This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
Winterfell
"Hurry! Get the wounded into the Great Hall. Careful, you fools! Be gentle."
Luwin could hear Farlen barking at the survivors of the battle from where he and his final acolyte, Edric, a tanner's son from Wintertown, tended to the wounded. Anyone who could move was helping as well, and many of the castle's residents were capable of tending minor wounds or keeping the more seriously injured comfortable until he arrived. The cooks, scullery maids, Barth the Brewer, and even Old Nan were doing what they could.
A constant stream of wounded flowed in and were carefully deposited on cots prepared where the tables had been. There were many wounded, yet thankfully, none of them seemed to have been harmed by the flood. Some even swore the boiling water of the springs felt soothing as it flowed around them as if it had a mind of its own, only burning the invaders but not the castle's residents.
It had even retrieved those who fell in the moat!
The maester had been in his tower when the attack began and barely managed to make it to the keep as he searched for the young prince. There was nothing at all that he could have done once the Ironborn broke through the inner gate, and he could only stare in despair as Prince Bran rode off into the Godswood. For one treacherous moment, Luwin had thought the prince was abandoning them, yet he quickly squashed that thought; what could a crippled boy of eleven do against a horde of barbarians?
But who would flee towards their death? On the high table lay the prince laid in eternal rest, covered with a white sheet, like many others who had lost their lives, such as the Frey wards and other innocent souls; it turned out to be quite a lot. Luwin and all the Winterfell household had a clear view of when the specters possessed the last defenders of the castle, those who were too old to even work and the infirm, and fought back against the invaders like demons.
'It must have been magic,' was the only thought in Luwin's mind as he stared at one of the ghosts. He had raised his hands and sent a flood from the hot springs below the castle crashing into the invaders. Their flesh melted, and bones were broken, leaving naught but their arms and armor. Several ghosts even landed on the ground but did not speak; Old Nan nearly collapsed when she cried out, "Rick!" and the man who looked so similar to the late Lord Eddard Stark nodded.
"The Stark in Winterfell has done his duty." The ghost, whom many realized was Rickard Stark, dissipated, and so did many other ghosts. Such magic! If it had been any other time, Luwin would have been gushing to learn how it worked if it had not been for the circumstances.
Communicating with the dead!
Not just that, Prince Bran must have done something to cause the Lords and Kings of Winterfell to rise from their eternal rest to protect their home. Not just them, Luwin could have sworn he saw a maiden amongst them!
Luwin finished suturing the stab wound on the young man's stomach that barely missed his vitals before moving to the next patient, took one glance at his young pale face and bleeding guts, and shook his head sadly.
"Give him wine and milk of the poppy to ease the pain. There's nothing more I can do."
One of the maids hurried to do as told while the young lad's mother wailed in anguish. If he were a stronger man, he would have given the lad the mercy of death, but his heart was too soft to take a life. Luwin quickly moved to the next patient, for he could not afford to delay. No matter how much it pained him, he could not do more.
Several maids followed him with clean fabric as they bandaged the wounds on those with minor injuries until he or Edric arrived to treat those grievously wounded. His eyes passed by a pile of discarded arms and armor near the prince; one, in particular, had a ruby hilt and dark smoky blade that seemed to drink in all the light adorned with swirls of crimson. Red Rain, the legendary blade of House Reyne, which had been stolen by the Drumms ninety years ago during Dagon Greyjoy's wars.
A great prize… that Luwin would like nothing more than to melt down and chuck in the sea if it meant bringing back the prince. The old maester stifled a sob as he moved towards the next wounded. At least the prince's direwolf was alive as he helped Joseth herd the horses the Ironborn had brought into Wintertown. Stark horses, stolen from Rodrik's army, and most of them were used to the smell of the direwolf. Thinking about Summer, Luwin could not help but feel that the direwolf had also changed with the death of its master; it had howled mournfully along with the hundreds of wolves that had followed it before Farlen managed to calm them.
Luwin's mind went to some treatises he had read regarding skinchangers and wargs; many of them were written by maesters serving on the Wall. They mentioned a phenomenon where a warg could live a second life in his bonded animal, yet Luwin did not dare hope. Even when one of Summer's eyes had permanently turned a very familiar shade of blue, he dared not hope!
As Luwin sutured another wound, this one a near-fatal one to the neck, he lamented the loss of so many good men and commanders of the castle. There were practically no more garrison in Winterfell, let alone any captain or commander to lead or protect them. Luwin had already sent riders and ravens to the nearest holdfasts sworn to Winterfell, hoping they would still have spare troops to garrison the mighty castle.
It was nearly sunset when all the wounded were tended to, and the last rays of the sun peeked in from the windows. Luwin groaned as his knees felt stiff from kneeling for so long, yet as he turned to the prince's corpse, and the many other dead, there was still a lot of work to be done. The living were tended to, time for the dead to get their due.
.
.
.
It was two days later when Winterfell finally returned to a semblance of normalcy. The dead were buried in the lichyard, while Prince Bran's body was cleaned and entombed in the crypts in the area that Eddard Stark designated for his family. None would have thought it would be used so early, especially when Lord Stark's bones were still in the South. Once the prince's burial was done, Old Nan insisted they have a statue of him sculpted.
"He was a Stark of Winterfell! He deserves to be buried like one."
A sculptor was already preparing a block of granite while Luwin was called to the Hunter's Gate at the sight of troops approaching. Having learned their lesson, all of the gates were shut, and none could enter without his permission. With the death of the prince and the castellan, the Maester was the highest remaining authority in the castle. It was a burden that Luwin never wished to hold, yet it was his duty to serve the castle and its lord, even if King Robb was a thousand miles away.
It was times like these that Luwin lamented the lack of Starks, even any distant relatives. Sadly, the closest living relatives not from the mainline were the Royces in the Vale and Amberly in the Stormlands - neither of them was at all in a position to help them. Even the Karstarks were so far away from the mainline that one would need to go over a hundred years to trace the closest marriage. There could be more Luwin did not know of, yet they have never shown themselves - aside from two baker girls working in the kitchens the maester suspected were the fruits of Brandon Stark's fostering in the Barrowlands.
Luwin could have sworn there was a Stark branch in Barrowton, though perhaps like the one in White Harbor, they had perished or faded to obscurity.
Luwin shook his head before shivering as he adjusted his furs. The cold winds of the cold season approached, and it had already started snowing last night. He passed by the crowded stables; they had managed to recover nearly five hundred warhorses. It was a tight fit, but they managed to build some lean-to to accommodate all of them until they cleaned out some of the older barns and stables spread around the castle.
All of Wintertown had elected to move inside the castle when he offered, even if the Ironborn did not get the chance to torch or raid the town, so eager they were to take the greater prize. Still, nearly two hundred of them were found mauled by the wolves as they waited outside the castle and watched over the horses. Sadly, there was hardly anyone who could ride them into battle, yet it was still a boon to recover them regardless.
As he approached the closed portcullis of the outer gate, flanked by two men-at-arms, Luwin found himself faced by a large crowd of warriors - possibly five hundred with about fifty of them mounted on garrons and rounceys. Horses that were not normally used in the Stark forces that preferred chargers, coursers, or even the occasional destrier. He recognized the banners of Houses Woods, Branch, Forrester, and Bole, yet the largest and most prominent banner was that of the Glovers.
A group of five approached, one representing each house, though the young lad wearing the inverted colors of House Hornwood had Luwin raise an eyebrow before his attention was grabbed by their speaker.
"I am Benjicot Branch," a lean and wiry man in his thirties with harsh, flinty eyes spoke. "Who are you? Why are you barring the gates? Where is Prince Bran?"
"I'm the castle's maester, Luwin. May I ask why you are here?"
"We were sent by Lady Sybelle Glover to join with Ser Rodrik Cassel in his attack against the Ironborn. We were too late for the battle, and the Squids now control Tallhart's castle. We decided to chase a band of Ironborn heading this way while Steward Wayn prepared for their main force to eventually attack the Wolfswood." Benjicot Branch glanced around him in confusion, ignoring Luwin's wide eyes at learning there was yet another larger Ironborn force occupying Torrhen's Square. "We could have sworn we were a couple of days behind them, but they were mounted while we barely had any horses."
Luwin sighed in frustration, "If only you were here two days ago. The castle was attacked, and the Ironborn made it all the way to the Great Keep before being repelled. Prince Bran fell in battle, but the rest of the Ironborn are now feasts to the wolves." Several of the men cursed and muttered angry vows of vengeance, yet a distant howl caused them to look around warily. "Those wolves, in fact."
From the south, closer to the now deserted Wintertown, the prince's direwolf approached, followed by a score of wolves acting as an honor guard. The men cursed, and some of them hurried to string their bows before Luwin shouted, "Calm yourself. It's the prince's direwolf."
Summer approached the small army, utterly unconcerned with how anxious they were, especially the horses. He sniffed at some of them before turning to the Maester; Luwin could see intelligence in those mismatched eyes, yet he dared not hope that the prince still lived within.
"I thank you for your prompt arrival, nevertheless. Winterfell welcomes you." With a signal, the portcullis was opened, and more introductions were formalized. Ethan Forrester brought the most men and all the horse, yet he was too young to lead properly and allowed the more experienced Benjicot to command. Ned Woods and Torren Bole led scouts and woodsmen, while Larence Snow led the Glover contingent of men-at-arms. A great honor to the bastard of Halys Hornwood and the late Jocelyn Glover, sister to Galbart Glover.
Once bread and salt were given, the men were housed, and the once empty castle was suddenly lively again - the Wolfswood men paid their respects to the fallen prince and took over the defense of the castle. Luwin would have been glad to allow some of the more martial-minded forest clansmen or even the young Larence Snow to act as castellan of the castle, allowing him to continue his duties as maester. Sadly, it was not that simple, as with the absence of a Stark in Winterfell, the Maester retained nearly all authority - it helped that he was the most knowledgeable on all matters pertaining to the castle.
Luwin had written scrolls for Riverrun, White Harbor, the Dreadfort, and Karhold. It did not matter whether it was King Robb or Princess Sansa, Winterfell needed a Stark, and it needed one yesterday. He would have sent one to the Norreys, yet he could not find their only raven - a niggling thought in his mind told him Prince Bran had pranked him one last time before his death.
It was two days later that a raven arrived from Deepwood Motte. Luwin had opened it with the forest clansmen in attendance, all of them dreading another attack from the Ironborn, only to wonder if Lady Glover had lost her wits.
A winged behemoth hewn from frost and ice had been sighted, roosting under a hill overlooking the water in Sea Dragon Point.
A*H*M
Jon Snow, Somewhere in the Frostfangs.
"White Huntsman. We are at your mercy."
It was ironic to see the wildlings, who were supposed to hate kneelers and kneeling… kneeling before him. But then again, perhaps it was all words in the wind, merely empty bravado and boasting that the savages were so infamous for. That and raiding, murdering, and stealing.
Jon could feel the impatience of his vast pack of wolves fanned out around him. They were hungry and had no qualms about partaking in human flesh, and the only thing stopping them was his will. He could exert his mind over them, but the more a deed or behavior went against their nature and instinct, the more strenuous it was to force the beast to obey him.
Jon sat on a rock with his blade held horizontally on his knees as he emptied his mind of all distractions as Brynden had taught him. The wildlings had come to him as he scouted the hills, a clan of nearly a thousand, including women and children. Only three hundred of them could fight, yet all of them had been left inside the mountains as they dug for whatever it was that Mance Rayder desired so much. Yet, he had already learned that Mance had moved his wildling army south to attack the Bridge of Skulls.
The fact that they were kneeling showed how desperate they were to come to him.
"Rise." None dared move, causing him to frown, "I thought you who call yourself the Freefolk hated acts of weakness or submitting to others, yet here you are, kneeling to a steward of the Night's Watch."
Jon had learned enough about the wildlings from Bloodraven to know the eccentricities of their ways. They could hardly be called a people united; wildlings were what they were called South of the Wall. Here, they were a loose group of clans, tribes, families, and warbands, squabbling with each other, many speaking their own nearly incomprehensible mixture of Common and Old Tongue. And they were not as unyielding as they liked to portray themselves; beat them down enough, kill those who stubbornly resist, and the rest would fall in line. That's how Bloodraven had managed many of the more troublesome wildlings during his tenure as Lord Commander. The difference here was that Jon did not get to beat any of them; they simply came to him as he passed by a certain mountain with a large cave entrance.
One of them raised his head, an older man, nearly a greybeard. "We are not afraid of dying in battle or on a hunt. Yet we have nothing left. No more food or supplies, and that cunt Mance had abandoned us!"
"Abandoned you?" Jon echoed, the response stirring his curiosity.
"Aye, we followed him because he promised us freedom and a way south from the madness that hunts us in the coldest of nights." Another man answered; this one seemed more… civilized. No, that was a generous term for a wildling, yet he had a felt hat, a doublet, a linen tunic, seal skin boots, and adorned his heavy furs with silver and polished malachite - far better clothed than any wildling Jon had seen. "He had us dig in the mountains for some horn that could bring down the Wall, yet we found nothing, and the Cold Shadows started attacking, and he turned south to force a crossing. He abandoned us here. We only learned of the army leaving when Little Dan saw them with his hawk."
The man pointed at a young boy, his dark eyes peeking cautiously from underneath a tangled knot of light-brown hair. He had latched onto an older woman with similar features. Most likely his mother. Jon glanced to the skies, finding a rough-legged hawk flying overhead in colors of white and brown.
"That explains how you found me," Jon muttered before glancing at the raven on his shoulder. He did not seem to have much talent when it came to skinchanging into birds; he could do it, but it always left him disoriented and gave him a sense of unease. Bloodraven usually scouted for him whenever he visited, yet Jon ended up relying heavily on his wolves.
It had been moons since he had left the Fist of the First Men and crossed into the Frostfangs. His dark clothes were discarded in favor of white garbs that would hide him better in the snow. Contrary to what he expected, the Black Brothers were not so foolish or inflexible to remain wearing dark clothes for an extended ranging beyond the wall. Lord Commander Mormont lent him a pair of white trousers and a tunic, which alone would not be enough to withstand the cold, yet Jon did not mind it. A white-dyed cloak finished his new uniform before he set out to harass the wildlings.
It sounded like a mission one would not return alive from alone, yet Jon did not find himself struggling on the brink of death. No, he found himself thriving. The thin veil of snow seemed like a pleasant blanket that kept his mind clear from distraction, and his days and nights were spent polishing his new skills. And a skinchanger was never alone. His many wolves acted as mobile shock troops against the lightly armored wildlings, and with their natural ability to scout, Jon had managed to succeed where a warband would have failed. In the first moon, he and his wolves must have slain thousands of the wildlings, most of them taken by the cold as they blindly fled in terror. Yet things had slowly shifted, and he found fewer and fewer foes.
In the last sennight, Jon had struggled to find a single wildling. Not even the Halfhand's group fared any better, though he had not heard from them and the squad of Earth Singers that joined them in some time.
There was only one reason Jon could think of. The wildlings had nowhere to retreat, so Mance Rayder must have finally decided to abandon his folly and attack the Bridge of Skulls.
"What do you think, Brynden?" It still irked him that the ancient greenseer had refused to tell him who his mother was, insisting that the time was not right - that he was not yet ready. Nevertheless, Jon had a feeling that Brynden Rivers would use that knowledge as bait so he could do his bidding. So far, both of their goals were aligned: beat the Freefolk into submission, then beat the Others back. Haste makes Waste, Jon had learned the virtue of patience long ago.
"Up to you, lad. I would not trust a wildling unless I had overwhelming leverage over them. They will bend and heed your words as long as you remain strong, but once you are weak, they will betray you."
It would be prudent to listen to the wise old greenseer, yet Jon remembered another wise man's words reverberating in his mind: "Oaths of fealty and promises of friendship can be given easily, yet, more often than not, words are wind. It is in the heat of battle that true friends are made."
His father – Eddard Stark's lessons, still served him well despite having the ability to draw on the wisdom of history through Bloodraven's connection to the deep roots of the Weirwoods. Even if the Wall seemed to keep him barred to only those who had fallen on this side of the Wall.
The thoughts of his family, thousands of miles away, caused Jon's heart to ache. He longed to return to them, to make sure they were safe, to save his sisters and fight his brother's enemies. If only Jon had waited a few moons, nay, a few weeks to leave Winterfell. The Wall had stood for eight thousand years, yet Jon had rushed to become a Black Brother out of stubbornness more than anything else.
Yet a Brother of the Night's Watch he had become, and there was no point crying over spilled mead. The Watch took no part in the affair of the Realms.
Sighing inwardly, Jon focused on the wizened greybeard who first spoke to him.
"Say I accept your fealty, what do you expect from me? But first, I would have your names."
"I'm Jax. I suppose you can say I'm the chief of this tribe. We ask you to lead us, and protect us from the Others and other men who would force us to do their bidding. We have had our fill of these frozen and gods forsaken lands."
"Fealty goes both ways. What would you offer for me that I would risk the laws of men to take you under my protection?"
"We will fight your battles and pay you homage, of course!" It was the well-dressed wildling who spoke, a knowing grin on his face. "You can even take your pick of our women. I know you're from south of the wall, clearly the blood of one of your kneeler chieftains or lords. Provide us a home away from here, and we will be your men…and women." The man added as a spearwife elbowed him in the ribs.
Jax helpfully supplied, "This is Gavin. We call him the Trader."
"Is that so," Jon scrutinized the so-called Trader, whose grin widened. "I seem to recall some of the Brothers of the Watch mentioning you."
"Indeed, I sometimes traded gold and furs for good steel, linen, and mead. I once got lucky and traded a few nuggets of white gold for a whole flask of Arbor Gold! I think your learned men love those bits of little silver." Gavin the Trader stood, his smile remained fixed - it reminded Jon of a badger for some reason. "I even know how to read and write! My ma was a woman from south of the Wall, you see. A clanswoman, if I'm not mistaken. Named me after her pa."
Having someone capable of reading and writing as a minion would certainly be convenient. Gavin even seemed open to dealing with the Night's Watch, and it helps that none of them had lied to him so far - thanks to Ghost's instincts and senses, Jon could tell a lie from a mile away.
And yet, accepting these people's fealty was not a simple matter. Fealty went both ways; just as Jon would expect them to follow his commands, they would expect him to protect them and mediate for them. It would be especially awkward once he rejoined the Night's Watch.
While his vows did not forbid recruiting followers, taking the fealty of wildlings was dangerously close to everything the Night's Watch stood against–and Jon could imagine neither Lord Commander Mormont, nor the other veterans would be happy with him.
Suddenly, one of his wolves scouting in the distance nudged his mind hurriedly. At the same time, the young skinchanger yelled, "It's them! The dead are coming!"
It seemed the gods decided to take the decision out of his hands.
"To arms!" Jon suddenly stood, and with a thought, Ghost appeared out of nowhere. His fur merged seamlessly with the surrounding snow, and he looked like an eerie red-eyed specter, garnering a few shrieks of fear as many of the wildlings gripped their spears harder as they warily glanced at the direwolf. "If you wish to join my side, show me your mettle, Gavin the Trader and company. We will hold out against them at the caves. Survive, impress me, and you may yet find a future for yourselves."
He clicked his tongue at his garron, an aging yet intelligent mare with gray and white fur - it was the only one among the troop that was calm around the wolves, and Jon had easily formed a bond with it. The horse immediately moved towards him as he led everyone back towards the cave; the wildlings were fretting, yet his confident demeanor had them follow with only some grumbling. As he walked, Jon slipped into his scout's skin a few miles away to find three Ice Dolls riding spiders and leading a small army of shambling corpses. Many of them were humans, yet a significant number were dead animals as well: elks, moose, wolves (which formed a knot in his stomach), deer, bears, boars, and even squirrels.
Yet it was the presence of someone further back that had him pause. Just like the Ice Dolls, he was armed in frost armor, similar to the bracer he wore over his left forearm, yet there was no doubt that it was different. Jon could tell that it was not human yet it was very similar to the Ice Dolls, except far more beautiful and ethereal. Far more real and dangerous!
"Looks like they are finally coming out of hiding."
The Others… this particular mountain range was the furthest to the west than any other mountain in the Frostfangs. Jon had seen the vast empty expanse of the Lands of Always Winter, and yet even he had felt a strange cold wind blowing from it. It was a risk for him to range so far west, yet he needed to be sure no more wildling clans were left in the region.
A part of him also hoped to find his Uncle Benjen, his Earth Singer companion had left him a few days ago after they arrived in this region. Crown, named after his hair that looked like a tree's canopy, had taught him a lot about his tongue and had been enthused when Jon would converse with him in the true tongue instead of relying on Bloodraven, a truly magical language that Jon was certain he would not have been capable of uttering a few moons ago - even now, he would not dare call himself fluent in it. In return, Jon did his best to teach the common tongue to Crown.
Nevertheless, Crown had suddenly declared he needed to travel west. That his brothers and sisters were close.
Leaf and her group had disappeared some time ago, and the rest of the Earth Singers were worried due to the lack of any Weirwoods in that direction - Bloodraven could not reach them either. Jon did not wish to think of the worst, so he allowed his new friend to depart.
That a true Other, an Ice Singer, had appeared leading a small army worried Jon greatly. He did not know what they were doing here, perhaps foraging for materials or maybe hunting for humans. It did not matter; Jon could tell they knew where they were, and the nearly thousand-corpse-strong army was on their way here.
At least there were no giants or mammoths this time.
Soon, the whole tribe was back inside the caves, and Jon realized there were more women and children inside, protected by two scores of warriors. They would have freaked out if Jax had not rushed beside him to calm them.
Jon removed a saddlebag from his horse, "I have enough knapped dragonglass to make a hundred spear tips. Tie them to your shafts quickly. Those without dragonglass, set alight your torches. Nothing works against them but fire and obsidian. I want anything flammable to be piled outside the cave."
"Huntsman, there is hardly any dried wood here," Gavin replied even as he helped start a fire while another wildling was preparing a crude pot of frozen tree sap - the women were busy fashioning torches and fire arrows of moss, tallow, lichen and shrubs, while the rest of the men grabbed the dragonglass, strung their bows or prepared for battle.
"Use all you have. Don't waste the dragonglass on the wights and…"
Jon briefly explained how best to fight the Others and their thralls. Once done, he noted the awed looks the wildlings were giving them; if earlier they would follow him for his strength, now they were impressed by his knowledge.
"They're here!" Little Dan cried out, "So many of them."
"Form a line. Anyone with a bow, remember what I said: make every arrow count." Jon stood beside the warriors at the front, holding his Weirwood bow and placing several obsidian arrows on a nearby rock. With a thought, he found Ghost and the rest of the wolves hidden in the snow. Waiting for the right time to strike.
Jon idly fingered the horn on his hip; the waiting was the hardest part of a battle, yet they did not need to wait long. Soon, the first wight appeared from behind a bend, stumbling on the unsteady ground. More followed it, and within a minute, a hundred of them slowly made their way up the wide path to the cave.
"Steady now–don't waste any arrows," Jon warned when he noticed some of the archers nocking and drawing their bowstrings. "Wait until their masters are here."
An uneasy murmur sounded, but it eventually turned into agreement. Many more corpses shambled onto the path, and Jon frowned; they were within range of his war bow, a gift from Crown that Jon had seen the Singer make…by singing to a Weirwood.
Unlike normal weirwood bows Jon had used, this one was unmistakably alive. He could feel the sap still running through it like blood, and it almost whispered in his mind, eager to be used. When not in use, the bow simply coiled like vines around his arm, hugging the icy bracer Jon wore on his left forearm. The string, made from simple elk guts, was tied into several loops around one corner of it, but with a thought and a flick of his wrist, the bow would uncoil into a medium-sized recurve, offering the same power as a composite war bow yet without the weakness to dampness or the bulkiness of a longbow.
Truly a kingly gift unseen in all of Westeros!
Regardless, it would be a waste to shoot at any of the corpses; his target would come out at any moment now.
"Little Dan," He abruptly called out as he grabbed an arrow and notched it.
"Y-Yes?"
"Have your hawk watch over that bend. Let me know when the Cold Ones turn. They are the ones riding giant spiders."
"U-Understood."
The surrounding men shifted as more wights approached. Just as the one in the lead was a hundred feet away, Little Dan shouted. "There!"
Jon could barely see the spider's front legs as it turned the bend, yet his target should have been a few more feet above. Trusting the lad, he tensed his whole body to complete the heavy draw; the string thrummed under his fingers, launching an obsidian-tipped arrow in a single motion. As the arrow flew, the spider finished its turn, and the dragonglass tip sank into its rider's neck, shattering it to pieces.
"He's a marksman…"
"A master marksman! That must have been over five hundred feet!"
The men hollering with reverence were silenced by a high-pitched shriek that made all of his hair stand up, followed by a melodic yet commanding voice saying something that sounded like the whistling of a blizzard. All the wights froze…and then did something entirely unexpected.
They charged forward, and he swore out loud!
"Fire arrows, loose!" Jon did not waste a moment before he drew and loosed another arrow at the Ice Singer, who turned the bend, riding on a bloody unicorn, only to raise a shield of crystal that easily blocked the arrow.
The archers behind peppered the approaching wights as quickly as they could, dropping and burning several of them, but the damned things were far more fast and agile than usual. Even as living beings, humans were not supposed to be able to leap so high!
Jon cursed as the arrow he was about to notch, willed his bow to coil around his arm, and dashed down to meet them, swinging Longclaw to decapitate the first wight. The rest of the wildlings followed suit with a roar, and soon, obsidian spears pinned down the shambling corpses while crude axes and blades dismembered them. All others would be set alight by torches and fire arrows. Jon had lost count of how many corpses he cut to pieces before finding himself beset by the two remaining Dolls.
A glance around him showed the men were struggling, yet the fires were spreading. It would not last long in the cold weather, yet it would give Jon enough time. With a thought, Jon urged Ghost and his wolves to attack the flanks while he leaped and stamped on the spider's head before lunging with Longclaw at the first Ice Doll. The creature's ice blade sang shrilly as he struck it, causing it to buckle. The slash turned into a stab that his foe barely managed to avoid but struck the spider's back instead.
Within a few heartbeats, Jon already had it on the back foot, slaying its spider and nearly killing it if not for the other Doll joining it, its spider having been torn apart by the wolves. Two against one, Jon still felt confident, for the Ice Dolls were too inflexible, lacking any skills while relying on brute force and swiftness.
At least, that was how the Ice Dolls fought in the past. Jon frowned as the dolls fought far more skillfully, both of them in excellent coordination and showing great teamwork. First, the enhanced speed and strength of the wights, now the dolls fighting in tandem? Something was wrong.
A fire arrow struck one of the dolls, causing it to flinch, and Jon used that chance to kick it away as he deflected the other doll's sword. It still gave him a chance to take stock of the battle; the wildlings were struggling against the dead as the fires steadily flickered out. Thankfully, Ghost and his wolves had already torn away at the flanks, managing to thin a significant number by themselves. His wolfpack had at least fifty direwolves and ten times that number of regular wolves the last time he checked, yet Ghost continuously gathered more and more wolves into his pack.
Pushing away the doll, Jon finally realized why things were different.
The Ice Singer!
He was astride his unicorn, far in the safety of the rear of his horde, yet Jon could see him with his hands in the air, moving like a master seamstress would move a loom–or a bard playing the harp. A gust of cold wind came from the west, snuffing out the last of the torches, and the men were quickly being swarmed by the dead. A cracking sound came from above, and a massive chunk of ice broke off the mountain, crashing down into the battleground right on the flank where his wolves fought.
Jon nearly roared in rage at the thought of Ghost being hurt, yet the direwolf had smartly led his pack away as soon as the sound came. Nevertheless, they were now blocked and would need to rejoin the battle through another path. Jon did not have a chance to think more as the Ice Dolls reengaged with renewed effort. They were still stiff, and Jon knew he would eventually beat them, for he was simply more skilled, more powerful, more agile.
Yet the wildlings would most likely perish by then. He did not know why he cared, but Jon simply did; those men, women, and children came to him and promised him their loyalty in return for protection. He might be a brother of the Night's Watch, yet Jon simply could not refuse such a sincere offer, not when they were fighting tooth and nail on his side.
"Use the Horn!"
"What?!" Jon shouted at Bloodraven, not bothering to whisper.
"The Horn! Use it! Smear it in your blood and blow into it like you're trying to shake the very foundations of the World!"
Jon kicked away one of the Dolls, its blade and armor a ruin. Just a bit more, and it would be defeated! Yet, by then, Jon would still have to deal with the Ice Singer. Cursing out loud, he parried a strike from the other one and stepped back, earning himself a moment of reprieve. But it was enough to bite his lips harshly, causing them to bleed, before bringing the horn that Ghost found on the Fist of the First Men to his lips.
Then he took a deep breath and blew!
It was as if something hot twisted inside his gut, pulling and writhing as if a fiery snake wriggled in his belly.
A long, mournful blast echoed across the valley, steadily increasing in strength until it turned into a deep and resonant boom! He was quickly running out of breath, but the sound was still cascading into a powerful rumble as the world shook, and Jon could feel something being consumed inside him to fuel the horn…which was now glowing a white so bright he could barely bear to look at it. Strange runes slowly appeared on the horn, which seemed similar to those Jon learned as a child alongside Robb when their father had them join the Mountain Clansmen when they wintered in Wintertown.
For a very long minute, the rumble that now echoed across the mountain slope seemed to sink into the ground, dull and distant. Yet, the sounds of battle ceased around him until he ran out of breath and withdrew it - the lights on the horn froze before slowly dimming. Looking around, the wights seemed frozen in place before a whinny had him turn to the Ice Singer, finding the unicorn rearing up. For a heartbeat, Jon almost thought he felt a tremor below him, but then the unicorn steadied, and the Ice Singer glared murderously at him, a stream of purple liquid running down from his ears.
"AGAIN!"
Bloodraven roared in his mind, and Jon did not need any urging before he blew into the horn once more.
The pull in his navel almost had him lurch, the feeling of heat magnified and clashed with the chill in the air, and it was as if his blood itself had become a river of wildfire, as steam began to rise in ribbons from his skin. The runes shone brighter than earlier, and the deep and resonant hum turned into a loud and commanding blast. High-pitched screaming could be heard from the Ice Dolls as they froze in their attempts to attack him, and Jon felt weakness consume him… yet a stubborn and defiant part of his mind urged him to continue sounding his wrath, desperation, and displeasure for all the world to hear.
Something clicked in his mind, then, and the clash of ice and fire inside his body halted as if the two forces had reached an understanding, and the world shook again. All of a sudden, he felt as if he was thrown into a tiny, cramped hole, and something annoying was trying to grind him into meatpaste from above. But the fleeting feeling disappeared as it came.
The blast turned into a primal roar, and the Ice Dolls shattered into a thousand pieces, dropping most of their armor and both their swords in their place–intact. Just as Jon was again running out of breath…a terrible rumble came from below, and another roar seemed to answer him.
"Huntsman! We need to get out of here!" Jax's shout could be heard just as Jon withdrew the horn; the Ice Singer was shouting incoherently, and his wights ambled in confusion around him. Jon tiredly followed the old chieftain into the caves when one of the surrounding mountains exploded!
Screams of women and children, curses, and oaths were thrown by the men as the skies rained rock and ice at everyone. They were barely protected inside the cave, and Jon nearly laughed in relief when he found Ghost and his pack already inside - yet all were silenced once the rocky rain ended, and a guttural roar erupted.
A roar that Jon could not help but feel drawn to.
Making his way back outside, Jon idly noticed the Ice Singer galloping away on his unicorn, all his thralls abandoned. Jon did not care, for he had eyes only on the monstrous head that had blown a hole out of the mountain's side.
"…Dragon." A large ice-blue head shook itself from the rocks and ice clinging to its glistening scales. Steam and quickly cooling lava leaked from the mountain's vents. A pair of silver eyes seemed to be squinting at the light of the sun, as if it found it irritating. The dragon's head was so large it could have swallowed an aurochs whole in one gulp!
Seemingly annoyed with what he was seeing, the dragon roared again, a sound similar to a thousand avalanches and rock slides. Yet, Jon gawked as the creature breathed deeply before blowing out a storm of ice and wind that covered the overcast skies and plunged the world into darkness.
"…An Ice Dragon?" Jon should have felt fear at the sight of the massive creature shaking off the mountaintop as if it was a shadowcat shrugging off a few hours of snowfall after a day of sleep as it forced its way out of the mountain before spreading a pair of wings that seemed to encompass the whole valley. Yet he felt only wonder, especially when the dragon finally seemed to notice him and gazed at him curiously.
Instinctively, Jon reached out to the creature, even as he dimly heard Bloodraven shouting 'NO' in his mind. The dragon's slitted eyes widened as they bore down on him, and for a moment, they just stared at each other, and Jon could almost imagine looking back at himself from the dragon's eyes and–
Then, Ghost trotted beside him and joined in the staredown, and the dragon shook its head as if it was clearing the last vestiges of drowsiness. A feeling almost like disappointment or resignation hit Jon like a rock before the dragon took off from the mountain.
And flew off towards the south.
"…Well, that was anticlimactic."
Jon flinched as he watched the dragon fly away and snarled inwardly. "You knew! You knew a dragon hid under the mountain, and you had me call it?! What if it turned out to be hostile?"
"I knew nothing of the sort! The only thing I knew was that the horn was magical. For a moment, I thought it truly was the Horn of Winter, and if there was a chance it could do something to get you out of this dilemma you got yourself into, then so be it."
The Horn of Winter was supposed to wake the giants from stone…and this did fit the story in Jon's mind. The mountain was definitely made of stone, and the dragon–it was easily bigger than any giant he had seen.
Instead, irritated at Bloodraven's foolish nonchalance, Jon bit back, "I had things under control."
"Sure you did. If you had not bothered to play the lordling and insisted on protecting those savages, then yes, you could have eventually won or retreated."
"They came to me for protection! I would not send them away, especially not now that we have fought side by side and won."
Bloodraven remained silent as the rest of the wildlings came out of their cave, battered but not beaten. Jon merely stared at them and was not surprised when they knelt again.
"We asked for your protection, and you gave it to us, Huntsman," Jax spoke once more, a wicked gash marred his arm. "We pledge our lives to you."
The rest of the wildlings muttered the same oath, and Jon could only sigh inwardly. While he was pleased that he managed to gain the loyalty of the tribe, he wondered how he would explain himself to the Lord Commander.
At least they won't have food troubles now. Jon glanced at the abandoned wights that looked fresh enough that it would probably be safe for them to consume them.
"By the way, you would probably want to know why you nearly bonded with the dragon." Jon perked up at Bloodraven's amused whisper. "Your mother is Lyanna Stark. Make of that what you will."
But House Stark had no dragonblood, and his father would never lay with his sister–and suddenly, the world seemed to come crashing down on Jon.
The first true appearance of the Others. Notice their powers? Keep an eye on them.
It would not be an ASOIAF with magic if Jon Snow does not meet a dragon of some sorts, lol.
Bloodraven is such a mad troll.
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