.
Reward: 10 Medical Knowledge, 100XP
Failure: Not advised
The book had been silent throughout his decision about the Mountain, to keep it secret, and Jon had been thankful, sometimes his instincts were what he needed, not the book.
He rolled his eyes at it now, but nodded to himself, he knew the stakes, he knew he was bleeding too much, he knew he needed to do this now.
It was agony as Jon forced himself to stand, to take it step by step, getting a clean needle and thread from his kit, a douse of alcohol cleaned it, Maester Luwin had known he nor Robb had no interest in the medical arts but had ensured they knew enough to patch themselves up, had given them both these packs with aid equipment for when they'd gone South.
Jon sent a silent thanks to the Maester and the Gods, as he began to sew.
His stitches were horribly crooked, and he was thankful for the cloth in his mouth as he groaned into the cloth. He'd had worse injuries, but not by much, and he let out a scream as he hit one particularly sensitive part of the wound, but the cloth muffled it, thankfully.
It didn't muffle the pain.
The row of stitches was not pretty but they were tidy, he then splashed alcohol over the wound with a grunt, spat out the cloth and slugged a measure of the alcohol himself, before collapsing onto his back.
He was just swimming into sleep, something he probably should have fought, as the book hovered its words.
Quest Complete!
A Stitch in Time
Stitch yourself up.
Reward: 10 Medical Knowledge, 100XP
= Medical Knowledge: 10, XP: 2700/2500XP, You can level up!
And then…
Warning!
But everything went black before he could read it.
It became clear, deep into the night, the Keep sleeping, that the wound Jon had taken was a touch more severe than he'd hoped.
More than a touch.
He knew that as he bolted awake and had to bite down hard on his lip to keep the shriek of agony out of his mouth. He'd fallen asleep wounded, and as he slumped to his side, something akin to a whimper left his lips, he knew it was bad.
Worse than bad.
He was no medic, but as he examined his wound the stitches he'd forced into his skin were warm, uneven, and a trickle of blood escaped between them, the wound was deeper than what the stitches could hold, the wound was too deep, the bleeding hadn't stopped, and it was too hot.
Warning!
You have taken mortal damage! Seek help from a Maester or a Weirwood Tree immediately!
He rolled his eyes, a groan leaving him, he hardly needed the book to tell him things weren't looking good, he could feel it, the pain in his side, the agony leeching up into his ribs, why bother him with that? Why tell him what he knew? That he'd have to trust some Southern Maester, even if he couldn't stand the thought.
But wait –
He looked back over the text, the writing was red this time as it hung in the air, clearly to emphasize the emergency, but his eyes lingered not on the entire message but the end.
Master or Weirwood Tree.
A Maester was too much of a risk, they were all in the royal families keeping here, and this wasn't a scratch of a wound, he'd have to explain how he got it, and even if he could make something up he couldn't risk it, not with the Mountain now missing, not with the suspicion it would cloud over him.
He also didn't trust Lannister Maesters as far as he could throw them, he'd be vulnerable under their care, and that was not something he'd be willing to risk.
'Starks don't do well in the South'
And didn't he know it.
But he had another option; a Weirwood Tree, he remembered the words, the bonus he got when identifying with the Old Gods.
Weirwood Healing
This is a unique ability that allows you to heal through the power of the Weirwood Tree. This is an extremely useful ability to ensure you are always in tip top condition! However (there is usually a however!), this ability becomes worse the more frequently you do it! It is not a constant quick fix!
What good it had done him already, and then as he groaned again, in annoyance (and some moderate panic setting in) that there were no Weirwood Trees this far South, he remembered his other quest.
Quest Alert!
A Prayer in the South
Find the hidden Weirwood none could burn in the Capitol.
Reward: Weirwood healing available in the Capitol, 5 Map of the South, 5 History Knowledge, 1 PER, 200XP.
Failure: The Weirwood and it's healing remain lost to you. -1 PER, -1 INT.
There was one to be found.
He was hardly in the best state to go traipsing around looking for a long lost Weirwood Tree, and yet he knew this was his solution, he couldn't visit a Southern Maester the risk was too high, and finding this Weirwood Tree would be invaluable, not just now, but for however long he remained in Kings Landing, and the rewards weren't bad either.
But where would he even begin to look?
He grunted as he resisted the urge to slump back into sleep, the pain was intense, but he knew this sleep he might not wake up from.
He'd died and risen once, he did not want to do so again. Next time he went he wanted Westeros safe behind him and did not want to wake back up.
'Look in the place most obvious' Those words flashed into his head, where from he didn't know, but he clung to them.
Most obvious.
Where was obvious?
The Godswood? He hadn't even visited the one here, it meant nothing without a Weirwood Tree, what was a Godswood if the eyes of the Gods weren't able to see them? Would there be a hint there?
He didn't know, but at least it was a place to start.
If he was going to do this, he had to do it now.
And he had to hurry.
With a groan he forced himself to sit up, he'd endured worse than this, his body was soft now, but his mind was hardened, he'd endured, and he would endure again.
He had to hurry but he also had to be prepared, it would be pointless if he died looking for it.
A splash of water on his face woke him up, and then another slug of the harsh Northern alcohol he'd bought South, another splash on his wound with a grunt, and then he grabbed bandages from his kit, one small enough he'd tossed it in his pack but was now thankful for beyond measure.
He pulled the bandages harshly around his ribs, tied them off, it didn't look pretty but it would hold his insides in for a time, and the harsh tightness of the bandages helped with the pain. His tunic followed, and he'd never taken his boots off, he was almost ready to go.
Almost being the operative word.
He whistled to Ghost who followed his master without question. His sword at his side, he wouldn't be winning any legendary fights but he could fend people off, gods willing he wouldn't need to.
One more slug of drink, and then he stiffened his back, he'd endured worse.
That was all he kept telling himself as he walked out of his room and down into the courtyard.
At least he knew where to look.
One turn of the gardens and he found the Godswood with ease.
First, the cold air helped rouse him, and he'd stopped by the kitchens on his way out, requested a harsh steeped tea, that helped too, as he'd drank it, scalding in one in the doorway before making his way out into the gardens, he was thankful this late at night the Keep was quiet, and he was left be, the servants hadn't batted an eye at his request, far used to the eccentric behaviors of Lords and Ladies.
For he was starting to limp now, the pain throbbing, but he carried on, pushed on, even as his ribs ached and he knew he wasn't far from needing to go to a Maester.
But not yet, not until he was dying, and even then he wasn't sure a Maester would do anything but watch it happen.
Perhaps I am already, he thought to himself, and perhaps he was, but grim determination was all he had to cling to, and cling to it he did as the tea helped pushed him forward, into the Godswood, hopefully towards salvation.
It was a beautiful place, large and overlooking the Blackwater Rush, full of pretty trees, a large oak with dangling smokeberries and yet Jon couldn't feel the presence of the Gods, not really, not like in the North, not here with no faces carved into the wood, here it was different, here it felt empty.
Here the Southerners had cut down the Heart Trees, turned their back on those of the North, and look at what it had done to them, the Andals had invaded and severed ties, and this was the skirmish it had created, two Kingdoms, never quite in harmony for a reason. And Jon belonged in a way to both.
Jon might be of the South, half Targaryen, but they hadn't worshipped the Seven either, he felt no affinity with Southern Gods, and the Godswood here was a pale imitation of the one of Winterfell, if it could even be called that.
And yet surely if there was a Heart Tree, a forgotten Weirwood, it would be here. Where else could it be? Look at the place most obvious.
At the edge of the Godswood lay a stump, and next to it a short wall that protected the edge of the Godswood from the Blackwater Rush below, he smoothed a hand over the stump, and felt something, something tug at him. Ghost too twitched next to him, ever silent but he moved, and Jon knew why, he could feel it too, they both could.
This had once been a Weirwood, he didn't know how he knew it, but he did, he could feel it in his veins, the presence of his Gods here, so far South, it was both a comfort and a horror.
A comfort to know the Gods followed him, whichever had bought him back, and those his ancestors had followed, that he and Robb weren't alone, as much as they felt it, but also a horror because this was wrong.
This couldn't be the Weirwood to heal him, what did the quest say?:
Find the hidden Weirwood none could burn in the Capitol.
None could burn. This tree had been felled, which meant there had to have been another.
But where?
He was out of places to look, and rapidly panicking, had this been a fools errand? Should he have risked a Maester? Or asked Robb to patch him up? He shouldn't have fallen asleep, but would that have made any difference? Had he been a fool? He was out of places to look.
Until his eyes fell on the rushing river.
Surely not?
He felt dread curdle in his stomach, a deep dread as he looked at the black water.
The water below was dark, he'd snagged a torch from a sconse in the main hallway on his way here which he held aloft, and lights from the Keep lit up the Godswood, but it was still dim, and the water black, so why was he looking at it? Why was something tugging him towards it? Why?
If he was wrong he'd die, the water was fast, it was dark, if he plunged into the cold sea and found nothing he'd surely die, there was no question of it. His wound would fester infected, or he'd be swept out too weak to fight the waves, calmer as they were close to the wall, but still rushing, hence the name. If he was wrong, he'd perish, from infection, or drowning, he'd die, alone, cold, in the dark of the South.
They wouldn't even be able to find his bones to return them to Winterfell.
Or worse, he remembered the very first page of the book;
Welcome Jon Snow.
You have FIVE lives left, as you are the PTWP you can carry on.
Five lives left, if he drowned here, alone in the South, would he just rise again? And when would he, down to four lives? Back at the start again? Or here, minutes before making the choice? Would he awake later or earlier? Would all the changes he'd made be for nothing, would he have to do it all again?
' When I fall, don't bring me back' The words echoed in his head for a moment, before they disappeared, but he knew they were right, he couldn't do this, again and again.
And yet he might have no choice, if he died here, if he was wrong, he didn't know what waited.
But if he was right, he'd find the Weirwood, hidden in the place most obvious, but completely out of sight, protected and hidden, where none could burn.
Of course no one would have found it, ships didn't come in this close, and who was swimming in the rush this close stone walls? No one, and so of course a Weirwood would have gone unnoticed, hidden beneath the waves, protected from the andals who would have burned it, unburnt, its roots deep into the seabed, its leaves not even poking out.
Which meant the water was deep, very deep, or he was wrong.
There was only one way to find out.
Was he a fool? Addled by his wound? Or was that voice echoing in his head; 'Search in the place most obvious', and was the tug he felt in his stomach his wound? Or was it something more, guiding him towards what could save him?
He wouldn't even be able to see under water, not in the dark, but he knew, as he lifted his tunic and the light of the torch showed blood on his bandages, too much blood, he wouldn't make it until morning, it was now or never.
The tug in his stomach, urging him forward, that would be his guide.
It was madness, perhaps he had a fever cooking him, was his paranoia at Southern Maesters so strong? Or was there something else, something deeper, something really motivating him ; I am meant to find this.
This was more than a distrust of Southerners, more than wanting to avoid a Maesters awkward questions, and it always had been, this was something deep down, right next to that tug.
I am meant to find this.
"Ghost stay here" Were his last words, his last command, his last action was to pull off his boots, yank off his weapons belt, and then with a run, an arching run and jump, so he couldn't take it back, so he couldn't hesitate, so he could clear the low wall, he launched himself in a dive, a deep arc, right into the Blackwater Rush, and hoped he was right.
I am meant to find this.
Those words were little comfort to him as he plunged into the water.
Gods it was cold, no it was freezing.
It might have killed any Southerner, but Jon was used to the freezing cold, his water on the Wall had always been ice water, and so as cold as it was, as much of it was a shock, he kept his mouth clamped shut, he wouldn't take any water in, he was used to the cold, he was half Stark after all.
And he was somewhat immune, he remembered the book (which he'd kept in his chest pocket, he didn't know what others would be able to read in it, but if he died, it died with him), pointing out a Northern bonus:
Resistance to cold
What was worse than the cold was the darkness.
He couldn't see anything.
He hoped the water here, rushing as it was, was cleaner than in the bay, but he couldn't depend on it, he kept his mouth clamped shut, and his eyes too, he hoped the Weirwood would clear any infection, and besides, it was pitch black anyways, what was the point in opening his eyes?
But the tug in his stomach, in his chest propelled him.
The current was strong, and so Jon reached for the stone wall, he could get no purchase but it was good to have it next to him, the current was further out, and it was good to anchor him, to stop him being swept away into nothingness.
But he knew, to find the Weirwood, he had to go deeper, there was a reason no one had ever seen red leaves peeking out of the rush.
And so, knowing he could hold his breath okay, knowing he had no real choice, he was fit enough, he plunged deeper, the tug in his chest driving him to do so, even as agony speared his ribs, he forced himself to ignore it.
A minute passed of him kicking further into the freezing, rushing water, fighting the current, agony in his ribs, for him to panic, the tugging in his chest grew stronger, or was that his lungs? Crying out for air?
Had he been a fool?
Had he been wrong?
Would he wake months earlier again? Everything he'd done undone? The thought made him want to scream, to beg the Gods that if this time he died, let him die.
'If I fall …'
Something brushed his leg.
Something standing.
This was not debris, this was- he shot a hand out, this was leaves, this was bark, he almost laughed, or cried, or both as he grasped it, the sturdiness of it practically quelled the current against him, and as Jon swam closer, closer and closer, hands gripping the wood, he tugged, nothing came away, this wasn't some plant, this was a tree, he grabbed at a strong branch, tugged, and near cried out, or would have, were he not keeping the water out, his lungs screaming at him to hurry.
He pushed further down, further and further, his lungs screamed but he ignored them, the tug in his chest was yanking him down and down, and then he felt the trunk, he felt the center, he brushed over what he swore was a carved eye, and he felt the familiar tingle up his arm.
He'd found it.
Gods be good he'd found it.
He opened his eyes as the light that had healed him last time poured from the Weirwood, illuminating under the water, there it was, a brilliant, tall, Weirwood Tree, its roots deep into the bed of the river, its trunk tall and strong, but its branches twisted and short, it had never revealed itself, same and tucked under the water, waiting for someone to find it.
For him to find it.
'Well done Jon Snow, well done son of the North and South, be healed in the god's light, as you are chosen, and always remember, remember, the ink is dry'
The voice boomed in his head, loud and clear as it had before, loud and clear and true, and he was smiling, as the pain in his lungs, the agony in his ribs just slipped away, as though carried away on the current, as though it had never been there at all.
The Gods of the North saw to his healing, and he was smiling as the light died, and he was healed, utterly and thoroughly, not a bruise on him, not a cut or a wound. He was alive, his lungs filled again with air, and the swim up was far easier, the current nothing to him now without the pain of having to fight it, he cut through it with ease.
It was as though the Gods swam beside him.
He had found it.
And as he flopped onto a bank a little further down, and practically sprinted, well and energetic back to the Godswood to find Ghost, diligent Ghost flopped on his side, as though he'd never doubted his Master would return.
He turned to the book, and that was when he laughed, that was when, not even cold anymore, he laughed, as it shined, its words silver again.
Quest Completed!
A Prayer in the South
Find the hidden Weirwood none could burn in the Capitol.
Reward: Weirwood healing available in the Capitol, 5 Map of the South, 5 History Knowledge, 1 PER, 200XP.
= Weirwood healing available in the Capitol! Map of the South: 40, History Knowledge: 45, PER: 26, XP: 2900/2500, You can level up!
And he would, as he flopped on his side next to Ghost with a laugh, he would when he returned back to his rooms, well and healed, thanks to a Weirwood tree under the sea.
This was the stuff of stories.
His story.
well I told you he goes full video game hero lol
I've had a few complaints this story is too ... video gamey? um? thats the point lol
also yes, jon will be often overpowered and favoured here, again its jons story, obvi I'm gunna favour him
anywho, I do hope you enjoyed! do review if you can, they really motivate me
back to monthly updates, more politicking to come, and soon we do leave kings landing
... for now
speak soon