An Age of Heroes

by Stroms1

The year is 297 AC; King Robert has overthrown the Targaryen dynasty, and the realm has endured almost 2 decades of relative peace. But things take a turn for the worse when Renly Baratheon is the one who discovers the dangerous secret about his brother's 'children.' While in the deep North, the supernatural threat of the Long Night looms. {AU}

12. Jon III

Jon III

''Ghost!'' Jon howled at the snowy and icy terrain of nothingness that was everywhere beyond the wall, looking for his direwolf. He had not seen the white direwolf since they had arrived at Craster's Keep. The weather had been more favourable, so they had arrived at the Fist of the First Men within a week after crossing the Milkwater River. Only two men had died during the march: a Stark greybeard and a young green black brother.

Craster had given the Lord Commander and Cassel a tip. Benjen and the other fifty black brothers had arrived at Craster Keep moons ago, and Craster spoke to him about a wildling camp at the Fist. Benjen and the other brothers were last seen heading there, looking for Ser Wymar Royce, who had also gone missing during a ranging. When they had arrived though, it looked deserted, just like Whitetree and so many other wildling villages they had passed. Only ghosts seem to live in all the wildling settlements now. Where did they all go? Where are you, uncle?

The camp was stretched out before him as Jon gave up on the search for Ghost and made his way back up the hill. Inside the old ringfort, there was a hive of activity. Men moved purposefully between tents; barks could be heard from men giving out commands, their breath rising in misty plumes against the cold morning air. A highly defensible place, Jon thought. It offered commanding views, and its slopes were at a dangerous angle to the north and west and only slightly less dangerous to the east. Crowning the top of the steep, stony hill was an ancient ringfort in ruin. The ancient ringfort on the Fist had been built by the First Men during the Dawn Age. Some of its stone ringwall still remains. The top of the hill was not large, but it was more than enough to fit two hundred men.

''Snow!? Cassel is looking for you.'' Jon heard a Stark man howl as he passed the Night's Watch camp.

''Where can I find him?'' Jon asked

''The command tent.'' the Winterfell man, who had seen many winters, answered.

He thanked the guard and made his way to the middle of the ringfort. Jon had also tried to look for Lophand, Edd, and Addam, but he could not find them. The last time he had seen them was yesterday, when he joined them in digging latrine pits. The three black brothers had quickly grown on him; Lophand had, just like Jon, a barrier of bitterness within. But once you got past the barrier and were allowed entry, you could spot a kind man. Addam was dumb as a doorknob but strong like a bull. And Edd had a special sense of humour but was somewhat unreliable.

He was allowed entry by two Stark guards and passed the tent flaps. The inside of the tent was warm and full of simplicity. A quickly made table, with candles and a map laying across the table. Jon could spot the Lord Commander, Jory Cassel, Ser Arthur, and the 'Halfhand'.

''Jon.'' Ser Arthur acknowledged him, a warm smile appearing on his lips.

''Corn!'' Mormont's raven croaked.

''Go outside; get the men ready.'' Jeor commanded Qhorin. The Halfhand obeyed and made his way outside the tent, gazing at Jon curiously all the while. Jon could hear him start to bark out commands once he had passed him and was outside the tent.

''How are your men holding up?'' Mormont asked Cassel.

''They're good. Nervous, but good. This place...it's like standing on the edge of the world.'' Cassel answered. The Lord Commander nodded, his eyes still on the map on the table.

''Jon, our scouts have reported wildling activity a few miles west of here. You and Ser Arthur are to accompany Qhorin and his men in trying to locate him.''

''As you command.'' Jon replied.

''Have you found the beast?'' Jeor asked.

''No, my lord.'' Jon answered somberly.

''A pity; he would have been useful.'' Mormont said.

''Corn! Corn!'' Mormont's raven croaked.

Ser Arthur Dayne made his way towards him and laid a hand on his shoulder. ''I'm sure you will find him, Jon. Don't worry.''

The wind picked up, rustling through the camp, carrying with it the scent of pine and the cold promise of the northern night. The clash of steel rang through the cold air as Jon Snow and Ser Arthur Dayne engaged just beyond the camp at the Fist of the First Men. Ser Arthur was a figure of legend; his prowess with a blade was unparalleled. Even in the cold, he moved with the same grace and deadly precision that had made him so legendary.

''Defend yourself, Jon.''

Jon braced himself and blocked a swift strike with a loud clang. The strike proved to be too strong for Jon, however, making him stumble before he fell to the ground. He grunted, annoyed to have lost balance so easily. Ser Arthur thrust his sparring sword at the snow and offered his hand; Jon took it.

''Your technique has improved,'' Ser Arthur observed, his voice amused. ''But you still favour your right side too heavily, just like Eddard Stark.'' Jon Snow wanted to question him and say that he did not favour his right side. But instead, he sighed and nodded before picking up his sparring sword.

''There is no shame in it. Every knight, every warrior, carries a weakness—even I. That is the essence of the delicate dance: conceal your own flaws while seeking to uncover those of your foe.''

''You've sparred with Father? He never spars.'' Jon asked, his curiosity peaked.

''Yes, although it was more of a battle than sparring. It was during the Rebellion.''

''Who won?'' Jon asked, one eyebrow raised. Ser Arthur hesitated to answer him though. He picked up the sword that had been thrust into the snow before smiling sadly. ''One day, when we are south of the wall again, I will tell you that. But for now, focus on your stance.'' Jon got to his fighting stance, and they both began to circle each other.

''Snow! Ser Arthur! I hate to interrupt your pretty fighting, but we move out in a few.'' Qhorin howled from afar. Ser Arthur chuckled silently and took Jon's sparring sword.

''Put on the thicker cloak and bring our swords. I'll meet you with the attachment,'' Ser Arthur said.

The wind howled through the narrow pass as Qhorin Halfhand led a small detachment of ten men, together with Jon and Ser Arthur, through the treacherous terrain that was everywhere beyond the Wall. The snow crunched under their boots, and the cold bit through their thick cloaks, a relentless reminder of the harsh northern wilderness. He kept his eyes out for Ghost; the white wolf would blend seamlessly here with the heavy snow.

''I saw your wolf at Castle Black. A fine creature, fierce. Where did you find him?'' Qhorin asked.

''The wolfswood, my brother Robb, and I found the mother; she was dead. But the six pups were still alive; all of my siblings have one.'' Jon answered. Qhorin's expression turned thoughtful. ''I see. Well, I'm sure you will find him. The land beyond the wall is probably where he is from originally; even a wolf would be happy to be reunited with that.'' Jon nodded, turning slightly melancholy. This is Ghost's homeland; perhaps he does not want to be found.

''The Lord Commander told me that you and the wolf saved his life; that's why he gave you that sword.'' Qhorin continued, gesturing to the sword strapped to his back.

Jon bristed; he had promised Jeor Mormont not to talk to anyone about what had happened that night. ''Aye, but it was Ghost who truly saved him.'' Jon paused before continuing, ''He is more than just a direwolf to me; sometimes I can feel him, his needs and feelings, and I think he can do the same with me—it's like he understands me.'' Jon spoke carefully, trying his best to avoid what he had saved Mormont from.

Qhorin's gaze shifted to Jon. ''Aye, that's because he does, lad. You've got the blood of the First Men in you. The old blood. And with it, gifts that most have forgotten.''

Jon frowned, adjusting his cloak against the biting wind. ''What do you mean?''

Qhorin stopped briefly, placing a hand on Jon's shoulder, causing him to halt. The other men continued marching, and Ser Arthur turned around to look at them curiously when they had passed them before turning back around. Their figures were soon lost in the swirling snow ahead. ''You're a warg, Jon.'' Qhorin said, his tone matter-of-fact. ''It's in your blood, the blood of your father, of the King's of Winter. You and the beast share a bond. A connection that's deeper than mere loyalty.''

Jon's eyes widened. ''A warg? I've heard stories about wargs.'' Old Nan never runs out of stories about wargs and skin-changers. ''But... that's just old tales.'' He said.

''It is south of the wall.'' The Halfhand agreed, releasing Jon before he continued to march. Jon rushed to keep up with him. ''But I have seen it here; some wildlings have the gift. Tis' more than superstition. You've felt it, haven't yah? The way you understand him without words. And see through his eyes in the night when camps and castles sleep. It's why I asked the Lord Commander to bring you with us.''

Jon hesitated, starting to remember when he was dreaming—when he had hunted that stag in the night. ''Why tell me now?'' Jon asked finally. ''Why here?''

Qhorin's brown eyes gleamed with fierce intensity. ''Because out here, beyond the Wall, every advantage counts. And knowing who you are and what you can do might just keep us alive.''

They had caught up with the rest of the men; they had all been halted by a mountainside. Qhorin's eyes were on the horizon, where a faint flicker of light danced against the side of another small mountain. ''There,'' he said, his voice faint. ''A fire.''

''Could be wildlings.'' suggested Thoren Smallwood, one of the rangers, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Qhorin's gaze remained fixed on the fire. ''Could be,'' he said, before turning around towards the men. ''We approach quietly; stay low. If it's wildlings, we might just learn something.''

As the sun had almost made its daily approach across the sky, and the biting winds had gotten colder. They had arrived just at the outskirts of the unknown flicker of fire. Jon was with his uncle, both of them slowly and quietly drawing their blades. Dawn was as pale as milk glass. Jon saw Qhorin, Smallwood, and the other rangers with swords in hand. Qhorin nodded at them before they all sneaked towards the fire, legs bent and keeping low. No voices but the voice of fire cracking could be heard, and when Jon lifted his sword and went high to make their presence known, no one was there.

''Where are they?'' Smallwood whispered, lowering his sword. Before anyone could answer, a piercing whistling sound cut through the air.

''Arrows!'' Ser Arthur shouted, his voice barely escaping his lips as another two arrows rained down upon them. The arrows hit a ranger by the throat. The ranger gurgled with crimson escaping his throat and mouth before another arrow sent him to the ground. Jon dove behind a boulder as arrows thudded into the snow around him, their deadly tips glinting in the firelight.

The piercing sound of arrows was replaced with wildling war cries as figures emerged, charging towards them with axes and crude swords. Jon leapt to his feet, Longclaw flashing in the firelight as he met the first attacker. He was a large man, heavy of muscle, and with hair as black as a raven's feather.

''Hold the line!'' Qhorin roared, swinging his sword in a deadly arc that sent a wildling sprawling, his blood splattering against the snow.

Jon's attacker lunged at him. He looks strong, but slow. Jon sidestepped quickly and brought Longclaw down in a powerful stroke that felled his attacker. Longclaw was coated in his life's blood. The air was filled with the sounds of battle, the clash of steel, and cries of pain. As the battle raged on, Jon caught sight of three of their own falling. A ranger screamed as an arrow pierced his throat, another collapsed under the weight of a wildling's axe, and a third was struck down as he tried to shield a fallen comrade. Ser Arthur Dayne lived up to his name as he shielded Jon from another wildling he did not see lunging towards him. He took on three wildlings simultaneously, all soon falling to The Sword of the Mornings deadly dance. Jon tried to spot the men firing arrows, but he could not see them.

''Fall back to the rocks!'' Ser Arthur shouted at Jon. Jon obeyed and rushed with his uncle towards the rocks. Ser Arthur brought another wildling down that tried to intercept them; they all formed a defensive line at the rocks, trying to drive back the increasing wildlings. Slowly, the tide began to turn as Jon noticed that the arrows had suddenly stopped firing. Blood stained the snow, and the smell of smoke and death hung heavy in the air. All were busy trying to fend off the remaining attackers. Another wildling similar to his age fell to Longclaw, the Valyrian steel cutting through fur and flesh with ease. They managed to hold them all off; some were retreating, screaming, and panicking, while the remaining fell. Something has scared them off. Jon noticed soon what it was, however, as a white furball with two red eyes made his way silently towards him, his mouth stained with blood.

''Good boy.'' Jon murmured, scratching Ghost behind the ears. The direwolf huffed, a plume of frosty breath rising from his snout. He has grown.

Qhorin, bloodied but unbowed, sheathed his sword with a grim expression. ''We'll mourn them later. For now, we need to move. There could be more out there.''

''Ye need to burn us!'' A faint and strained voice could be heard. Jon spotted the wildling coughing up blood. ''Else we'll come back an' haunt ye.''

Qhorin approached the dying wildling and went down to one knee. ''How many of you are out there?''

''Thousands upon thousands, more'n ye can count.'' The wildling replied; a sharp smile took hold of him despite his circumstances. ''Mance'll come for ye, all o' ye black crows.''

''Where?'' Qhorin asked calmly.

''Don't matter none. They'll all be comin' for ye soon enough. Rayder aims t' bring down yer bloody Wall, sure as snow falls.''

''He'll have a hard time trying to do that. All your previous 'kings' have failed to do so.'' Smallwood replied, equally as bloodied.

The wildling replied with a strained laugh before coughing. ''This time's different. This time, he's got the Horn.'' Qhorin's eyes widened slightly as the wildlings confessed.

''Have you seen my uncle? Have you seen Benjen Stark?'' Jon asked. The wildling turned to him and began to laugh before he finally succumbed to his moral wound. Jon's face darkened.

''We need to burn the bodies.'' Qhorin said, as he began to make the fire that still loomed at the small camp larger.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting a cold silver light over the Fist of the First Men as Jon Snow and the remaining rangers arrived back into the large encampment. Exhaustion lined their faces, and their cloaks were stiff with frozen blood. They were met with the murmurs of men around campfires, their faces reflecting concern as they saw the diminished numbers and the grim expressions of those who returned. Ghost padded silently alongside Jon, his white fur blending with the snow and his red eyes gleaming in the darkness. Qhorin and Ser Arthur led the group to the central fire, where Lord Commander Jeor Mormont stood besides Jory Cassel, their imposing figure framed by the flames. The Lord Commander turned as they approached, and a grim expression took hold on his face as he noticed the shape of them while Cassel's face fell.

''Qhorin,'' Mormont greeted, his voice gravelly. ''You're back. What news?''

Qhorin gave a grim nod, his eyes meeting Mormont's with a certain weariness.''We found a fire, but it was a trap. Wildlings ambushed us. We lost good men.''

''Dead! Dead!'' Mormont's raven croaked wildly. Jeor, annoyed, brushed the raven away, and the raven went flying away towards the night sky.

Jon stood beside his uncle while he tried to adjust the scabbard at his back. He scanned the camp, taking in the flickering torches and the watchful eyes of the Night's Watch and Winterfell men as snowflakes began to fall for the first time since they had marched towards Craster's Keep. Mormont gestured towards the party to follow to the command tent.

Ser Arthur put a hand on Jon's shoulder, halting him. ''You did well today. Most men lose their nerve—and their breeches—in their first true fight.'' Jon tried to scan his violet eyes for a jape, but he found none.

''I did what had to be done.'' Jon replied, doing his best to mask the peculiar feeling he felt ever since killing that first man.

''Aye, I remember my first kill—a raper in the Stormlands. Even after all these years, his face still lingers in my mind. You'll not forget yours either, lad. Tell me, how do you feel?''

''Fine, I guess. Tired.'' Jon replied. Ser Arthur nodded and began to ruffle his hair, causing Jon to frown.

''I'll meet you here later; you should get cleaned up.''

Jon observed his party enter the command tent before he entered the Stark tent. The tent was warm, and he found a bucket of water still smoking laying by a large table. He approached the table while taking off his heavy and furry cloak and proceeded to clean his face. The bucket of water turned red from all the blood on his face. Just then did he picture the fist man he had slain, the scared expression he had on his face when he realised all his hope was lost, his black hair, as black as the cloaks of the Night's Watch. He shook the picture of his head and finished up cleaning himself. Before putting on the thinner but still furry cloak he had on earlier that very morning and exiting the tent, he noticed that the snowflakes that had fallen had gotten worse. There goes the good weather we've had. Jon sighed before he adjusted his backscabbard. It did not take long after he had exited his tent before he found Lophand, Edd, and Addam sitting by a fire and the skinned rabbit they were cooking.

''Well, if it isn't Lord Snow. Come to join us common folk, Jon?'' Lophand said with a thin smile.

''Just looking for some warmth,'' Jon replied, a smile tugging at his lips. ''And some company that doesn't involve talk of wildlings and cold.''

Lophand chuckled, ''I'm afraid your shit out of luck, Snow. Plenty of fire, but even more complaints to go around.'' He said, his gaze shifting towards Dolorous Edd.

''This cold is like a persistent suitor. No matter how many layers you put on, it still manages to get under your skin.'' Edd muttered.

Addam chuckled, poking at the fire with a stick. ''You'd complain about a warm bath, Edd. Probably say it's too wet.''

''It would be,'' Edd agreed solemnly. ''But at least it'd be better than freezing my stones off out here.''

Jon settled down on a rock beside them, extending his hands towards the warmth of the fire. Ghost sat beside him, his fur ruffling slightly in the chill wind. ''How long have you all been out here?''

Lophand shrugged. ''Long enough to start naming the icicles. That big one over there—I call it Queen Cersei. She's got a fine point to her.''

As all the people close to the fire laughed, a sudden gust of wind blew through the camp, making snow swirl into the fire. The cold seemed to get even colder, while the orange flames danced wildly in the rising wind. Ghost stood up abruptly, his ears perked and eyes focused on the darkness beyond the camp. Jon felt a chill, not from the cold but from the look of alertness in Ghost. The wind picked up further, the beginnings of a heavy snowstorm rolling in, the sky darkening as thick flakes began to fall faster, blanketing the camp in white.

''Storm's coming.'' Addam said, pulling his cloak tighter around himself.

Then, through the howling wind, came the sound that froze them all in place.

Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.

A single horn blast is used to herald the arrival of the brothers of the Watch. They looked at each other, all wearing a puzzled expression. ''Did the Lord Commander send out other rangers as well?'' Jon asked.

''I do not think so... though it may be possible. Perha—''

Uuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooo.

All of them rose from their seats, while Jon drew Longclaw from his back. Wildlings.

''Gods.'' He heard Lophand whisper.

Ghost growled low, his hackles rising as he stared into the dark. The fire sputtered again, almost as if in response to the chill of fear spreading through the camp. Men of both black and grey exited their tent; commands were barked out loud as men armed themselves. The whole camp turned somewhat chaotic. Jon noticed the Lord Commander, together with Jory Cassel, exiting the tent.

''MEN OF WINTERFELL! FORM UP!'' Cassel howled, channelling out all the barks around the camp.

''MEN OF THE WATCH! WITH ME!'' Jeor roared like the bear on the sigil from his former house. Jon tried to find Ser Arthur in the chaos of men running around, but he had no such luck.

''Time to kill some bloody wildlings!'' Addam howled as he picked up the sword next to him.

Dolorous Edd bristed. ''Bugger them all to seven hells. Bloody Mormont. Bloody Mance Rayder. Bloody Smallwood, they said they wouldn't be on us for another...''

Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooooooooooooo.