NOTES: This is a story based on the Game of Thrones books and TV series, but be warned, it's a very AU (Alternate Universe) story. If you're someone who doesn't enjoy a story that deviates a lot from canon, where certain characters may act out of character, or if you're not a fan of romance with a good amount of fluff, and a story that ultimately has a happy ending, then this may not be the right story for you.
"I am looking for a beta reader."
BEYOND THE WALL, NIGHT'S WATCH ENCAMPMENT / CRASTER'S KEEP
Jon Targaryen's gaze remained fixed on the shadowy treeline, the sounds of terror growing louder. A new, chilling noise wove through the cacophony of human screams. It was a harsh, crackling sound, evocative of ice being violently shattered on a winter lake, accompanied by sharp, almost musical tones piercing the night. The laughter was cold and sharp, as if the very night had found a voice. The men exchanged glances, their faces a mix of fear and determination. They were not alone. Something otherworldly was out there, perhaps closer than they had ever imagined.
The air grew colder with each moment, the unnatural sound sending shivers down the spines of the men of the Night's Watch. The smell of fear hung heavy, mingling with the acrid scent of smoke from the dwindling campfire.
The men took up defensive positions, hands gripping sword hilts so tightly their knuckles turned white, eyes straining to penetrate the suffocating darkness pressing in from all sides.
"What kind of devilry is this?" Jon Targaryen whispered, his voice barely audible above the eerie sounds. "What sort of beast makes that kind of sound?"
Samwell Tarly, his face drained of color, nodded. "I've never heard anything like it," he said, his voice trembling. "It's the stuff of nightmares, the kind of sound that makes your blood run cold."
Pyp and Grenn, usually quick to banter, remained silent, their eyes wide with terror. Even Edd, normally unflappable, seemed shaken.
Suddenly, movement near Craster's Keep drew their attention. Lord Commander Mormont emerged from the shadows, flanked by Ser Jarman Buckwell and Qhorin Halfhand. But it was the sight of Craster, his face twisted in terror, that chilled them. His normally brash demeanor was replaced with cowering fear, eyes darting nervously towards the treeline.
From behind Craster, three unfamiliar figures stepped into the flickering light of the campfire. A massive man with a wild mane of red hair and a beard to match stood in front, worry etched on his face. Behind him, two young women—one with hair like spun gold, the other with fiery red locks—exchanged nervous glances. The woman with fiery hair, eyes reflecting the flames, seemed to be fighting back tears. Jon couldn't help but wonder who they were and what had brought them to this forsaken place.
TORMUND, VAL, AND YGRITTE (THIS SCENE HAPPENS SIMULTANEOUSLY WITH THE FOLLOWING)
As the eerie sounds filled the night, Ygritte stood transfixed, her gaze locked on the darkness beyond the campfire. Her face was a mask of worry, her brow furrowed as she strained to make sense of the unearthly noises that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The taste of fear was bitter on her tongue, a sharp contrast to the salty air of the north.
Tormund and Val, sensing her distress, moved to stand beside her. Tormund placed a large, comforting hand on her shoulder, his calloused fingers a stark reminder of the harsh life they lived. Val's eyes searched Ygritte's face with concern, her blonde hair glinting in the firelight.
Ygritte's gaze drifted to where Qhorin Halfhand stood, deep in conversation with Lord Commander Mormont. "That crow," she murmured, inclining her head towards Qhorin. "He said he's never heard anything like this before. In all his years beyond the Wall."
"Like him, I've never heard anything like it," Ygritte whispered, her voice barely audible above the chilling sounds that filled the air. "And our friends... they're still out there."
Val shook her head, her blonde hair glinting in the firelight. "I haven't either," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "This is... something else. Something dark and ancient, something that whispers of forgotten horrors."
Tormund's grip on Ygritte's shoulder tightened, his eyes blazing with a fierce determination. "We won't leave anyone behind," he said, his voice a low growl. "We'll find our friends, no matter what."
But even as the words left his lips, a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. His eyes darted to the treeline, where the unearthly sounds seemed to be growing louder with each passing moment. It was as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Ygritte and Val.
Val noticed the hesitation in Tormund's expression and stepped closer, her voice low and urgent. "But how?" she asked, her eyes searching his face. "If even we, with all our years in the wild, have never encountered anything like this, how can we hope to find them in the darkness?"
Tormund's brow furrowed, his face a mask of grim determination tinged with a hint of fear. "We'll find a way," he said, but there was a note of doubt in his voice that he couldn't quite hide. "We have to."
Ygritte looked at her companions, seeing the same uncertainty and fear that gripped her own heart reflected in their eyes. She knew that they would do everything in their power to find their friends, but in the face of the unknown horror that lurked beyond the Wall, even their fierce determination seemed to waver.
LORD COMMANDER JEOR MORMONT (THIS SCENE HAPPENS SIMULTANEOUSLY WITH THE PREVIOUS ONE)
As Qhorin Halfhand approached Lord Commander Mormont, his face grim, Jeor Mormont felt a chill run down his spine. "Lord Commander," Qhorin said, his voice low and urgent, "in all my years as a ranger beyond the Wall, I've never encountered anything like this, and whatever it is, it's coming closer."
Mormont, his face lined with a weariness that seemed to age him before their eyes, nodded in agreement. "We must be prepared for anything," he said, his gaze sweeping over the assembled men. "Whatever is out there, it means us harm."
"Brothers of the Night's Watch, remember your oath," he commanded, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Hold your ground!" As he spoke these words, he observed Ser Jarman Buckwell and Qhorin Halfhand draw their swords, their blades glinting in the flickering torchlight. Mormont's eyes locked onto theirs, and for a moment, the only sound was the soft rasp of steel sliding free of its scabbard.
"FOR THE REALM OF MEN!" Mormont roared, his voice echoing through the darkness. The men responded with a chorus of shouts, their voices trembling with fear but their resolve hardening.
Craster, usually so quick to bluster and brag, seemed to shrink in on himself. "I warned you," he muttered, his eyes darting nervously towards the treeline. "There are things out there that even the gods fear."
Jon Targaryen and Samwell Tarly
"Jon, listen," Sam whispered, his voice barely audible, his hand gesturing towards the eerily silent treeline. "The screams... they've stopped."
Jon's grip on his sword tightened, his heart pounding in his chest. He strained his ears, trying to discern any hint of what had brought the chaos to a sudden halt. "You're right," he admitted, his own voice low and tense. "It's as if... it's as if the very air grew quiet in anticipation."
The silence was shattered only by the chilling laughter, now more prominent than ever, and the harsh, crackling sound that seemed to be growing closer with each passing moment. Then, abruptly, a figure emerged from the depths of the forest. Towering and emaciated, its flesh pale as moonlit milk and its eyes ablaze with a cold, icy blue fire. Dressed in delicate, reflective armor that shifted hues like the shimmering Northern lights, the creature wielded slender crystal swords that glimmered with an otherworldly light. It moved with an unsettling fluidity, the reflective armor almost seamlessly blending into the snow and ice.
"No... it's a White Walker," Samwell Tarly whispered, his voice trembling.
The otherworldly figure carried something in its hand, and as it approached the camp, it flung the object with a swift motion. The thing tumbled through the air, landing with a sickening thud in the center of the campfire's glow. It was a severed head, its lifeless eyes staring blankly into the void. The men recoiled in horror, their faces reflecting the terror and disbelief coursing through them.
Horror gripped Tormund as he recognized the severed head. One of his own, his face frozen in a mask of eternal terror. A guttural roar tore from his throat, a sound filled with pain and fury.
Val went white as snow, her blue eyes fixed on the grotesque scene. A chill ran down her spine, icy and invasive. Death in the north was common, but this… this was different. Unholy.
Ygritte bit her lip hard, holding back a scream. She had known that man. Shared fires and laughter with him. And now, all that remained was this, a horrifying image seared into her memory.
Tormund let out a furious roar, charging at the creature with his massive axe raised high. Val and Ygritte, seeing the rage in his eyes, tried to hold him back.
"Tormund, wait!" Val shouted, her voice edged with desperation. "You can't face it alone!"
But Tormund was beyond reasoning. "I'll send you back to the icy hell you crawled out of!" he bellowed at the White Walker.
His attack was swift, fueled by rage, but the Other moved with uncanny speed. With a single fluid motion, it shattered Tormund's axe with its crystal sword, the pieces scattering like shards of ice. Before Tormund could react, the Other delivered a powerful punch that sent him flying through the air, landing in a crumpled heap near the edge of the camp.
The creature stalked forward, grabbing Tormund by his red mane and dragging him closer to the firelight, its grotesque sneer illuminated in the flickering flames. The Other's laughter rang out, a chilling sound that froze the hearts of all who heard it. Drawing its ice sword, the Other prepared to deliver a killing blow, raising the blade high above Tormund's prone form.
Ygritte screamed, "Tormund!" and tried to rush forward, but Val held her back. "No, Ygritte! You'll be killed!"
But then, the Other's expression twisted into one of pain and surprise. Behind it stood Samwell Tarly, his face pale with fear but resolute, a dragonglass dagger gripped in his hand and buried deep in the Other's back.
"The creature writhed, its icy armor cracking and splintering as a spasm wracked its body. It turned to look at Sam, eyes blazing with cold fury, but it was too late. The frost that encased it began to steam, melting into the snow at its feet. Silent screams tore from the monster's throat, its body convulsing as the icy fire that animated it was extinguished. Within seconds, the White Walker was reduced to a pool of freezing water and vapor, vanishing without a trace."
"The dragonglass worked." Lord Commander Mormont muttered, watching the scene unfold with disbelief.
The men of the Night's Watch stared in stunned silence, the air thick with the remnants of the Other's chilling presence. Val and Ygritte rushed to Tormund's side, their faces etched with relief and concern.
Jon, his face filled with awe, moved closer to Sam. "Sam the slayer," he said, his voice filled with wonder. "You killed a White Walker."
Sam, trembling and wide-eyed, could only nod, his grip on the dragonglass dagger tightening as if it were his lifeline. "It... it was just standing there," he stammered. "I had to do something."
Tormund, still dazed from the impact, managed a weak grin. "Thank you, you have the heart of a true warrior, " he said, his voice rough but sincere.
Val and Ygritte approached Samwell and hugged him, their relief and gratitude palpable. Samwell blushed, his face turning as red as the firelight dancing around them. Val, her voice soft but sincere, said, "Thank you for saving my cousin's life. What is your name?"
"Samwell Tarly," he replied, his voice shaking slightly.
Val smiled warmly at him. "My name is Val Casterly."
Samwell and Jon stared at her incredulously. "C...Casterly?" Samwell stammered, looking to Jon for confirmation. Jon was equally stunned, his eyes wide with surprise.
Tormund rolled his eyes and Ygritte chuckled, amused by their reactions.
"We can talk about this later," Val said, her voice firm but kind. "For now, we should return to the camp."
As they returned to the Night's Watch camp, Jon raised his arm and shouted, "Samwell the slayer!"
A wave of cheers echoed through the camp, the men of the Night's Watch repeating the cry: "Samwell the slayer! Samwell the slayer!"
The cheers that had erupted moments before died abruptly, like flames doused in a sudden frost. Jon Targaryen, still riding the high of victory, felt a chill crawl down his spine. The severed head, lying forgotten amidst the trampled snow, was no longer an inert lump of flesh and bone. Its eyes, once dull and lifeless, now blazed with an unnatural, icy blue fire. A low growl, guttural and chilling, emanated from its mouth, sending shivers down the spines of even the most hardened men of the Night's Watch.
"Gods be good," whispered Ser Jarman, his hand instinctively moving to the pommel of his sword.
Lord Commander Mormont stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the severed head. He glanced down at his dragonglass weapon and then at his Valyrian steel sword. "Let's see if this works too," he muttered. With swift precision, he drove the Valyrian steel sword into the head.
Instantly, the head fell silent. The icy blue fire in its eyes extinguished, and the growls ceased. The eerie laughter from the forest stopped abruptly, replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence. The severed head was once again nothing more than a lifeless lump of flesh and bone.
"Thank the gods," Mormont breathed, pulling his sword free. "It seems Valyrian steel is effective against them too."
At that moment, the eerie laughter that had haunted the treeline morphed into a cacophony of rage. The sound was no longer melodic but harsh and grating, like icebergs grinding against each other in a symphony of destruction. The forest itself seemed to shudder, its trees groaning under an unseen force.
Panic rippled through the assembled men. The euphoria of their recent victory over the White Walker evaporated like mist on a summer morning. Fear, primal and instinctive, tightened its grip.
Qhorin Halfhand, sensing the shift in atmosphere, drew his own sword, its steel gleaming under the pale moonlight. "Form ranks!" he roared, his voice cutting through the rising panic. "We stand together! For the Watch!"
His words, echoing the Lord Commander's earlier call to arms, seemed to momentarily steady the men. They scrambled to obey, forming a ragged but resolute line before the campfire, their swords and axes held at the ready. Tormund, Ygritte, and Val, their faces grim, stood shoulder to shoulder with the men of the Night's Watch, ready to face whatever fresh horror emerged from the haunted forest.
Edd stood slightly apart, his gaze fixed on the shadowy treeline. His usually composed demeanor was cracked, his eyes wide with an uncharacteristic fear. Jon, Samwell, Grenn, and Pyp noticed his unsettled expression and approached him.
"Edd," Jon called, his voice low and urgent, "what do you see?"
Edd's eyes didn't waver from the darkness. "It has begun," he replied, his voice hollow and foreboding.
Jon, Sam, Grenn, and Pyp exchanged worried glances. Whatever Edd had seen, it was enough to shake him to his core.
Meanwhile, Val felt an intense heat against her chest. She pulled out the ancient key she wore around her neck and beheld it radiating with a strange, vibrant intensity. Her eyes flicked to the young crow whom the others called Jon Targaryen, and for a fleeting moment, she noticed an eerie glow in his eyes—matching the color of the light from her key. The connection was momentary, but it left her breathless with a sense of foreboding.
"Jon," she whispered, her voice quivering with fear and awe.
Before she could say more, movement erupted from the forest. At first, it was a slow, shuffling sound, then the groaning and snapping of branches. Figures began to emerge—cadavers reanimated, their eyes glowing with the same eerie blue light as the severed head.
"They're coming!" someone shouted, and the camp burst into frantic activity, men bracing themselves for the impending assault.
The reanimated corpses were the vanguard, moving with a grotesque, jerky rhythm, their eyes fixed on the living. Behind them, three White Walkers emerged, their presence commanding and terrifying. Their icy armor glinted in the firelight, and their cold, blue eyes surveyed the camp with disdain.
Jon's breath caught in his throat as he saw them. "Three White Walkers," he whispered, gripping his Valyrian steel sword tighter. "Stand your ground! For the Watch!"
Jon's rallying cry was swallowed by a new sound—a chorus of harsh, guttural cries coming from above. Dozens of crows descended from the night sky, their wings beating furiously as they circled the besieged camp. Fear turned to confusion as the men of the Night's Watch looked to the heavens.
One raven, larger than the others, with feathers black as midnight, broke from the flock and landed heavily on Jon's shoulder. It cocked its head, staring at him with an unnervingly intelligent gaze. A jolt passed through Jon as he reached out, a shock of familiarity, but not from any beast he'd known before. He looked again into the bird's eyes and gasped. "Nightwing, Uncle Benjen's crow."
As if summoned by his words, the air within the camp began to shimmer. The fires, which had seemingly lost their vigor in the presence of the Others, suddenly surged in intensity. Their flames grew higher and more vibrant, casting a mesmerizing glow across the encroaching darkness. A second ring of fire burst forth around the perimeter, its unnatural intensity casting long, dancing shadows and radiating a wave of heat that felt like a tangible force pushing back the biting cold. The air crackled with unseen energy, and the scent of smoke was replaced by the primordial aroma of ancient power.
The men of the Night's Watch watched in stunned silence, their faces illuminated by the otherworldly light. Even the advancing wights seemed to hesitate, their movements faltering as if repelled by the sudden surge of heat.
Lord Commander Mormont, his face weathered and grim, allowed a rare, almost imperceptible smirk to grace his lips. "It seems the Old Gods haven't forgotten us just yet," he muttered, gripping the pommel of his sword.