The Bastard of Winterfell

Jon felt rather self-conscious when he opened his eyes after he was done singing. He knew not to expect any applause. He was a bastard after all, but the expressions of those around him seemed off. As if he had done something remarkable, but that was impossible.

Even if no one else liked it, he admitted to himself that he enjoyed doing, even if Lord Stark was adamant that it was a womanly art. It somehow felt freeing to him. Like going at a full gallop throught a snow-swept field. And unlike the effort he had to go through to achive it, all he needed to do here was to open his mouth. He marveled at it.

He looked down at the worn harp the Nights Watch man had lent to him. It somehow felt right in his hands. As if his fingers were made to wrap around the wood and pluck its strings. He compared it to the feeling of holding his first sword. When he had picked it up, he felt the additional weight of duty. Something to master until it would become one with him, to protect what was dear to him.

And by all accounts, he was good at it. Some of the Men-at-Arms said something about bastards growing up faster. But Robb was quickly growing taller than him, so he didn't know what they were on about.

This felt different. It already felt like a part of him. A part that had been denied or missing. He relished the feeling. He did not think letting go of his emotional constraints could feel like this. He let go of his nervousness to sing in front of so many people. He let go of his raw feelings and tried to tie them into his voice, giving them time to breath at the surface, where he would usually tried to tie them down and out of sight.

And it was freeing. In that moment the entire court of Winterfell could have thrown rotten food at him and he would have born it with a smile, let their disgusted sneers and angered shouts wash harmlessly against this newfound feeling of tranquility.

Yet none of these things happened. In fact, the hall was still quiet like the grave, save for the crackling of the hearth. He shrunk in on himself, unsure. If they were that quiet, he had to be pretty bad, right?

He tried handing the harp back to its owner, but the man simply shook his head and pressed it back into his hands, albeit gently. He did not do or say anything else, save for leaning back down on his seat with a far look on his face, somewhere between whistful and nostalgic.

Not knowing what else to do exept to quietly thank both men that had given him a gift and good advice, he got up from his seat and walked off towards his room in the servant quarter. No one stopped him, but he had almost every eye in the hall following him out. The Hightable he kept out of sight with sheer willpower. He did not want to see their expressions, what with the reaction of the hall.

The walking helped him to think and reflect on what he heard before. They were lying to him. He would love to say that it was the strangers that were lying to him, but he could not. He had two very good clues that let him know who exactly wanted to deceive him.

First, was their reason. What reason would they have to pull the wool over his eyes? Sure they might do it to get him to join up with them. His uncle said they always needed more men at the Wall, but lying to dissuade him from joining? He could not think of a reason to do so, while he could take a guess why Lord Stark wanted his greatest shame out of sight.

His throat grew tight at the thought, but his feet carried him further down the corridor. He always knew that he was different to Robb and then his siblings. The look in their parents eyes was unmistakable. It was so soft, so tender, and so full of warmth that he made the mistake of believing he could warm himself at their side and bask in their love and affection.

That had been quickly rectified the first time he tried to get the same treatment from Lord and Lady Stark. He still remembered the coldness in those eyes as she looked down at him, like his mere existance was an insult to her.

That he could at least understand by now. He was after all, precisely that.

What hurt far more was the attempt at familiarity that Lord Stark tried to show him the few times when no one was looking.

His smile was so cold. It looked like it pained him to even look at him. His lips might have been in the right place to call it a smile, but it was wrong. Too sharp, too thin-lipped.

Most of all, were his eyes. The eyes that never really seemed to look at him, but someone else. And whoever that was, surely earned the Lords ire. He could feel it, even if he was not the intended target. For all it did seem like it sometimes.

The second reason, he though as he came to a stop infront of his door, was the reaction of the people around him, whenever he voiced his interest in joining the Black Brothers.

He twisted the handle and stared into the small crack to his room. Lord Stark had a mixture between vindication, relief, and guilt on his face when he heard it. What was that all about?

He entered his room and set his new instrument on the side of his bed while deep in thought. The other people had given him looks that were more along the lines of pity, sympathy, or sadness. When he asked them why, they either divert the topic or say it was nothing and affirm his statements with placid smiles on their faces.

He never knew what to make of it, but now he had the right context for it. They were not speaking with the conviction of someone who believed in their words, but with the sound of someone who had been ordered to say so, damn what the truth may be.

He leaned back with a sigh on his bed and draped one arm across his face to blot out the light from his eyes. He needed to think more on this.

Maester Luwin told him to break bigger problems down into manageable parts, so he tried that.

His place in Winterfell was temporary, of that there was no doubt. Sooner or later, Lady Stark would insist about him being gone from here. And Lord Stark would, sooner or later, give in.

Just like with the sept at the heart of the North, or the Septa that his little sisters had to contend with. He heard whispers about both more often than he cared to count. He may say that it is to honour his Lady wife, but clearly people came to their own conclusions.

The status he was bestowed with, granted him a layer of invisibility. Mostly ignored by the highbornes in favor of his siblings and looked over by servants as no one important enough to report their wagging tounges.

His cheeks reddened a touch beneath his arm as he recalled some of the more crude remarks. About how good the Lady Stark must be in certain aspects and positions of their marriage, in order to make the Warden of the North sell himself like the Storm Kings of Old.

With a mental shudder, he focused again on his problem. He would have to leave this place. As much as he wanted to be a Master-at-Arms right here, that path was barred to him.

The Nights Watch was where he believed the best place for him to be, to gain some honour for himself and his family. But that seemed no longer to be the chase, according to the men serving themselfs.

There was no honour in becoming a sellsword, fighting and killing, simply to get to the next payday.

Knights had some honour in the tales. But even to be a lowly hedgeknight, one needed to be a squire first and he did not think that the gruff Ser Rodrick would give him the time of day.

Plus, he did not hold to the Seven as Lady Stark does and he heard her say that in order to become a fully fledged knight, one needed to stand vigil in a sept. So that was out as well.

And besides that, he heard other tales of knights as well. Of knights, nothing better than common briggands that did unspeakable things to smallfolk and highborn alike, like the Kingswood Brotherhood.

He felt his jaw clentch. Crimes and suffering are not things that should be rated like a marchant did his wares on a scale. He knew that. And yet there was one tale that never failed to set his heart ablaze and ice run trough his veins.

Of the 'good' Sers, Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch.

If men can become monsters while deigning themselfs as knights, he wanted no part of it.

Taking deep, shuddering breaths, he mentally crossed that option as well.

The options were getting fewer. (For just a second he could swear he could see a balding man with stormblue eyes nodding at him in approval, but dismissed it.) So he started to give the suggestion by the Man in Black some more thought.

Is being a bard something honourable? He would need to talk to those men some more if they let him. He had listened to them with rapt attention.

One part because he felt guilty for throwing snow at the nice man with Robb. Second, because he spoke with an accent that he had great trouble understanding.

Was that how all the people in Kings Landing talked? Would he have to learn to speak and sing that way to make it big in the South?

The uncertainty, coupled with everything else that happened today made his chest roil with emotions. Having them run wild not long ago did not help in putting them back in their place.

For some reason it was a lot harder than usual. It felt like packing to much into a container fit to burst, instead of the jawning hole he had let them fall into before.

It wanted out.

He got up and started to pace in the confines of his room like a caged animal, almost reflective of how he felt on the inside.

He was unsure as to what to do with it. He could not just saddle up a horse and go for a ride, as much as he wanted to. Then his gaze fell on the gift he had received. He was still unsure as to why he had been given the harp.

Maybe he wanted him to train with it, like with the sword? To get better the next time he played in front of an audience? Perhaps even get a few people to clap for him?

It was one way for them to bestow honour upon you, no? People clapped for returning hereos. They calpped for the winners of a tourney, at a wedding or even when a king passed by, didn't they?

So it stood to reason that it was how the masses show their approval and recognition of you, their love and their addoration.

Something slammed into his mind then, and when he saw again, he saw himself standing on a giant stage with towers made out of metal and materials he could not name, making multicoloured light shine down upon them like the noon day sun.

On the stage were naught but a handful of people, that Jon would be hard pressed to describe as anything even approaching the word 'noble'. Their long, sweat soaked hair waving about wildly, covering their faces like a shroud as they played on instruments, that only had a passing resembly with anything he could name.

It took him a embarassing long moment to realize what was below them.

It was a varitabel sea of people. Outnumbering any army he had ever heard of. There must have been tens-, hundreds of thousands of people below him, all shouting their praises and jubilation so loud, it must have reached the gods themselfs.

The vision was broken as soon as it came and he stumbled back, reeling.

Whatever he just saw made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

The memory was so strange that his mind tried to dismiss it as nonsense almost out of instinct. It drained away the details like water in his hands, but he managed to hold onto something.

A musician could not only gain honour, but glory as well.

Mind made up, he took hold of his harp and made his way out of his room, already humming a tune beneath his lips.

He would need somewhere he could practise. Searching his memory for a suitable spot for him to sing where he would not be a bother to others, it came to him.

The broken Tower.

It was the highest place in Winterfell, well over a hundred feet high and away from ears that he was sure, would rather not hear him.

The other place was the crypts, and he felt rather uncomfortable down there with the judging statues as his audience. Not to mention what people would start to come up with when they heard voices coming from down there.

While on his way there, he tried to match his footfalls with the rhythm of the tune that was coming together slowly.

He came across a few servants, scurring around the corridors. All of them seemed to make way for him, however. While he was passing, he spotted the looks some of them were sporting.

They looked at him with expectation. For what he could not tell. Altough they looked to be heavily focused on his lips for some reason. He thought that they looked at them like they held something they longed for.

All such thoughts left him as he spotted one of the few people in Winterfell that truly did not judge him for what he was across the courtyard.

A genuine smile formed on his lips and waved at Walder with one hand, the other still around his instrument.

He thought it sad that there not even ten people in all of the North that adressed him with his actual name, rather than the two syllables that he was forced to repeat after his accident.

The smile he was granted back was big and true. Although Jon thought that there was something different to it. He used to think his smiles kind of goofy and dreamy. Like a child inside a mans body.

He did not care. Walder was good people.

Now though there were a lot more emotions dancing in his eyes, as the half-giant waved a big hand back at him.

He continued on his way towards his new practice yard, through a moldy door, dusty cobwebs and uneven flooring.

But he managed to reach the top the tower without much difficulty. He took it all in as he breathed. The crisp northern air, the landscape beyond Winterfell, the distant wolfswood and the faint sound of Mikken's forge.

He decided that it was good enough for what he intended to do here. He sat with his back towards a pile of stone facing north, letting his humming become louder and slowly began to pluck the strings of his harp.

He gently allowed his emotions to run free from their constraints and felt them chasing each other like a exited pack of wolfs.

The louder he allowed himself to become, the quieter the world around him seemed to get. It was almost as if it was holding its breath for what came next.

His heart felt like a comfortable piece of coal in his chest, burning away merrily without hurt or harm. His blood, like a soothing cool liquid running in his veins. It gave him a feeling he could not possibly put into words.

So, he did not.

Jon had planned on singing some sort of ballad for a Stark King, but the tune he had been humming all this time seemed to get a mind of its own.

He opened his mouth and simply, sung.

"Aaa~, haa~"

It came out as a clear note, like the first breeze heralding the storm on the horizon. There was finally a way to express himself. All the melancholy and shame he felt that derived from his station as the bastard of the most honourable Lord in the seven Kingdoms.

All of it had at last a way to escape him. They clawed their way up his stomach, squeezed themselves past his too tight throat, and were released into the winds, misting alongside with his breath.

With every breath, the emotions he added to his voice became more numerous. And they needed no cleverly written text to express themselves. All they needed was that he surrender himself to it.

" Haaa~, aahaaa~"

Deep to high, the tone of his voice rang. From a harmonic, happy trill. To a screech of sorrow and anger.

He sang with the joy of having his loving siblings. Trembled and cracked with the longing and grief at the thought of his nameless, faceless mother.

Before he raged and screamed his defiance against the injustice of this world and its unwillingness to provide him even with a name to call out for, when he lay crying in his bed after a nightmare.

All this and more he tried to give voice to, while not a word left his lips.

The wind swirled around him, carrying the echoes back to him, that seemed to merge into something more than the sum of their parts.

In his heart of hearts, he believed it was his mother that he heard that day, joining her voice to his.

With tears running freely, Jon Snow stood atop the highest point in Winterfell, singing until his voice got lost.

It all came to a close with a hopeful note. In the privacy of his mind, he prayed to the Old Gods that he still had some more family out there and that the winds were kind enough to carry his voice to them.

But he knew such a thought to be vain, he thought with a wan smile.

He felt spent then. Not in a exhausted way, but he felt like the constant weight on his shoulders was gone. The tight band around his chest cut away, so he could finally breath freely.

Something had risen inside of him now. Something that was asleep for a long time and refused to lay back down in its place.

And Jon thought that he did not want it to.

The Raven

He was getting close. Oh, so very close. He did not remember anymore how long it had been since the earthsingers had imprisoned him. Dragged him to this place and wed him to the roots of the biggest weirwood he had ever seen, with a face so furious, it had made his knees weak.

The pain was worse than anything he could have imagined. To this very moment he could feel the roots digging into his flesh, splitting bone, and sucking marrow. Feasting on his very essence.

Yet every moment of suffering brought him closer to his goals. He did not remember every face of his so called succsessors, even if they were faces that he took over in time.

They say a warg could live a second life. He, on the other hand had lost count of how many lifes he had lived and comsumed by now.

At times, it felt like he would bloat, like a drowned pig. And soften into sludge. Yet he kept his form with effort.

The earthsingers were an intruiging people. He watched at times how they came together in their councils and decide on new rules amongst themselves, as the shifting of time requires of all people, big and small.

What cought his attention all that time ago, was that none of them broke those new rules, let alone the others.

Ever.

The sheer idea of breaking a taboo seemed anathema to them, the breaking of rules as foreign to them as a bird was to the bottom of the sea.

Therefor, no one enforced them.

And so he had planned. He waited. He spent his first life as a willing servant to the Old Gods.

He watched. He observed. He reported. Again and again. The weeks and months seemed to melt together like seconds, until they brought in another with the Sight. One that had sinned against the Gods like he did.

It was as he lay dying, what little blood his form still had pooling around him, ripped from the roots like some sort of infestation, that he struck.

The biggest Taboo one of their kind could commit. But what was one more to a kinslayer?

He had to admit, the first fight was the hardest. The only reason he had succeded during the second wedding of the great weirwood, was because all the attention of the groom was on what was happening infront of his two eyes.

He never expected the attack to come from the third.

They wrestled for control inside the new seer's mind. They ripped and tore at each other, howling and spitting. The younger was more powerful than him, beating him back with resolve until it looked like he was to have his final death.

That was until the roots began to burrow.

He could hear his opponent scream in his mind, and began to pull away from his waning form. Invigorated, he attacked back. Far more used to the agony the roots carried with their tender embrace.

Little by little, his enemy was consumed by him. And with him, his strenght and power.

The children were too busy singing their binding magics to notice that the struggle was not only against the roots, but what now inhabited his body.

So he let the ritual happen without protest, welcoming it like an old friend.

The one after that was more alert. He even tried to warn the singers of what was actually happening, but all that left his mouth were bloody screams.

So he conserved his power, until his reach grew and was strong enough to impart dreams.

His captors said time was like a river. He agreed.

Where they differt was that he was aware of what his kind capable of, they did not.

The things he could only glimpse at, when he dared to look into the far beyond, was nothing short of miraculous, even if it would make the children weep.

He knew that rivers could be diverted, dams could be errected, ditches build, and so much more.

Yet he dared do little in the grand scheme of things, hardly anything he was capable of, for the children still watched the surface river for any ripples that may occur.

But they could not gaze beneath it. So he worked small, unassuming changes.

A pregnant Lady, thrown from her horse during a hawking trip here, a gored king there.

Deaths that were to come soon enough already could become so much more, if just the timing were right.

One rock removed could make the current gain power and make it overflow the riverbank, where it would have stood strong before.

The devastation that his changes wrought could be felt magical and mundane around the world. And therefor, managed to dwindle his captors numbers to the pittance they were now.

Yet it was one very special Rivers that he sought next for himself.

His watchers grew more lax after the thousands of years they had watched him, so it was time for him to grow bold.

It was him that sent him the visions of a dragon splitting in half. One head red, the other black, biting each other.

It was him that had shown him the battle to come. Of the ridge where a few men could sway the tide of battle.

It was him that motivated him to commit the sin under a peace banner that would send him right where he wanted him to be.

Right in his claws.

Though it burned as he touched and devoured him. A glowing coal down his gullet, every time he ripped a piece from him.

Oh, how he writhed and struggled, the blood of the dragon indeed.

He even had the wisdom to spare his strength in this battle of attrition and willpower.

Him, in near absolute control, yet unable to take more than nibbles out of the prey under his talons. And his prey, unable to escape the giant claw of his real captor, yet still able to hurt and stall him when it mattered.

Still, he was confident. As many as eyes as he claimed to have, what was a raven with a single eye, aginst one with three?

He suspected the other one he needed would be the same. The blood of Winter Kings too cold to take anything but a sip from, like this one was too hot.

Yet, it materred not. He was powerful enough to trap each one of them in a single claw of his.

It meant that all he needed to do now was to bide his time just a little bit longer. All pieces were in place. Every turn of the river was laid out like he invisioned it to. Everything that was to be done now was to let the current take him there and play along with those few that would interact with his future body.

"You're a man now!"

He smirked to himself and replied with the boys lips. "Almost."

Out of all of his faces, the boy would be one of the worst. Exept for himself of course. So he knew how rare was it that a warg would commit all three sins so soon in his life. He would do anything to achive his freedom, he could understand that, but what he will do to that girl inside their keepers body is senseless. So he might even find some enjoyment in using him like he used the doorkeeper.

Even the vanted Song was on its way to die with a pitiful whimper, far away from pack and family. Exiled by them, with the blood of his kin on his hands.

He would love to take credit for the Mad King and his sliver prince, but all he did was to sprinkle a sense of urgency over his dreams.

Every conclusion that happened after, was not even his doing. It felt rather refreshing to have a helping hand after all this time.

All of his plans, pain, and effort would finally leave him free from this prison. Unapposed at the seat of power on the continent. All enemies spent, or destroyed outright. With the last dragon conveniently close by. Riderless and with him having consumed enough fire and ice to make it bend to him.

"Why do you think I came all this way?"

His inspection was interrupted by something. There was somthing on the wind, which was rare enough in this cave. It had a quality to it that was both too high and low for his ears to pick up properly.

What cought his attention was the reaction of his captors.

Without fail, all of them swerved their leaf decorated heads towards south. Some remained stone faced, but he knew it to the brittle sort, cracks already forming. Others held less self disciplin, and let out hitched breaths, their eyes misting over.

Whatever it was, it was getting louder. And with it, the exitement if the children. Their happy whispers mixing with the wind, grading on his every fiber.

He could not stand to hear it, so he took his mind away from them and there. To look again at his carefully laid plan to freedom.

What he saw there was not what he had left.

Between one moment and the next, as if only waiting for him to take his eyes off it, came a enormous wave rolling in from the south, already on it's way towards him. It dwarved the wall and climbed over it like a giant did a paddock fence.

He felt panic then. Like he did when he first lay his eyes on the face of the weirwood he was bound to. He did not know what it would do, but was sure that whatever it was, would wash away all if his effort, like a flashflood carried away a small thatch hut.

He prepared to resist this with all of his accumulated might, when he felt a searing hot pain around his ankle.

Brynden Rivers had latched himself around him with his dying embers. And they, like his gaze, burned hotter than fire.

He looked down into the lone, bloodshot crimson eye of his captive and saw his vindictive, almost manic smile.

A heartbeat later his vision of him was cut off by a swarm of five hundret ravens, submerging him in a cloud of noise and trying to pick his eyes out.

It enraged him. It enraged him so much that in his mixture of panic, fear, and despair he cried out with everything he was, his only thought to end this nuisance.

Only the ensuing silence managed to alarm him that there was somehing else that was not right.

He opened his material eyes and saw his captors looking at him with various expressions of shock, betrayal, and anger. It was only then he realized that he just screamed with every single voice he had. And it made his blood run colder than the blizzards outside.

The children of the forest were an intruiging people. They were never meant for war, lies or subtrefuge. They lived as one with the forest, instead if bending it to their will. Hunted little and never to extinction. They were a peaceful people.

Their expressions that, one by one, morphed into those of absolute fury and hatred, showed him that they, after all this time, learned something from his fellow men.

And it scared him.

Just as the power of coherent thought was under his control again, they opened their mouths in unison.

It is said by the Free Folk that their singing can lure you of a path you walked for your whole life. Others, that it is so beaitiful that a man would walk into a snowstorm to hear it more clear.

The screams that came out of their mouths, pulled into savage snarls, pointed teeth on full display, tears running down their bark like cheeks, was nothing like those legends.

It echoed in his bones, ruptured his ears and made him weep blood. He felt his very being shake from it, screaming unbidden and unheeded.

Just as he was gathering himself against his enemy, the wave slammed into him the force of a mointain.

He flailed helplessly around himself, being tossed around like a ragdoll during a storm at sea.

He felt, rather than saw his life's, the work of all of his lifes, being washed away like it was worthless. With bitter spite the only thing driving him now, he prepared to make his final death something to remember.

Yet the screams came again and again. And unlike before, it was reinforced and complimented by the storm coming from the South.

It was as if they merged their anguished outcries with the voice inside the wind, for that's what it was. A voice that carried its way all the way here and came together in a crescendo, that tore him into pieces. It did not even ebb as it did so.

He felt it rip away his power that he had so painstakingly built, like a mother would rip away the blanket of her lazy child. And just like it, he felt cold and naked.

It did not stop. Submerged into this sea of voices, every note a shark that bit a piece out of him.

He could do nothing more to stop what was happening, any more than he could stop the tides with two hands.

He was being stirred like a sugar cube inside a whirlpool, dissolving until there was nothing left of him.

Until he knew no more.

The Nights King

Ice.

Everthing around him was glacial perfection.

From the permafrosted ground he walked upon, where no life would ever grow. To the snowcapped moutaintops, where not a source of warmth remained.

He serveyed his frozen creation with a ghost of satisfaction. An elegant castle, made out of ice was perched in the middle if the middle of the landscape Its sharp, narrow towers reaching towards the heavens, poised as if to strike at them.

They were shining with all the colours of an icecave being lit up with a torch. Glistening in the sun that struggled each day to rise more than a skip over the flat horizon.

The sharp clacking of ice on ice accompanied his every footstep. He would gift this world with more of his creations.

The vision his creators had for him was just so limited. They wanted him to beat the warm ones back to whence they came, and make cold anyone that resisted.

But why stop there? Why not make everything cold? The cold preserved. The cold was eternal. The cold was perfection.

Why else would men oft offer their sons to him, praying that he made them perfect like himself?

He looked over his vassals that he had given his gift to, inspecting them for blemishes.

No cracks on their white skin. No dirt tarnished the lustrous surface of their armor. No emotion in their cold eyes.

Satisfied, he turned and made his way towards his throne.

He could feel the rest of his creations, and the works they had created in turn. They were slowly, but surely spreading his gift to others that were cursed to live such a short and harsh life. All it meant to be warm was to die a slow, painful death.

He did his best to overcome the expectations that had been placed on his shoulders.

So as he was bidden then, he would do so again. He would save them all and make them eternal. A short time of pain seemed a cheap prize to pay for it, yet so many were reticent to welcome the cold embrace.

He could not understand them. Pain is temporary. What came after, was forever.

He could not believe he why he was so afraid of his task back then. The children had saved him from becoming anything other than what he is now. And for that, he was truly thankful to them and wanted to pay their kindness forward.

When he was but a few steps away from his throne, he felt it. There blew a breeze in his domain. Unlike the frigid winds that were all too common in his Lands of Always Winter. Those that could sap away any heat from a body within minutes.

This one came from the South, and it came with something that he abhorred with instinct.

Warmth.

It seemed to ignore all of his other servants and sought him out without fail. Like a moth drawn to a cold flame.

With a snarl that pulled his frozen features apart, like a crevice crossed a iceshelf, he summoned the icestorm to give battle to this alien in his realm.

He could feel it melting the ice with its temptations of summer and life, but this was his sphere of influence. Here, he was King.

He was gaining ground with every second the forces of nature clashed against each other. Summer and Winter locked in a violent dance.

About to banish this unwanted guest, his step faultered as he heard it.

The was a voice on the wind. A young voice. A voice that cried for something that made his frozen blood positively howl with something long forgotten.

It reverberated inside of him. It shook him to the core to such an extent, he felt it create a fissure inside himself. All the way to the shard that was lodged into his heart.

His enemy did not remain idle. Eager to take advantage of his momentary distraction, it filled the gap in his offensive and the one inside himself. The current rushed in and began to do something to him, he thought someone as immaculate as him would never have to experience.

He began to thaw.

And when he did, a scream tore from his now wet lips, like the cracking of an iceberg.

He was vaguely aware that his vassals were shrieking and spasming on the ground, clawing at their heads to no avail.

As much as he wanted to aid them, he could offer none. He was little better himself, even if the center of his pain was his chest. Amongst his struggles, his slick fingers still had enough strength to rip off his breastplate.

The pain grew to such an extent, he wildly threw his fists to his side, causing great cracks to appear on the ground, snaking their way up the walls of his castle.

There came a low groan, like one would hear a grumpy giant wake up from deep inside of a cave, while you were standing at its entrance. Felt, more than heard, echoing and ominous. It was accompamied by the shattering of a thousand glasses.

He could recognize it as his castle falling in on itself. And like a growing cascade, his connection to his servants snapped one after another, and with them, their own servants.

Yet he could care less at the moment. The shard was piercing his skin from the inside of his ripcage, cracking it open. It was no less painful than it was the other way around.

He felt more and more of his layers dissolve and liquify. And with it the ice-tinted worldview that had been forced upon him. He screamed against those horrid, familiar feelings. It almost sounded human to his ears.

There was a clang of bronze on ice next to his head, at the same time a glass dagger came falling out of his chest.

He lay there on the ground, coughing up what felt like a lakes worth if water, when he blearily opened his eyes to see a spiked circlet just reaching his vision. And for the first time in thousands of years.

Brandon breathed.

It would not be until hours later that he managed to drag himself from the spontaneously spawning lake where his castle once stood, shivering and shaking himself like a wet dog.

He felt overwhelmed. There was so much that had happened. His thoughts chased each other through his mind with wild abandon. Not a moment to settle before the next one.

Yet he would not give this up for the world. Because he could feel and think again. And they were all his own.

Nothing to colour his views, steer his thoughts or dim his emotions.

But there were so many.

He could feel the horror of the people that had fallen under his command. He could hear the terror as the wights came charging into a small village by the dozens. The wail a mother let loose as she watched her children watching her with glowing blue eyes.

A shuddering sob left him, as he felt the guilt hit him like a mammoth stampede.

Blinding fury bubbled inside him, yet rose back down just as quickly. It should have been the answer, but it was not. Any thoughts of revenge against the children left him. Remembering just how many of them had also fallen to his armies. Something had to have gone very wrong for this outcome to happen. That much he knew.

So if they would not seek his death, he would not seek theirs. More than enough blood had been spilled to satiate any ill feelings, and then some.

He recalled a pact that was struck between races, with the sole purpose to keep him here. Far away from the Lands of the Living.

It would not be him to tear down this monument of peace, fragile as it was.

He watched over the ruins of his creation, his towers slowly melting into the lake. It seemed even if he was only half-aware of it, a part of him wanted a seat of his own that rivaled the one of his nephew in size and grandeur.

He had even seen the stronghold from afar, once.

The place, where Winter fell, they called it.

'More like the place I fell from that damned horse.' he thought to himself with dry amusement.

As humiliating as it was, it gave his sullen, stern-faced nephew the chance that he needed.

While it was his defeat and not his death he got that day, he was glad that he did not have to stain his hands with the blood of his uncle, even as twisted as he may have been.

Pride, joy, and something more bitter ran through him at the thought.

He may not have been entirely in control of his actions, but he remembered his face with good enough clarity.

While he was impressed with the list of monikers that he had gathered, he had a favorite that he proved that day.

They did not call his boy 'the Stark', for nothing.

It fitted him like a glove. There was no a trace of emotion to be found on his face that day, as he gave battle to the uncle that had raised him like his own. No remorse to exploit by either himself or his enemies, as he drove him back across the north, using everything he had thought him to beat his old man, and erected a wall with the help of the elder races. All to keep him prisoner.

He lowered his head.

Would he forgive him? Forgive him for what he had become. Would his brother forgive him, having raised a blade against the son he had entrusted to him with his last breath?

Maybe he could just sit here until he became a statue, carved from this landscape, and ask them himself?

The wind ruffled his hair, making him squeeze his eyes shut. He ignored the wetness around them as he did so.

After a few more moments, he looked down into the reflection of himself, small droplets from his still wet clothes and hair dropping into the lake, causing little ripples on its surface, distorting it every now and then.

He looked more or less like he used to.

Although, there were more lines in his face than he recalled having, it was still the same face he shared with his brother and nephew.

His black hair was streaked with snow, but after he ran a hand through it he realized he was just getting older.

What changed more drastically were his eyes. They were the colour of a raincloud. That was nothing new, yet they seemed to be rimmed by a frost-like edge around them.

He tried to turn his gaze inward and properly feel his body. And found what he was looking for quick enough.

There was still some if the unnatural Cold inside if him, but only which had become too intrinsic to remove from him, it would seem.

So, becoming a statue might take quite a while, he thought with a grimace.

Hesitantly, he reached his hand towards the lake's surface, with all the speed of a snail, and tried guiding the Cold to his fingertips.

The result was embarrassing.

He almost tore the skin from his palm, trying to free himself from the impromptu iceshelf that had formed around him. He would need to find a better way to use it.

The cracking of the ice made him remember the sound he had heard on the wind.

He had no clue whatsoever as to what had happened, only the consequences of it.

Which, as it were, was that he found himself free, with nowhere to go.

That thought led him back to the voice in wind. It wasn't just a voice, he remembered.

It was a howl.

The wail of a hurt, scared pup, crying out for pack.

His own blood answered with an outcry of his own, demanding it to be answered. He knew then that his brothers line was still out there. And there was one among them, with who's struggle he was intimate with.

To be a part of the pack, but be apart from the pack.

It was always them that wandered off and gathered a pack of their own, if you were strong enough to survive the challanges. He did so himself, even the one he had gathered was rather unusual.

But he did not wat this pup to suffer like he had to. He would not have to wrestle with life and death to simply gain his right to stand in the warmth of the sun. Let an old dog like him clear the way for the young ones, just like it was meant to be.

His only concern was, would the pup welcome a stranger like him? Would the other Starks? Or would they form their own little pack and travel like he used to?

The thought gave him a sense of exitement, he had not felt in thousands of years. He had a purpose again, and not one that was foisted onto him. This one he chose all on his own.

And it felt liberating.

With a smile on his face, he let out a loud chattering noise. As a result, a not too far away snowcovered hill exploded outwards.

Judging by the stretching legs, his old friend thawed as well as him, returning to his original dirt brown colouring. Although he was a good bit bigger than he remembered him being.

He watched as every limb that resembled a tree trunk in size and look was inspected and tested out gingerly.

It looked like he could not use his previous camouflage anymore, but that alright. Aragogg was always better at burrowing in the ground.

The giant form turned towards him, his eight eyes taking him in.

He brushed with his mind against his old companion, asking for permission and forgiveness. He expected neither.

He was instantly run over by an overly exited giant spider.

A laugh came to him unbidden at the familiar experience. The first one he had in a very long time. He knew that the sight would give most battle hardened men nightmares for the rest of their life. He called it saying hello and cuddling with his friend.

It took a while for both of them to calm down enough to form a proper link. He projected his feelings of elation and thankfulness, which he found directed right back at him, together with a question of what came next.

He relayed the situation to his partner in images and feelings as best he could, though he knew he always would understand his meaning.

The massive form tilted to the side a little, as if to cock his head in question.

'Pup?' he seemed to ask, along with an image of a boy with his own features.

'We get pup?' the accompanying scene with the same boy slung over his shoulder while riding ontop of him trough the wolfswood made him chuckle.

He then told his familiar on eight legs about his plan, and he started to shift from side to side in anticipation

It was infectious. He could wait no longer. Soon he would make his way towards the lone pup. And if his pack does not accept him amongst them, then by the Old Gods, he will.

But first he needed to gather his own pack again. It was distant, but he could still feel the connection to some of his friends, awaking from their slumber or forced solitude. He sent out a pulse through every connection he had and felt the replies coming back in.

He grinned. Soon, he would see the little pup save. It was the least he could do for his little hero.

Grabbing onto one of the legs infront of him, he was lifted onto Aragogg's back and began his journey towards his new destination.

And Brandon the Beast would come bearing gifts.

A.N.

Anything you recognize from somewhere, belongs to their respective owners. Duh.

So. Some of you people seem to actually like my sleep deprived ramblings. This got a lot more attention than I thought it would.

I am new to this, but I gave this chapter a lot more love than the first, hope it can be felt. If you guys are interested, then I prefer to give quality over quantity. Also, if some more seasoned author would like to recycle this story properly, you are free to do so. Just send me a message, I like reading more than I do writhing.

Updates will come slow and not to a set timetable, life comes first.

For those interested in the songs that inspired some of the writhing, I will try to give them to you without namedropping them, since this site seems to shoot down anything remotely looking like a dmca charge, so here we go.

*ahem*

The first chapter's is from a british T.V. show with a doctor in a blue box. Who? You might ask? I could not tell you. The song itself is very lengthy. One might even call it a very long song.

For this chapter, it was a video game. The title of which is grey, but in spanish. Look for the part 1 and 2. All else is in you hands.

Take care.