NOTES
Elowyn: the name I will give to a goddess of the ancient religion of the First Men. While the Game of Thrones canon depicts these gods as nameless, this is an alternate universe (AU)
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.
IN THE DEPTHS OF JON'S MIND
The darkness was absolute. A void stretching infinitely in all directions, swallowing any trace of light, of warmth, of hope. Jon found himself suspended in that nothingness, weightless, bodiless, just a consciousness floating in a sea of shadows. He tried to speak, but his voice was lost in the silence, a drowned whisper in the vastness.
"Where am I?" he thought, as his mind struggled to grasp reality. A piercing cold, sharper than any blizzard he had ever experienced in the North, overtook him. It was a cold that sank into his very bones, stealing his breath and making him feel as though his own soul was freezing.
"Only in the void, in death and nothingness, will you find true peace. Existence is torment, an endless chain of suffering. In absolute oblivion, in the peace of nothingness, only there will you find the calm you seek," a voice rose in that moment, its tone soaked in infinite sorrow.
Jon shrank, trying to pull away from the voice, but there was nowhere to go. The darkness enveloped him, suffocated him, and the cold embraced him with a desperate intensity. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice a faint echo in the vast nothingness. Fear clung to him, cold and slimy, but a stubborn curiosity, that flame that had always driven him, refused to be extinguished.
The voice drew closer, wrapping around him like an icy mist. "I am compassion," it whispered, with a sweetness that hid a blade of steel. "I am the hand that silences the weeping, the balm for the world's wounds. I am the one who will bring true peace to Westeros."
The words slid into Jon's mind, soft and seductive, but with an undertone of broken promises, of a future stained in desolate gray. A shiver ran through him, a premonition that the peace the voice offered was the peace of a grave, the stillness of a lifeless world.
Suddenly, the darkness began to ripple, and before Jon's eyes, terrifying, confused images formed, tormenting his mind. Winterfell, engulfed in flames, appeared before him, its once proud towers now reduced to smoldering ruins. The roar of the fire devoured the wood and stone, while the screams of the inhabitants were drowned out by the crackling of the flames. Jon saw battlefields littered with corpses, men and women torn apart by war, their faces frozen in grimaces of agony. Finally, he glimpsed Eddard Stark, his face gaunt and bloodied, chained in a dark dungeon, his eyes extinguished by despair.
"All this suffering," said the voice, its words now dripping with calculated sorrow, "can end, Jon Targaryen. The chaos, the betrayal, the sorrow... it can all cease. Kneel before me. Swear your loyalty. And I will give you the power to silence the world, to impose eternal peace."
Targaryen echoed in Jon's mind. He had barely had time to process that name, that legacy. And now...?
Just when the cold threatened to freeze his will, a sudden shift shook the darkness. The pressure pushing him toward the ground eased, and the cold, though still present, lost its lethal edge. A faint warmth, like a dying ember in the night, ignited within him.
"Jon, do not listen." The voice arose from nowhere, powerful and defiant, like the roar of thunder tearing through the silence. "He is the father of lies, the lord of darkness. Do not be deceived."
The darkness stirred, and the images of suffering that had tormented Jon vanished like smoke on the wind. The presence that had been enveloping him, dominant in his mind until that moment, seemed to retreat, its energy marked by a simmering fury. At the same time, the warmth within him grew stronger, as if an invisible force was protecting him, fighting back against the darkness.
"Listen, Jon," whispered the second voice, warm and almost familiar. "Darkness and death are tempting, but they offer only false promises. You are meant to defeat that darkness. Fire and ice run in your veins. You are far more than you realize."
Jon opened his eyes, his heart pounding. He didn't know who these voices were, but there was something in them that pushed him toward a destiny he did not understand. The cold still surrounded him, but it wasn't the only thing he felt. Something else burned inside him, something he had never felt before.
"No, it couldn't be him. Until recently, he was nothing more than the bastard of Winterfell. 'Why me?' he thought, as deep doubt took root in his mind. 'I'm no hero. I'm just Jon.'"
But before he could search for answers, the darkness parted before him. Eight pairs of eyes glowed in the shadows, figures as tall as the oldest trees in the forest, with human-like faces, yet marked by the passage of eons. Their garments, woven from leaves and vines, thrummed with ancient energy.
"Fate has chosen you," said one of the figures, their voice as old as the forests themselves. "Ice and fire live within you. You are not alone in this battle, Jon Targaryen."
Jon remained silent, unable to form a response. The weight of their words was overwhelming. Fate? He, chosen for a fight he barely understood? A fight against the darkness that surrounded him, against the Great Other... and beyond.
But though doubts still weighed heavy in his heart, something within him began to stir. A spark, faint but persistent, that refused to be extinguished.
One of the ancient gods, an imposing figure wearing a bronze helm crowned with a majestic stag's antlers, inclined his head solemnly. His eyes, like wells of timeless wisdom, fixed on the darkness that loomed dangerously over Jon. "It is near," he murmured, his voice resonating with the power of distant thunder. "The Great Other senses your awakening."
Suddenly, the shadows around them stirred, as if answering an unspoken call. The darkness began to stretch, taking shape, advancing toward Jon with an imposing, freezing presence, towering like a spire. It was cloaked in a mantle of darkness so deep it devoured the light, while two eyes, glowing red like burning embers, gazed upon the gods with contempt.
One of the gods stepped forward, raising a hand in a warning gesture. "Step back, creature of nothingness. Your dominion ends here."
The shadowy figure responded, its voice a cold whisper that sliced through the air like the edge of a dagger. "Eight," it said mockingly, its tone dripping with venom. "Eight stand against me now, when once you were countless. I feel your weakness, your decline. The children of man have forgotten you, have cut down your forests, have defiled your altars."
A goddess, crowned with oak leaves and golden acorns, stepped forward with determination. Her eyes, green as emeralds, burned with restrained fury. "Do not mistake us, Dark One. We remember the Long Night and your defeat. We remember the light. And we do not fear facing you again... and defeating you."
She continued, her voice unwavering. "Make no mistake; here stand eight gods, but hundreds and hundreds of our kin from the forests are preparing for the war that is to come. Your arrogance blinds you to the truth. We are not alone, and our strength will rise anew."
"The War for the Dawn," the shadowy figure growled, his tone thick with disdain. "A hollow triumph. Your victory was fleeting, your light fades. Humans are fickle, their loyalties shift like the tides. There is almost no trace left of your faith, soon you will be forgotten, relegated to children's tales."
A god, his beard and hair entwined with ivy, then spoke, his voice calm but firm. "The hearts of men may waver, but the earth remembers. The trees remember. And as long as there is one pure heart that seeks nature for guidance, our strength will endure."
The Great Other roared, an immense fury emanating from his shadowy form. "Fools," he snarled, his presence sending out waves of cold that made the ground tremble beneath them. "Your time is over. Darkness will consume all, and I will reign supreme."
But the horned-helmed god responded with the force of a storm. "You have not won yet, Dark One. And as long as we stand, you never will."
The atmosphere grew tense, charged with the imminent eruption of a battle that had been brewing for centuries. The eight gods stood unmoving, their eyes gleaming with the force of nature. They were old, yes, but they had not forgotten the taste of victory. The Great Other's shadow stirred, spreading like a freezing mantle, attempting to engulf the gods in its icy embrace. But before it could touch them, the air became scorching.
A wave of searing heat cut through the darkness, its intensity crackling upon contact with the unnatural cold of the Great Other. The shadowy figure faltered momentarily, as if recognizing that force. And then, a voice thundered, powerful as the roar of a volcano.
"Stand back, abomination! Jon does not belong to you!"
The Great Other slowly turned toward the source of the voice, his red eyes flashing with hatred. Flames pierced through the gloom, dancing until they formed the silhouette of an imposing figure—not of flesh and bone, but made entirely of pure fire. Each of his movements was a manifestation of the sun's heat, and in his hand, a sword of white flames shone with the promise of destruction.
"You?" the Great Other spat, his words dripping with malice. "I thought you were far from here, lost in the Shadowlands."
The fiery figure advanced, positioning himself with majesty beside the old gods. His presence was overwhelming, and the heat radiating from him made the air vibrate. Jon felt an invisible force pulling him toward this new presence, as if they shared something beyond the tangible. "Who are you?" he murmured to himself, his heart racing. He did not know this being, but something deep within him, profound and inexplicable, connected him to him, as if a hidden flame in his blood was responding to the call.
"Your arrogance remains intact, Dark One," said R'hllor, his voice reverberating with power. "You are as foolish as ever since the War for the Dawn. And, as it was then, your ambition will be your undoing."
The Great Other responded with icy fury. His shadow condensed and unleashed a blast of frost toward the oak-crowned goddess. The attack struck her with force, enveloping her in a freezing storm that made her fall with a cry of pain. The cold seemed to expand, with the darkness reveling in its victory.
"Do you see?" roared the Great Other, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "Your weakness is palpable. The age of the old gods has come to an end."
The ground trembled at his proclamation, but the remaining gods did not waver. Jon, watching everything from the shadows, felt a torrent of conflicting emotions. Fear enveloped him, but so did that spark which had awakened within him. Fire and ice lived in him, just as the figure had told him before. And now, among gods and shadows, he understood that his destiny was intertwined with the conflict unfolding before his eyes.
Suddenly, a distant roar, filled with fury and determination, erupted from the depths of the darkness. It was not a common sound, but a vibration that seemed to sweep away the cold despair the Great Other had tried to impose.
The temperature began to change. An unexpected heat started to emerge, as if the very void was being scorched by an invisible force. The cold, once oppressive, slowly dissipated, leaving in its place a heat that grew in intensity. The atmosphere became dense, charged with an energy that heralded a monumental shift.
A low murmur arose from the growing heat, and from the dissolving shadows, a powerful and ancient voice rang out, resonating with an authority that made the very space tremble. "You dare, you dare to touch her!" The voice, laden with burning intensity, seemed to cut through the air with a force that defied the darkness itself.
All present, including the old gods, R'hllor, and the Great Other himself, turned their attention toward the source of the voice. The darkness that had once dominated the void began to fade, giving way to a reddish glow that flooded the space. It was as if they were inside an erupting volcano, the heat and light enveloping everything around them.
The figure of a colossal dragon began to form in the air, its scales shining with an almost blinding intensity. The transformation was swift and majestic; the dragon morphed into the shape of an imposing Valyrian warrior, his armor gleaming with incandescent light.
The god, whose presence was as majestic as it was terrifying, radiated an air of supreme authority. His very presence was enough to make the icy shadow of the Great Other recoil, writhing uneasily at the impact of his arrival.
Those present watched in awe as the new divine figure approached the fallen goddess. His steps echoed with an authority that seemed to shake the very ground, each movement imbued with an overwhelming majesty. With a gentle and reverent gesture, he knelt beside the wounded goddess, bathing her in a warm, protective light. She, still reeling from the attack, lifted her gaze toward him, her eyes brimming with tears.
"Are you alright, Elowyn?" the new god asked, his voice a tender caress of concern and comfort. Jon shivered at hearing the name of the goddess, a name that resonated with the strength of nature, with the beauty of ancient forests.
The goddess slowly nodded, her tear-filled eyes meeting those of her protector. "Yes, Arrax," she replied, her voice a trembling whisper of gratitude and relief.
The god enveloped her in a warm, protective embrace, his mere presence radiating a calming strength that seemed to heal the pain and cold surrounding her. Holding her close, his gaze turned to the Dark One, every muscle and line of his face infused with palpable fury.
The Dark One, visibly disturbed by the sudden appearance of the new god, hesitated. The confidence that had once saturated his voice had evaporated, replaced by barely concealed nervousness. "Who are you?" he asked, doubt tinting his words. "In my long existence, I have never heard of you."
"Throughout time, I have had many names," the god replied, his voice resonating with an echo of eternity. "But the Valyrians, my most faithful subjects, and the dragons, my most beloved children, know me as Arrax, the King of the Gods." His gaze lingered on Jon for a moment, as if recognizing the Valyrian blood coursing through his veins. "And although my realms extend beyond this world, the call of Elowyn has brought me here."
The revelation struck like thunder in the night. The Dark One, trying to regain his composure, spoke with a tone attempting to be authoritative: "Arrax, we can come to an agreement. You do not meddle in the affairs of Westeros, and I, in return, will command my subjects not to invade Essos or the rest of the world."
Arrax, still holding Elowyn in a warm embrace, let out a sarcastic laugh. "Share power?" his voice resonated in the space. "Neither I nor my thirteen dragon brothers and sisters conceive it that way." His eyes fixed on the Dark One with palpable challenge. "The affairs of Westeros were indifferent to me, but the magic of its gods and goddesses has surprised me. I have discovered in it an unexpected balance to my own." His gaze turned to Elowyn with affection. "The magic residing within her, so serene and harmonious, has captivated me. It is a force that complements and balances mine, and I will not allow the darkness to extinguish it."
A shadow of fury crossed the Dark One's face. "Do you think I fear you, dragon?" he spat, his voice as icy as the northern wind. "Your fire is nothing compared to the eternal darkness I can unleash."
A cruel, sudden smile spread across Arrax's face, revealing rows of teeth sharp as blades. "Do not mistake me," he replied, his voice resonating with the authority of an ancient god. "Not only have you awakened my fury, creature of shadows, but you have also awakened that of another. You have profaned the domains of the God of Death, and now his cold gaze rests upon you."
The Dark One let out a hollow laugh. "And where is this supposed God of Death? Is he hiding among mortals, afraid to face me?"
"He moves in his own way," Arrax replied, his eyes glowing with inner fire. "And his vengeance will be terrible."
The Dark One, visibly enraged by Arrax's challenge, raised his hands in a threatening gesture. The darkness surrounding him concentrated into a point and transformed into a torrent of ice magic that shot toward Arrax. The air grew frigid, and the pressure increased, but Arrax, with unshakable serenity, extended his hand forward. A shield of fire materialized in front of him, dissolving the ice into vapor before it could touch him. The searing heat suddenly flooded the space, pushing the Dark One back with imposing force.
The Dark One, enveloped in flames and darkness, was hurled through the air, his shadowy figure disappearing into the distance. Arrax turned to R'hllor and the gods of Westeros, exchanging looks of complicity and understanding. The heat in the air softened as the gods began to speak, their voices resonating with a mix of authority and hope.
R'hllor was the first to address Jon, his gaze filled with intensity. "It is time to awaken, Jon Targaryen. It is your hour to assume the role for which you were chosen. Fire and ice live within you, and with them, the fate of all peoples."
Arrax nodded and approached Jon. "I have a gift for you," he said, his voice laden with a fiery promise. He gently placed his hand on Jon's forehead. Instantly, Jon felt a comforting fire enveloping him, a warm flame spreading from the center of his being and filling every corner of his body with revitalizing energy. It was as if the very essence of Arrax's fire fused with him, granting him strength and clarity, but also a sense of overwhelming power.
Images and sensations flooded his mind—visions of dragons soaring through fiery skies, whispers of ancient prophecies, and the echo of a heartbeat that seemed to resonate with the pulse of the world itself. The cold that had clung to him for so long melted away, replaced by a warmth that felt both familiar and alien.
The gods of Westeros also approached Jon, their presences filling the space with a protective and hopeful energy. With graceful movements, each one touched Jon, allowing him to feel the weight of their gifts. An ancestral coolness coursed through his body, a connection to the earth, the trees, and the whisper of the wind among the leaves. "We too have gifts for you," they said, their voices a murmur that seemed to contain the power of the ancient magics of Westeros. "The strength of the North will flow through your veins, the knowledge of the woods will guide you, and the spirit of the wolf will accompany you."
Finally, R'hllor stepped forward, and with a look of deep seriousness, placed an ancient key around Jon's neck. The key, made of a metal that shimmered with a golden light, hung from a fine but sturdy chain. "This key is the symbol of your awakening," said R'hllor. "Awaken, Jon Targaryen. Destiny awaits you." His voice resonated in Jon's mind, but this time not as a distant echo, but as an inescapable truth. "Only the promised prince and a member of the ancient lion's family can open the vault in Casterly Rock."
Jon looked at the key, its weight surprisingly light. A vault in Casterly Rock... What secrets did it hold? What connection did it have to his destiny?
At that moment, uncertainty flooded him. Questions assailed him mercilessly: Was he really prepared for this destiny? Was he, Jon, who until recently had been the bastard of Winterfell, the chosen one to save the world?
A shiver ran through his body. He recalled Eddard Stark's words, his honor, his sense of duty. But also the pain, the loss, the separation from his brothers, the weight he had carried for so many years. Could he, a mere mortal, bear the weight of the world on his shoulders?
Doubt hit him hard. He was just a boy raised in Winterfell; how could he be the key to the salvation of the world? But then, Benjen's words echoed in his mind: "You are not alone in this fight."
Jon took a deep breath, trying to control the whirlwind of emotions that overwhelmed him. The cold key against his chest reminded him of the responsibility he now bore. There was no turning back. Destiny had chosen him, and he had to face it. With courage or with fear, but he had to confront it.
He looked at the gods watching him expectantly, at the imposing figure of Arrax who protected him. He was not alone. And although fear still gripped him, a new determination began to ignite in his heart. He had a destiny to fulfill, a path to walk. And although he didn't fully understand it, he was willing to face it.
The darkness dissipated, and Jon opened his eyes.
BEYOND THE WALL, NIGHT'S WATCH ENCAMPMENT / CRASTER'S KEEP
"That's one of the generals of the Great Other," Bran said, his voice heavy not only with fear but with a gravity few had heard before. "I haven't seen him in visions; I saw him with my own eyes... thousands of years ago, when he walked these lands for the first time. He is older than any being we have faced. His dark magic is woven with the very power of eternal winter. His mere presence here is a sign that the Great Other is preparing to strike its deadliest blow."
Benjen Stark, brow furrowed, asked quietly, "Are there others like him?"
Bran the Builder nodded, his expression hardened. "Yes, there are more. They are part of the elite of the Great Other's army. I do not know how many there are in total, but they are the closest to the shadow of the Great Other in this world. Each one is an extension of his will, incarnations of his darkest magic."
A chill ran through the group. If Bran the Builder spoke with such gravity, they knew the threat was greater than they could imagine. And now, one of the Great Other's generals advanced with silent determination toward Jon, who lay motionless on the snow.
Elaena, Benjen, and the others tried to move forward, desperate to reach him, but something held them back. It was as if the very air had solidified. An invisible barrier, cold as death, rose before them, blocking their path.
"We can't get through!" Benjen exclaimed, pounding the air with both hands. "It's like a damned wall of ice separating us from Jon."
"Damn it!" Tormund growled, smashing his fist against the barrier. "We have to reach him!"
Elaena, her heart pounding, watched Jon. Her fury grew like an uncontrollable fire. She would not allow him to be taken, not now, not when she knew what Jon meant to them... and to the future.
"I won't let you touch him!" she shouted, her voice laden with power. The heat of her magic enveloped her body, and her violet eyes glowed with intensity. She unleashed a blaze of fire, powerful and searing, directly at the general. The air crackled as the flames, charged with the ancestral power of Valyria, surged toward him.
The general barely flinched. With a simple gesture, he deflected the flames as if they were nothing more than a harmless breeze. The fire dissipated into the air, and a cruel smile formed on his lips.
"Benjen, now!" Elaena shouted, controlling her frustration. She knew that Benjen's ice magic could be the key.
With a hardened expression, Benjen closed his eyes and channeled the power of the cold he had awakened beyond the Wall. An ice spear formed in his hand, vibrating with the strength of winter. With a roar, he hurled it at the general.
The spear sliced through the air, but the general caught it with unsettling ease. Effortlessly, he crushed it in his hand, and the shards fell like broken glass onto the snow.
Bran, his face contorted with effort, tried to use his magic to encase the general in an ice prison, but he shattered it as if it were made of paper. Leaf and the Children of the Forest unleashed a rain of obsidian darts, but they veered off course in the air, repelling themselves before reaching their target.
To the side, Anguy drew his bow, firing obsidian arrows one after another. The general deflected them with a mere gesture, as if they were flies. Beric Dondarrion and Edric Dayne charged at him with battle cries, their swords gleaming in their hands, but the general repelled them with a single movement, tossing them through the air like rag dolls.
The cold, cruel eyes of the White Walker general seemed to mock them. It was as if every step he took, every gesture, said: Is that all you have?
Benjen, drenched in cold sweat despite the freezing atmosphere, struck the invisible barrier again. "Damn it!" he roared, his voice cracking with frustration. "We have to reach him!" But the barrier did not yield, as if the darkness of the Great Other enveloped them, laughing at their attempts.
Bran, with a somber expression, spoke in a low but firm tone. "This barrier is not just ice. It is woven with the oldest magic, the cold that comes from the very heart of the Long Night. It is the power of the Great Other incarnate. This general is here to keep us away... so that we cannot save Jon."
Elaena and Benjen exchanged glances, feeling desperation grow in their hearts. The general was more powerful than they had imagined, and every second that passed brought him closer to Jon.
"JON!" Samwell shouted, desperation cracking his voice. Gilly clung to him, sobbing as the others watched helplessly, trapped behind the barrier.
The White Walker advanced slowly, each step resonating in the snow like the echo of imminent death. He leaned over Jon, his dark figure casting a long, sinister shadow over the immobile body of the young Targaryen. His eyes glowed with an icy light as he drew his sword of ice. He raised it, sharp and lethal, above Jon's chest, ready to claim his life in the name of the Great Other.
But just as the sword was about to fall, the general's arm froze in mid-air. His eyes, once filled with cold cruelty, widened in surprise, and for an instant, something completely unexpected appeared on his face: fear.
The ice sword in his hand trembled, a strange vibration coursing through the weapon, as if it too felt the fear. The general tried to move it, but his stiff fingers did not respond. A guttural growl escaped his throat, a sound of pure agony and terror, contrasting with the arrogance he had shown moments before. His gaze, fixed on Jon, reflected an unexpected truth: for the first time, he feared what lay before him.
Elaena, Benjen, and the others exchanged incredulous looks. What had just happened? What force could stop a general of the Great Other?
Bran, his eyes fixed on Jon, whose skin was beginning to emit a warm, barely perceptible glow, smiled slightly. "The Great Other... fears Jon," he murmured reverently. "Something is changing in him."
The clearing fell silent, as if the very air held its breath. Everyone looked at Jon, his immobile figure, waiting for the moment he would awaken. Elaena and Benjen, tense, held their breath, their hearts pounding with the uncertainty of the moment. Lord Commander Mormont, with years of battles behind him, kept a steady hand on the hilt of his sword, ready for whatever might happen. Meanwhile, Thoros and Lysara murmured prayers to the Lord of Light, their eyes shining with fervor.
Jon rose. Not with the slowness of someone waking from a deep sleep, but with the speed of lightning, as if an invisible force had propelled him upward. His eyes, which once reflected doubts and uncertainties, now burned with a supernatural light, a mixture of fire and ice that made his gaze seem to pierce reality.
A murmur of astonishment swept through the group. Jon stood, his body emanating a vibrant energy that made the air around him tremble. He extended his hands, and from them burst forth, simultaneously, flames that danced like specters and crystals of ice that shone with a spectral light.
"By the gods..." Mormont whispered, unable to take his eyes off the spectacle.
Benjen, watching Jon with a mix of awe and concern, noticed Elaena's expression. Her violet eyes shone with unusual intensity, fixed on the flames dancing around Jon. "Elaena," he whispered, "that fire magic... do you feel it? It's..."
Elaena nodded slowly, her gaze filled with admiration and a touch of unease. "It's true, Ben. The fire magic Jon is using... I have never seen such power in a human being. Not even the most powerful sorcerers of Valyria can control it that way. Only... only dragons..."
Benjen frowned, feeling the current of icy magic emanating from Jon. "And that ice magic..." he murmured, his voice barely audible, "is more powerful than mine. It's... different."
The General of the Great Other, still paralyzed by the invisible force holding him captive, looked at Jon with a grimace of horror. He tried to speak, but only a guttural sound escaped his lips.
Thoros, Lysara, and Beric Dondarrion fell to their knees, their faces illuminated by a mix of reverent fear and fanaticism. "The Prince That Was Promised!" exclaimed Thoros, his voice trembling. "R'hllor has been reborn! The light has returned to the world!"
Tormund, mouth agape and eyes wide, watched the scene with a blend of awe and fear. He had never seen anything like it. "This young crow looks more like a god than a man."
Pyp, Grenn, and Edd, from their position next to Elaena and Benjen, looked on with a mixture of wonder and terror. "What the hell is that?" Pyp whispered, his eyes wide. "I've never seen Jon do anything like this."
"It's... it's like he controls fire and ice at the same time," Grenn murmured, his voice shaking.
Edd, brow furrowed, added, "It's more than that. There's something... different about him. It's like..." he left the sentence hanging, unable to find the words to describe the powerful transformation occurring before them.
The tension in the air was palpable, a chill that was felt both in the atmosphere and in the souls of those witnessing the scene. Jon, without uttering a word, advanced toward the general. Fire and ice danced around him, obeying his will with a supernatural precision, while the Valyrian steel sword gleamed in his hand, absorbing the glow of the fire and the biting cold of the ice. Before him, the General of the Great Other watched with burning blue eyes, a fury as ancient and ruthless as winter itself. His armor of ice creaked with each movement, emanating a power that would have sown terror in any heart... but not in Jon's.
The first clash between them was brutal, an explosion of fire and ice that reverberated through the clearing. Their swords met with a crash that shook the snow around them, sending a shockwave that pushed back the onlookers. The general's ice blade, a masterpiece of ancient magic, faced Jon's Valyrian sword, which shone with lethal intensity, fueled by the fire and cold surrounding it.
Each strike was a deadly dance, a battle between opposing and complementing elements. The general, with supernatural speed and precision, launched a devastating attack, but Jon dodged by mere millimeters, moving with an ethereal fluidity. He spun on his heels and countered with a precise thrust, but the general blocked his attack, releasing a blast of cold air that would have frozen any ordinary man. However, Jon was not an ordinary man; his insides burned with the magic of fire and ice in perfect harmony.
Thoros, watching from a safe distance, murmured prayers to the Lord of Light. Beric and Lysara kept their attention fixed on Jon, aware that in this battle not only the fate of the living was at stake but something much greater. "The Prince That Was Promised!" whispered Thoros, his words filled with a mix of devotion and fear.
With a roar of controlled fury, Jon summoned a flame that engulfed the general's ice armor. The flames danced around him, melting and evaporating its surface into a dense mist, while the general roared in pain. Ice shards, sharp as blades, crashed into his body, opening wounds from which cold vapor emanated. In response, the general delivered a powerful blow, but Jon raised his sword at the last moment, blocking the attack with an almost inhuman skill. The clash of their swords echoed in the air, and it was Jon who maintained the advantage. He channeled not only his skill as a warrior but also the elemental magic surrounding him, infusing his Valyrian steel with fire and ice simultaneously.
The general, sensing his end was near, launched one final attack: a storm of ice that threatened to envelop Jon completely. But Jon, in a decisive moment, summoned all his inner strength and unleashed a wave of fire and ice that fused into a whirlwind of energy. The magic crashed into the general, wrapping him in a deadly embrace. With a fluid and lethal motion, Jon delivered a cut with his Valyrian sword, which shone with a blinding light as it pierced the general's chest, penetrating his icy armor.
The general let out a heart-wrenching scream, a roar of pure agony as the Valyrian steel penetrated his essence. The dark magic that sustained him began to fade. His eyes, which had shone with the icy fury of winter, slowly dimmed, and his body started to crumble. White vapor rose from his armor as his limbs trembled in a final spasm of desperation. The ice that covered him began to melt rapidly, turning into water that evaporated into the air. A silent scream, laden with pure agony, echoed through the clearing before the general completely disintegrated, his form fading into a puddle of icy water that soon turned to vapor, swept away by the cold wind.
The ice sword the general wielded, a symbol of his ancestral power, remained upright for a moment but then began to dissolve into the air, leaving only the echo of the battle and the dark foreboding of what was still to come.
Jon, panting and exhausted, gazed at the spot where the General had stood. His Valyrian steel sword, still faintly glowing, finally dimmed, leaving only the cold blade. The battle was over, but the cost had been high. Jon, weakened by the power he had channeled, took a staggering step back before collapsing onto the snow, his hand still gripping the hilt of his sword.
Silence enveloped the clearing after the General's fall, but it didn't last long. From the horizon, the dark shadow that had observed the struggle intensified, lurking like a predator. With a roar of fury that resonated in the air, a cursed, icy echo erupted from the darkness: "Damn you!" It was as if the very essence of the Great Other manifested in a scream of rage and desperation at the fall of his champion. The shadow, a void that devoured light, spread further, filling the air with a palpable sense of hopelessness and doom. But just when it seemed that darkness would pounce upon them, the figure faded into a whisper, taking with it the sensation of horror and leaving only the echo of its wrath.
Elaena was the first to react, rushing toward Jon with a mixture of terror and anguish etched on her face. "Jon!" she cried, her voice breaking with concern. She knelt beside him, searching for any sign of life. Benjen, pale-faced, knelt beside her, fear mirrored in his gray eyes.
At that moment, Thoros of Myr and Lysara, who had stepped out of the circle of fire, knelt as well, their lips moving in silent prayers to the Lord of Light. Tormund, still gripping his dragonglass axe, approached them, his face reflecting respect. "That boy..." he grunted, his voice rough, "fought like a demon. I've never seen a man fight with such fury, power... and control."
His gaze met Val's, who had also stepped out of the circle of fire and was moving closer, glancing at Ygritte, who remained within it. Ygritte's eyes shone with a particular intensity as she wrapped her arms around the beautiful young woman who had arrived with Elaena's group. It was not a mere comforting embrace; there was a tenderness in her touch, a protective possessiveness that did not go unnoticed by Tormund.
"Her name is Doreah, dear cousin," Val said softly as she settled beside Tormund. Her tone was calm, but her eyes soon drifted to Jon, fallen in the snow. At that moment, something caught her attention: a small key hanging from Jon's neck.
An involuntary gasp escaped her lips, her surprise palpable. The key was identical to hers. Not merely a resemblance, but an exact replica, from the shape of the curves to the most intricate details of the ornamentation. Her mind wavered between disbelief and unease as her fingers instinctively moved to her own neck, where the cold surface of the metal rested beneath her dress. Feeling its weight against her skin only deepened her confusion.
How was this possible? Questions began to swirl in her mind. That key had been unique, a precious relic, a symbol whose story she knew well. But now, here was another, identical, hanging from Jon's neck. What did this mean?
Anguy, with his bow still in hand, watched the scene with a grim expression. Lord Edric Dayne and Lord Beric Dondarrion remained silent, their faces reflecting the gravity of the situation. Leaf and the Children of the Forest, with their green eyes filled with ancient wisdom, stood apart, observing Jon with a mix of curiosity and respect.
Elaena, with tears beginning to slide down her cheeks, looked up and saw Bran the Builder approaching slowly, his eyes fixed on Jon with palpable concern. "Bran, what has happened to him?" Elaena asked, unable to tear her gaze away from her nephew's face.
Bran, frowning, knelt and placed his hand over Jon's chest, feeling the energy still pulsing beneath his skin. "He has channeled a power he does not yet fully control," he murmured, examining Jon with an expression filled with apprehension. "He needs time and practice to be able to control it."
A murmur of unease rippled through the group. The uncertainty about Jon's fate weighed on them like a slab of ice. Elaena, her face pale and her eyes fixed on her nephew, bit her lower lip, holding back tears. Benjen, beside her, took her hands tenderly, trying to offer comfort amidst the emotional storm.
Suddenly, a rough yet strangely kind voice broke the silence. "The boy... if you'll allow me, you could take him to my home. There he will be more comfortable and receive better care."
Everyone present turned their heads, their gazes converging on a burly man approaching with a steady stride. His weathered face bore a scruffy beard, and his dark eyes shone with unusual intensity. He wore thick, coarsely sewn furs, and an iron axe hung from his belt.
Lord Commander Mormont, sensing the surprise of his allies, cleared his throat and addressed them. "Allow me to introduce you to Craster," he said in a neutral tone. "Craster, these are Lord Benjen Stark of Winterfell, his wife Lady Elaena Targaryen of Valyria, Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall, and Lord Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven." His gaze shifted to Bran the Builder, admiration reflected in his eyes. "And this is Lord Bran Stark, the builder of Winterfell, a legend among us."
Thoros of Myr, with an ironic smile, introduced himself. "Thoros, a humble red priest."
Anguy, with a gesture of indifference, simply said, "Anguy."
Lysara, with a slight nod, introduced herself in a soft but firm tone: "Lysara of Asshai."
Craster made an exaggerated bow, his eyes fixed on the rich garments and weapons of the newcomers. "It is an honor to have you in my humble dwelling, my lords, my ladies," he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. "I hope the hospitality of the North is to your liking. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask me."
Tormund, observing the scene with a raised eyebrow, couldn't help but make a sarcastic comment. "Well, Craster, I didn't know you were so… hospitable to outsiders."
Craster shot him a fleeting glance but did not bother to reply. His attention was focused on Elaena, Benjen, and the others, whom he saw as an opportunity to improve his position.
Benjen and Elaena exchanged a quick glance, a silent agreement passing between them. The situation was delicate, and Jon's health was their priority. Elaena nodded slightly, giving her approval.
"We appreciate your hospitality, Craster," Benjen said in a courteous tone, though his gaze remained cautious. "We accept your offer. Let us take Jon to your home."
Craster smiled, pleased. This was an opportunity he could not let slip. Having such distinguished guests under his roof would grant him a status he had never imagined. "Of course, my lord," he replied with a servility that seemed forced. "Follow me."
"Two of you," Lord Commander Mormont ordered his men, "bring a stretcher and carry the young Targaryen to Craster's house. Carefully."
As the Night's Watch men hurried to comply, Elaena observed the Free Folk who had fought alongside them moments ago in the battle against the White Walkers, and the young woman who accompanied him.
"Tormund," Elaena said with a slight nod and a smile, trying to convey confidence amid the uncertainty. Then, turning to the woman, she added, "Allow me to introduce myself formally. My name is Elaena Targaryen."
The woman, with a mix of nerves and determination, responded, "Val."
Benjen, standing beside Elaena, then noticed the key hanging from Val's neck. It was an ancient key, adorned with intricate engravings, identical to the one he had seen on Jon. "That key...?" he murmured, pointing at it curiously.
Val nodded, delicately touching the key as if caressing a memory. "It is a family relic," she replied. "An inheritance from a forgotten era." Her gaze met Tormund's, and a faint smile crossed her lips. "My cousin Tormund and I are descendants of the Casterly."
A murmur of astonishment swept through the gathered crowd. Bran the Builder stepped closer, his gray eyes fixed on the keys, his presence commanding respect. Lord Edric Dayne and Lord Beric Dondarrion also approached, their expressions reflecting the surprise of the moment.
"How... how is this possible?" Lord Edric Dayne stammered, his face pale with astonishment. "The Casterly disappeared long before the Andals arrived in Westeros. Their line was thought to be extinct."
Val, with a melancholic smile, replied, "It seems that legends don't always tell the whole truth. Some families... find ways to survive, even in the most unexpected places."
A few moments later, two men from the Night's Watch appeared carrying an improvised stretcher, made from spruce wood and covered with thick furs. With a determined movement, they gently placed it beside Jon, careful not to cause him any more pain. They carefully lifted Jon, making sure his body didn't move abruptly.
Elaena anxiously watched as they settled him onto the stretcher. Her heart raced as she saw the expression of pain on Jon's face, even in his unconsciousness. "Carefully," she murmured, as if her voice could protect him.
Bran the Builder intervened at that moment. "This meeting is not coincidental," he declared, his gaze moving from Val to Jon, who lay unconscious on the improvised stretcher. "The gods, in their infinite wisdom, have guided our steps to this moment. Those keys," he continued, pointing to Val's and Jon's keys, "are more than mere relics. They represent the key to an ancestral secret, a legacy that has remained hidden for millennia."
Bran's words resonated in the air, laden with mystery and promise. A chill swept through those present, aware that they stood on the brink of a monumental discovery. The silence thickened, as if the very wind held its breath.
Benjen, watching Jon with growing concern, nodded slowly. "You are right, Bran," he said, his tone reflective. "There is much to discuss, much to understand. But this night has been long and exhausting for everyone. We need to rest and regain our strength before moving forward."
Elaena, feeling the weight of fatigue on her shoulders, nodded in agreement. "Benjen is right," she affirmed, her voice resonating with determination despite her weariness. "We must rest. Tomorrow, with the light of day, we can approach this matter with greater calm."
Tormund, his face somber, stepped forward. "Before we rest," he began, his tone low but firm, "we must honor the fallen." His words hung in the frigid air as his gaze slowly swept over the lifeless bodies. Men of the Night's Watch and the bodies of his own fellow Freefolk, now inert after having been transformed into monsters. The White Walkers had reaped many lives, only to return them as wights, forcing them to fight against the living.
Tormund turned to face those present, his voice now laden with a deeper emotion. "Among my people, the Freefolk, we have always known what to do with the dead. We burn them, so they may find eternal rest. So they do not return to walk the earth as monsters enslaved by the White Walkers." He paused, his gaze hardening as it settled on the bodies of those companions who had followed him on his journey from Mance Rayder's camp to Craster's Keep, only to fall into the hands of the enemy. His eyes met Val's, who remained stoic, though he could see the tension in her lips, holding back the tears that threatened to spill.
Those warriors, who once shared the laughter and pain of freedom, now lay as victims of unimaginable power. "I would rather see their bodies burn," he said in a restrained voice, "than see them rise again and walk as slaves of darkness." He pointed to the bodies of the Freefolk who, transformed into wights, had been defeated. "Those men were my people. My friends. I swore I would keep them safe, and though I could not fulfill that promise, at least now I can give them the peace they deserve."
Without further words, Tormund approached Val and enveloped her in a strong, protective embrace. She clung to him, her body slightly trembling as the tears finally slid down her cheeks. There was no shame in showing pain, not among them, not after what they had endured.
Lord Commander Mormont, understanding the importance of the ritual for the Freefolk, nodded with respect. "So it shall be, Tormund. May the gods, both old and new, guide the souls of the fallen to the light."
Just at that moment, Doreah and Ygritte emerged from the circle of fire, their hands intertwined as if seeking mutual support after the horror they had just witnessed. The faces of both, still pale from the tension of the battle, reflected a mix of relief and shock. Ygritte, accustomed to the harshness of life beyond the Wall, wore a stoic expression; but Doreah, with her blue eyes still filled with fear, clung to the Freefolk's hand as if it were a lifeline in a raging sea.
As they approached the group gathered around Jon, the scene they found hit them with the force of a gale. Jon lay on an improvised stretcher, his body injured and vulnerable. The bodies of the fallen, both from the Night's Watch and the Freefolk, lay scattered across the clearing, silent witnesses to the brutality of the battle. Tormund and Val, embraced in a heart-wrenching silence, mourned the loss of their comrades. The pain on their faces, raw and anguished, mirrored the emptiness that death had left in their hearts.
Ygritte stopped short, her gaze sweeping over the scattered bodies, a mix of sadness and rage reflected in her eyes. Her hand tightened around Doreah's, sending her a silent message of strength and support. Then, leaning toward her, she whispered in a grave voice, "Go to your people. I... need to be with my own."
Doreah nodded in understanding, her heart pounding. She released Ygritte's hand and, with the small chest containing her remedies still clutched to her chest, approached Elaena, who was kneeling beside Jon. Ygritte, with a trembling sigh, moved closer to Tormund and Val, enveloping them in an embrace that spoke of shared pain, of a loss that united those who remained.
"My lady," Doreah said softly as she reached Elaena. "I want to help Jon. I've brought balms and potions that could ease his pain and speed his recovery."
Elaena, moved by Doreah's offer, looked up and smiled at her gratefully. "Thank you, Doreah," she replied. "Your help will be invaluable."
"My lady," said Marillion, who had just arrived, giving a slight bow. "While the battle raged, Doreah was teaching the women of Craster how to prepare remedies and salves. Together, they treated the wounded who managed to reach the circle of fire, easing their pain with their knowledge." His gaze rested on Doreah, filled with admiration. "Her dedication in the midst of chaos was truly inspiring."
Doreah, with a slight blush on her cheeks, lowered her gaze, touched by Marillion's words. At that moment, she realized that Bran the Builder was watching her with an intensity that made her uncomfortable. His gaze was penetrating, as if he were trying to see beyond her appearance, searching for something she could not understand.
Without taking his eyes off her, Bran turned to Elaena in a low voice. "Elaena," he said thoughtfully, "that young woman... where does she come from?"
Elaena, not entirely understanding Bran's curiosity, sighed before giving a brief overview of Doreah's origins and how they had met.
Bran listened attentively, his gaze fixed on the young woman, who felt increasingly uncomfortable under his scrutiny. When Elaena finished, Bran nodded slowly. "I understand," he murmured, still not taking his eyes off Doreah.
Uneasy from the tension of the moment, Doreah finally asked in a trembling voice, "Is something wrong, my lord?"
Bran looked directly at her, his gray eyes shining with a strange intensity. "No, nothing is wrong," he replied with an enigmatic smile. "Just... a feeling."
At that moment, two members of the Night's Watch were preparing to carry Jon to Craster's house. Sensing Doreah's discomfort, Elaena seized the opportunity. "Doreah," she said with a kind smile, "accompany Jon and start applying those remedies you brought. His body needs to recover from the battle."
Doreah nodded, relieved, and, taking her wooden chest, hurried to follow the men carrying Jon toward Craster's house. As she walked away, Elaena noticed Bran's gaze still fixed on the young woman.
"Kindness and compassion," Bran said, his voice infused with ancient wisdom as he kept his gaze on Doreah, "are powerful forces. Sometimes, more effective than steel or fire." He paused, his gray eyes shining with a peculiar intensity. "That young woman, with her pure heart and desire to help others, could be crucial in the negotiations to come. Remember, Elaena, often it is the small acts of kindness, like those she has shown tonight, that tip the scales. Those gestures can open paths where there are only walls."
Elaena nodded, reflecting on Bran's words. The wisdom of the ancient builder always amazed her. As she looked toward Craster's house, where Doreah hurried to help Jon, a new hope blossomed in her heart. At that moment, her gaze fell upon the young woman with fiery red hair who had arrived with Doreah, a Freefolk woman, who was embraced by Tormund and Val. Elaena noticed that the young woman was also watching Doreah, her gaze fixed on the healer as she walked away. It was evident that there was a silent connection between them, a shared understanding that could serve as a bridge between their worlds.
ONE HOUR LATER
A few minutes later, the atmosphere in the camp turned somber. Tormund and Val approached the bodies arranged in the center of the clearing, where Elaena was preparing to perform the funeral ritual. It was then that Ygritte and Val recognized several companions among the fallen, men and women from the Freefolk who had died fighting and had become wights.
Tears began to well in Ygritte's eyes, while Val allowed a single tear to roll down her cheek. Both remained silent, their hearts heavy with the loss of those who had traveled with them, fighting until the end. Tormund watched them in silence, aware that there were no words that could comfort the pain of losing those they considered family.
Elaena extended her hands to the sky, invoking the magic of fire. A great column of flames erupted, enveloping the bodies in a fiery embrace, illuminating the cold night with a bright glow. The air filled with sparks, and the warmth contrasted with the chill surrounding the camp. In the background, Thoros of Myr and Lysara of Asshai, present at the ceremony, joined in prayers to the Lord of Light, their voices soft and reverent resonating in the air.
"May they find peace on their journey to the beyond," murmured Thoros, as the flames danced like a reflection of his fervent desire for the fallen to be welcomed by the light.
Val and Ygritte remained silent as the flames consumed their comrades, feeling the weight of the loss but also the relief of knowing that their souls would no longer be enslaved by the White Walkers. Inside, a small spark of hope began to shine; their friends were free at last.
In the distance, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont watched the ceremony alongside Qhorin Halfhand, Ser Jarman Buckwell, Beric Dondarrion, and Edric Dayne. The five men stood in silence, contemplating the scene with a mix of respect and sorrow as the fire ascended into the night sky.
"They are not the enemy," Mormont said quietly, breaking the silence. "I will send an order to the Wall. The Freefolk must be allowed to cross to the south. We cannot condemn them to die and become monsters in the White Walkers' army."
Qhorin nodded gravely, understanding the magnitude of his commander's words. "We have seen what is coming. We will need all the help we can get, no matter where it comes from."
Ser Jarman, arms crossed, watched the fire burn. "The true enemy is out there," he said quietly, as the firelight danced in his eyes. "We cannot afford to fight among ourselves."
As the flames continued their dance, Beric Dondarrion and Edric Dayne exchanged knowing glances, aware that this ritual was not only a tribute to the fallen but also a reminder of the fragility of life amid the impending chaos. With every spark from the fire, the urgency to unite against the darkness became more palpable.
HOURS LATER (JUST BEFORE DAWN)
Elaena and Benjen stood at the outskirts of Craster's house, the morning chill still lingering in the air as the sky began to lighten, anticipating dawn. The atmosphere was heavy with a mix of sorrow and determination after the funeral ceremony they had held for those who had fallen. Though the stars still shone, Elaena felt a pang of hope illuminating her heart.
"We must take him to Winterfell," Elaena said, her voice resonating with firmness, as her concern for Jon was reflected in her gaze. "It's the only place where he will be safe from this darkness."
Benjen nodded, his expression somber as he remembered his brother. "You're right. Winterfell is the safest refuge for him now. We cannot allow the evil that is approaching to reach him."
Lord Commander Mormont approached, his face grave. "Dawn is approaching, but we must act quickly. We not only need to move Jon south of the Wall but also bring with us the captured wight and the White Walker," he said, his tone reflecting the urgency of the moment. "We must demonstrate the looming threat and the need for a unified response. But that means we must split up."
Elaena furrowed her brow, understanding the difficult decision ahead. "What are the options?" she asked, aware that Jon's fate depended on every move they made.
Benjen spoke up. "We can split into two groups. One of us, led by Elaena, Bran, Ser Jarman Buckwell, and Lysara, will cross the Wall and head to Winterfell with Jon, bringing the White Walker and the captured wight. The other group, led by the Lord Commander, myself, Thoros, and Qhorin Halfhand, will stay here to continue the negotiations with Mance Rayder."
The proposal resonated among them, and the gravity of the moment weighed in the air. Elaena looked at Bran, who was silently observing, his impassive face full of wisdom. "Bran, what do you think? Your vision could be crucial for this plan."
Bran, feeling the weight of the decision, finally spoke: "We must act quickly but also with care. The danger is imminent, and any misstep could cost us everything. But Jon needs the warmth of home, the shelter of his family."
Elaena nodded, understanding that each of them needed to be prepared for what lay ahead. Amid the tension, a mysterious smile began to form on Elaena's lips. She felt a vibrant energy in the air, a presence that promised hope. She directed her gaze toward the horizon, where the sky was beginning to change color, and felt that something extraordinary was approaching.
"Don't worry," she said, her voice imbued with a calm that surprised even herself. "Help is on the way."
Benjen and Mormont looked at her in confusion. "Help?" Mormont asked, frowning. "From where?"
Elaena didn't answer immediately, but her smile widened as she watched the horizon more closely. Three points of light began to grow in the sky, approaching with impressive majesty. As they drew nearer, the lights transformed into unmistakable silhouettes, imposing. Three dragons, with their wings spread wide, soared through the pre-dawn sky, casting shadows over the camp as the darkness slowly dissolved.
THE FOLLOWING SCENES UNFOLD WITHIN THE CIRCLE OF FIRE AS JON FIGHTS THE GENERAL OF THE GREAT OTHER AND WHEN HE FAINTS FOR THE SECOND TIME AFTER THAT BATTLE.
GILLY AND SAMWELL
Samwell squirmed restlessly, his gaze fixed on Jon's motionless figure in the snow. Anguish reflected in his eyes, and a knot of despair tightened in his throat. "I have to go to him," he murmured, trying to stand. The pain on his face made him wobble, and Gilly caught him firmly, forcing him to sit back down.
"Sam, you can't," Gilly said softly, her voice full of concern. "Look at you, you're still bleeding." Gently, she wiped the blood still trickling from the wound on his cheek. "Your friend needs you to be strong when he wakes up. And for that, you need to let me tend to you."
Samwell lowered his gaze, ashamed. He knew Gilly was right, but the helplessness of not being able to be by Jon's side ate at him. "But he's... he's alone out there," he stammered, his voice trembling. "We don't know what happened to him."
Gilly took his hand in hers, her warm and firm touch offering him an unexpected sense of security. "He's not alone," she said with conviction. "The woman of fire and the man of ice are with him. And besides," she added with a shy smile, "your friend is stronger than you think."
Samwell looked into her eyes, seeing a sincerity that moved him. He nodded slowly, letting himself be comforted by the warmth of her touch and the strength of her words. "You're right," he whispered, feeling the anxiety ease a bit. "Jon is strong. He... he'll get through this."
DOREAH AND YGRITTE
Doreah shivered at the sight. Her heart raced, a mix of fear for Jon and an irresistible desire to help him. The warmth of Ygritte's body, embracing her from behind, comforted her, but she couldn't stay still.
"Ygritte," she whispered, her trembling voice barely audible amid the chaos.
Ygritte, without letting go of her, leaned her head to brush Doreah's ear with her lips. "What's wrong, little bird?" she asked, her warm breath against Doreah's skin sending a shiver down her back.
Ygritte's hand slid down Doreah's arm, gently caressing her skin. Doreah blushed, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. The closeness of Ygritte, the safety of her arms, awakened something in her that she had never experienced before.
Gathering her courage, Doreah turned slightly in the embrace, seeking Ygritte's gaze. Their eyes met, and in that moment, Doreah saw something more than the ferocity of a wild warrior. She saw a spark of concern, a glimpse of tenderness that reassured her. "We need to go to where Jon is, Ygritte," Doreah said, her voice gaining strength. "The salves and remedies I prepared can help him."
Ygritte tightened her embrace, her strong, warm body surrounding Doreah. "Then let's go," she said with a determination that left no room for doubt. "But stay close to me. I won't let anything happen to you."
Doreah nodded, feeling a mix of fear and a strange excitement. Ygritte's hand guided her firmly through the circle of fire, toward the place where Jon lay in the snow.