Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it.

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

Okay! Here's another one. I'm trying to get back onto Fanfiction more often. Trying to. Bear with me on this.

Xxx

Chapter Thirty Two: War in the North, Last Hearth I/White Harbour III

12th Day of the 12th Moon, 300AC

The North, Last Hearth

The journey had not been perilous or even eventful, but it had been long. Their column had been forced to avoid any roads that might be monitored by Bolton spies, and more than once had been forced to stop due to increasing snowfall, saved only by the teachings of the Mountain Clansmen to make improvised snowshoes and shelters. They still lost a handful of men to the cold halfway to their destination, but between Lyanna Mormont's ferocity in punishing those who came close following those lost in their inattentiveness and Beshka's tempering discipline these had been the worst of their struggles.

After clearing the Wolfswood and cutting east towards Last Hearth they'd had an easier time of travelling by day, but a harder time of keeping both warm and hidden by night. On the third out in the open fields they had been attacked by a group of Bolton marauders who'd seen an easy target.

They instead discovered that twenty good men with the element of surprise were nothing compared to sixty-two pissed off Bear Islanders. They hadn't gotten within a hundred feet of the camp before being spotted by sentries and most of their number riddled with arrows. The rest were chased down and beaten into submission or death by Bearmen who'd howled and hooted with laughter before their lady called them off and the three survivors were taken in, questioned and then hung with the bodies of their companions from a lone tree next to the King's Road.

Sufficient warning for any other roving bands of Bolton-backed brigands, in Lady Mormont's own words.

After Long Lake had been passed the men had been allowed some leniency in the form of longer rest to prepare for one final forced march to Last Hearth. There, the long hall from which a sizeable castle and town had grown was easily visible upon a raised summit where the first of the Umber petty kings had planted their banner. Some outriders had taken notice of their approach long before then, as was made evident by the town itself being sealed off, the wooden palisade ringing the outermost portions where it met the base of the hill sealed. Any determined and large attacking host would find the wooden barrier and shallow ditch before it to be of little deterrence, but as they drew closer Maraiya could see that this was but the first layer of defence; beyond the lower portion of the town was a trail that wound up the hill, with gates positioned at vastly different locations, trading convenient and expedient travel for a formidable defence that would bleed a larger host severely before they ever reached the castle itself.

The banner of the chained giant fluttered over the outermost gates, which were manned by some bowmen. Beshka signalled a halt to the column and looked to her noble charges. "Think this might be something for you to talk us through." She suggested. "They might not take kindly to me walking up."

"I think you'd better stay back too, Gwyn." Maraiya advised the last loyal Whitehill. "We know you're with us, but…I've heard that the Umbers have legendary tempers."

"I understand." Gwyn drew her hood further over her face.

Maraiya approached with Lyanna and Ryon, all three selected for different reasons. Maraiya for this expedition being done at her urging, Lyanna for her command of the largest component of their combined force and Ryon in case the gate guard refused to heed the words of two noble born women. A handful of guards followed them up to the short bridge spanning the perimeter ditch.

The guards were blunt but not improper in challenging their approach, though it took Lyanna shouting some stern words up to them to convince them to send a runner up to the castle. Almost half an hour passed before the gates opened up, and Maraiya saw what looked like the biggest man she had ever seen in her life waiting for them. His hands looked like they could rip a tree out by the roots and his armour looked as if it could have been reforged to make sets for two or three other men.

"Well now, there's a familiar glare." Greatjon Umber boomed as he stepped through the open gates, Umber fighters massed behind him- most if not all greybeards. "Welcome to my home, Lady Lyanna."

"Welcome I would feel if I wasn't standing in slush and the collective smell of your people's shit." Lyanna glared over the edge of the bridge. "Will we be speaking out here or will you give us and our men guest rights?"

Greatjon motioned with one hand. "Right. Bring them in. We've plenty of empty beds for them." He said this with a grimace, reminded by the losses his house had no doubt incurred in the war.

Once their men were brought into the town proper and allowed to occupy a long hall near the gates so that they could eat and rest, the Greatjon at first made to take only Lyanna, Maraiya and Ryon with him to the guard post just across the road and instead found Beshka, Talia and Gwyn following along. He made his displeasure at hosting a Whitehill known, but the two Forresters present quickly came to her defence, claiming her a sister in all but name and so the giant of a Lord begrudgingly tolerated her presence.

"So," he said once they were sequestered in a windowless room and seated around a table, "what brings a host led by women and children to my door?"

"The war, Lord Umber. I would think you the last to forget that the North is assailed on every side." Lyanna replied. "Why do we find you here instead of at the Wall, or riding to aid King Stannis?"

The Greatjon sneered at the mention of the King. "I was at the Wall. Then I heard that half of Essos apparently crossed the fuckin' sea to attack. So I left my uncles there with the lion's share of my best men both to keep the Watch supported and give them somewhere to quarrel far from my ear. I've been digging up what few fighters I can from across my lands, getting ready to ride south and fight or die for the North…free or not."

It was well established that this man was the first to have pushed for Robb Stark to name himself King. His loyalty to the North and distaste for southern rulers had been cause for concern that he might be slow to go to the King's aid, citing his proximity to the Wall and still depleted ranks of the Night's Watch as excuse. But he didn't strike Maraiya as a dishonest man, rather a painfully blunt one who didn't have patience for lying or scheming.

"We all chose Robb Stark, my lord." Maraiya said. "We all chose a dream of a free North. Now we must choose to survive, and to do that we need Stannis to win."

"Don't tell me what I already know, girl." He growled. "I lost my son and heir for that dream. Spent day after day in a Frey dungeon for that dream. But Stannis is a stranger to me. He might have my blade at his side today, but there are still Starks in the world who might yet be named King in my life…" He settled back into his chair. "…just not today. And not now that they've already sworn to Stannis."

"You mean Rickon Stark." Beshka said. "Way we've heard it, the boy's in no position to be crowned. Hard to do it when nobody can agree on whether you're even alive."

"Good thing I'm not speaking of him then." The Greatjon's lips shifted into a grimacing smile. "Your mother would know what I mean…if she's still alive. Before those fucking Freys turned on us, our King drew up a last will and testament. Freed his brother of his vows to the Watch and named him a Stark…and heir to his throne. Would that I could have taken a copy, but Maege and Galbart were supposed to reach the Wall long before I did."

This was new…and concerning. A will that many Northmen would seek to see fulfilled, the threat of a new claimant to Kingship of the North? Maraiya counted them all lucky that no Kingsmen or Queensmen were present to hear this.

"Jon Snow would have no reason to expect such a will exists." Talia said. "And even if he did…would he follow it?"

"I doubt it." Beshka shook her head. "I'm no fancy noble, but I know that arguing in the ranks about who sits their ass on which throne is bad for any alliance."

"It doesn't matter in any case…not with the Long Night coming back." Greatjon muttered bitterly. "My lands are the first that will be swallowed up if that Wall comes down. I'm not so desperate for a northern King that I'd drag us into a war with Stannis Baratheon. If he gives me Bolton cloaks to burn, I'll hold my tongue and take talk of this will to my grave."

"Then we shouldn't waste time." Maraiya insisted. "We're going to head for Queenscrown to rouse the rest of the Free Folk into marching with us to the King's aid. We'd like you to come with us to help convince them."

"Free Folk?!" The Greatjon roared. "You mean wildlings! The same fuckers who have raided my lands for centuries! Who took my cousin in the night like the bunch'a rapin' and reavin' monsters that they are! I've held my hand from putting that place to the sword, but no one- especially not a girl playing at war, will tell me to work alongside their ilk!"

Maraiya shrank in her seat under the Greatjon's glare, but her hand slid over the hilt of Nightfall and she drew in a deep breath. "…then…then we will get them without you."

"Hah!" He barked out a laugh. "I expect that if we ever meet again, it'll be with you dead or filled with Wildling seed. If you're so eager to go make friends with their kind then you can take leave of my land!"

"The next time we see each other, it will be when you answer to the King why you were so slow to heed his call, Lord Umber!" Maraiya's hand tightened around the pommel as she raised her voice, then slowly brought it back down once she saw that she had his attention. "You will explain to him why you left the task of gathering an army to women and children. Why the Greatjon Umber, most ardent of Robb Stark's supporters, shielded himself with excuses for not doing his part to the best of his ability. And then you will be dragged from your own lands and either sent to the Wall to serve for life, or cast out across the Narrow Sea in disgrace."

One meaty hand balled into a fist, and when he pushed his chair back and stood up Maraiya felt the table actually lift with him before it slipped off his legs. "Now you see here, girl! I will not be threatened by a brat young enough to be my grandchild!"

"Then you can be threatened by two!" Lyanna snarled. "Now unless you seek to further darken the protection of guest rights more than the Freys have done already, cease your postering sit down before I finish what Robb Stark's direwolf started!"

At this reminder, the Greatjon's dominant hand twitched, two of the digits on it clearly missing.

"I see no wolf among you lot of children." He growled, his voice subdued compared to the explosive roar it had been at moments ago.

"We have a bear." Lyanna retorted. "My family's lands have been harassed by the Wildlings, the same as yours. As have the Mountain Clans. And yet they and Bear Islanders march at Stannis' side all the same. At the side of Wildlings, Southerners and Essosi! Who are you that you think you can drag your feet and still claim to be leal?! Not the mighty Greatjon who my mother told endless stories of from the days of Robert's Rebellion. I see only a bitter and beaten old man who is refusing to answer the call of our King with the same fervour he did when that King was a Stark!"

Maraiya was stunned by this bravado. Looking around, she saw that the Forresters were shaken by the Greatjon's explosive response while Gwyn was doing little better. But Beshka was looking on in amusement as Lyanna Mormont talked down a man many times both her age and size.

"…the last time a child dared speak to me so, they showed me that even a child could best a giant." He sighed, holding up his mutilated hand. "…I'll tell you now, what I told King Robb when I got this tryin' to 'cut his meat for him'…your meat is bloody tough, Lady Lyanna." He chuckled. "From the mouths of bloody babes…I suppose it was getting dull sitting here anyways."

"Then you will ride with us?" Gwyn asked.

"Aye, aye, you have my word." He grunted as he sat back down. "But if you intend to march these Wildling shits anywhere, you'd best know a few things first. Things I doubt you heard while on the road. I take it you didn't hear of Rickon Stark before you left."

"Hear of him? What do you mean?" Gwyn asked. "Has he been found?"

"Safe and sound in Karhold, thanks to the White Wolf." Lord Umber nodded. "Found him on Skagos, and came back with a fleet and army from both there and Skane from what I've heard."

"Skane? But that place is-" Ryon began.

"I know what it's supposed to be lad, but Lady Thenn was clear about that." The Greatjon cut hm off. "A day after the Widow's Eye went out Jon Snow landed at Karhold with an army of five and some thousand, and brought a small fleet with him too. Last I heard, she and her new husband were taking all these forces south towards White Harbour. Said that Snow 'went on ahead' to White Harbour all on his own. Well, him and his wolf. Lord Rickon is still a guest there."

Five thousand new fighters all but conjured out of the sea. With the similar number at Queenscrown, Stannis Baratheon's chances of winning the North may have just been restored.

"And that is the least outlandish thing I've heard regarding Snow." Lord Umber snorted. "With the way that some of the rumours describe it: he spits fire, blows blizzards and shits lightning. Some horseshit about a dragon came up as well." He scoffed. "But the army is real and on its way to White Harbour, same with Stannis' forces and every ship from his and the stonemen fleet. The Boltons have abandoned the Dreadfort and have gathered at Winterfell. Drawn in nearly every host they have there while their burner sellswords march on Manderly's city."

"Why would they do that?" Talia asked. "They're giving up the rest of the North."

"Unless they know that Stannis is going to be too busy fighting sellswords in the east." Beshka pointed out. "Even he'd have to know about that Widow's Eye. If he loses White Harbour he loses the biggest port north of the Neck, one that guards a river that goes up close to Winterfell. Ports like that are more valuable than goldmines in war, especially in a place like the North."

"So he'd march there instead of Winterfell, and bring every fighter he has. And with the Dustin and Ryswell lands being south and west of Winterfell they wouldn't need to worry about their lands being attacked." Maraiya drew a map of the North in her mind, filling in details with the locations and approximate sizes of the different hosts that would now be sprinkled across it.

With White Harbour under attack, the Boltons knew where to expect Stannis. Their ancestral home was even abandoned, averting a prolonged siege or protracted battle…and giving him no reason to linger there. If the timing was right, he could have even learned of the impending attack from there if it still received ravens. From there he would have only two places to go with the distance being nearly the same, both with a large army waiting at the end of the road which would be equal to or greater in size than his own.

If he marched to Winterfell and was shattered beneath its walls, the Boltons would still have a large army to eliminate the largest pocket of resistance to their rule. If he won at Winterfell then he would still lose his largest port, making his victory pyrrhic and leaving him in a bad position for future campaigns. If he went to White Harbour and was defeated trying to save the city, the Boltons would retain their main host. If he went there and won he would still be bloodied and have to march on Winterfell, or risk the Boltons striking at lands now mostly unprotected to the north and east.

If not for the addition of the Karhold and Queeenscrown hosts, the Boltons would either guarantee victory for themselves or at least deny it to Stannis no matter what choice he made or what consequence followed. With the former they likely didn't even know it existed, while the latter was probably seen as a lesser threat that could be dealt with in detail.

"We need to get the Free Folk to march with us. Quickly." Maraiya said.

"We will." The Greatjon sighed. "Just not today. Rest and eat, lass…and then tomorrow I'll ride with you to treat with the same rapists and reavers I've spent my whole life butchering. May my ancestors forgive me for it."

Xxx

13th Day of the 12th Moon of 300 AC

White Harbour

Wyman Manderly hadn't slept.

"Taken." He'd wept. "My grand daughters. Taken!"

He was well informed on what happened to the innocent during war. Especially to young girls. The thought of what the Axemen could be doing to Wynafryd and Wylla had kept both him and Wylis from doing more than pace furiously and wait for reports.

Jon Snow had not returned since finding this news. He and his wolf had gone out into the Outer Harbour to search for the girls while the trail was still fresh and hadn't been heard from since.

Now in the silent and dimly lit Merman's Court, father and son sat together, drowning their sorrows with wine. For the first time in distant memory they had willingly declined food, abstaining from the still generous 'rationed' portions that they had taken to since before the siege began.

"…sun will be up soon." Wylis murmured.

"I know." Wyman rubbed his eyes.

Every second that passed was another that the girls came to being subjected to things that they both had long ago vowed to keep them from ever having to witness. Back in those days the world had been well, the city alive with celebration and the Merman's Court filled with guests from near and far. Now it felt more like a tomb than ever to the two men.

"…will we do it?" Wylis asked.

Wyman shook his head. "…you know what they'll do if we surrender. What they will do to every man, woman and child behind our walls. And then they'll probably do it to the girls too. Because what will we have to hold them to their word after that?"

Wylis put his head in his hands and wept. "How did it come to this, father? What did we do wrong? How did it all go so wrong? I remember when we marched into the Riverlands, feeling invincible, feeling secure in the certainty that we marched for a just cause. And now…besieged in our home…my little girls' lives dangling by a thread." He looked to the doors. "And in the face of all that, all we have to hang onto is the hope that Lord Snow will walk through those doors with them in hand."

The doors were pushed open as if commanded by his word…

"Father!"

And Wylis Manderly collapsed out of his seat in his haste to get up. "Wynafryd?!" He hurried to his feet and raced to meet his eldest daughter as she raced into the hall, embracing her tearfully. "Oh my daughter!"

"Father…" She whimpered, clinging to him while Ghost silently padded into view behind her. "They still have Wylla. They took her out of the city somehow!"

"We will get her back." Wylis promised her. "And we will make those monsters pay for ever setting hand on you! Are you unharmed?" He was looking over her, fretting like a mother hen as he found some bruising.

"They were rough in taking us captive, but did nothing else." She assured him. "They…they left me behind by intent, father. With a message for Lord Snow."

"A message?" Wyman by now had hobbled over and pulled her into a deep hug as well. "What was it, Wynafryd?"

"They…they said that as soon as he rescued me, they would know. And- and that he was to go to the Wolf's Den immediately or Wylla would be killed!" She explained through tears. "He had Ghost bring me back and went there himself."

"The Wolf's Den? But why…" Wyman trailed off. "…it wasn't ransom they wanted…they wanted Lord Snow."

He hurried towards the nearest window that would give him a view of the city in the direction of the Wolf's Den. "Wylis! Muster your knights, rouse a reserve company and head for the Wolf's Den!"

"But father, they said-"

"It's a trap!" Wyman bellowed as he reached the window. "It's all a trap, don't you see?!"

From where he stood, he just barely saw the towers Wolf's Den against the darkness beyond the city wall. The entire fortress was absolutely dark, a stark contrast to how it would usually be lit at this time.

"And it's just closed…" He whispered, feeling his heart sink.

Xxx

A few moments prior to this, Jon had arrived at the Wolfs Den to find that the gates facing inwards towards the city were wide open and the guards nowhere in sight. He found them just beyond the threshold, throats opened like the rest of their garrison as far as he could tell.

"Traitors in our ranks." The Stranger concluded. "Sellswords or those among the houses with suspect loyalty, most-like."

Across the fortress' courtyard he could see the gate that opened to the exterior side of the city walls. It stood wide open, but with no sign of enemy soldiers pouring in as of yet.

"Why aren't they coming in yet?" Jon whispered.

"Awaiting a signal, or a runner." The Stranger answered before Jon peered through the veil of the wraith world, seeing a number of figures highlighted in red converged within the Godswood of the fortress, a number of them on the walls.

"A trap." Jon concluded. "I can't tell if Wylla is there."

"She isn't there." The Stranger assured him. "But we need someone who knows where she is, and in all likelihood whoever leads this effort may know. Yet the threat of her life ending if their plot does not play out remains."

"So the solution is to fall for the trap, then deal with the leader." Jon said, and made for the Godswood.

"Sometimes that really is the only way to defeat a trap." The Stranger reasoned. "Walk into it on your terms."

Jon did just that, walking through the stone archway to the dark and silent Godswood, which was a fraction of the size of Winterfell's. He could see the hidden figures on the wall lining the enclosure, and those who waited by the base of the Heartree itself.

"I am here!" Jon called out, looking around as if he couldn't see any of them in the dar. "Honour your word and return Wylla Manderly!"

He didn't expect them to, but he was playing a role.

A light clapping greeted him. "That you have, Jon Snow. That you have."

Torches were lit along the walls, and those awaiting him ahead lit their own and stepped closer, bearing axes and spears in hand. Those above held crossbows. Altogether there were more than twenty but less than thirty men. The speaker was one of those on the wall, standing unarmed but flanked by two guards.

"Unfortunately, she is already a guest among our comrades." The man said, drawing back his hood to reveal a head of dark hair that was tied back simply and the beginnings of a beard. "But she has served her role nicely. The perfect bait that I knew you could not resist biting at. Now the time has come for this unpleasant business to end. You will die and the city will be ours."

He spoke so dispassionately. Like he was attempting to present some level of decorum even as he spoke of sacking an entire city.

Before Jon could open his mouth to respond, the man gestured with one hand and he heard the sound of a crossbow loosing its bolt. His senses screamed and he strafed to one side, avoiding the initial barrage by three of the arbalests. The bolts were wrapped in oiled rags that had been set alight, and now he could see that they had landed in darkened puddles…of oil!

"For what little it is worth, Lord Snow." The ringleader turned with his retinue and walked away as the fire quickly began to spread across the Godswood. "I truly am sorry that it came to this."

Around him, the Godswood quickly turned into an inferno as flames leapt along oiled branches and up trunks, scorching bark and the men stationed on the ground charged at him, weapons similarly ablaze…but coated in emerald flames!

Wildfire?!

The signature substance of the Alchemist Guild in King's Landing. A vain and futile effort at replacing dragons by the Targaryens. He'd heard that some warriors were known to coat their weapons in it, but this was the first time he'd ever seen it!

Jon responded with Blackfyre, wreathing it in his own brand of embers. The first man managed to clash his axe with Jon's twice before the third swing cut through the emerald coated blade and the man's neck in one swing. Already the metal of their swords had to have been quickly approaching their melting point, but when the even hotter fires of a Balrog were added to that the process happened much quicker.

But as he moved to the second man Jon was struck by two burning bolts and hissed as he felt them burning beneath his flesh. While he fended off the next man with one hand, Jon quickly tugged one bolt out and sank it into his foe's eye socket, then pulled the second out and drew the third man in close for a blade lock, forcing his spear to dip into an untapped puddle of oil which exploded, knocking both him and Jon back.

Rolling to his feet, Jon saw that the addition of wildfire to the oil had caused the emerald flames to mix with the regular orange-red-yellow inferno around him. The Godswood felt unbearably hot, and the remaining fighters appeared to have realized this and were quickly exiting through the stone archway, slamming the doors shut behind them to seal him in while the arbalests continued to rain down bolts on him despite the smoke and heat.

And amidst all of it…Jon heard the cries of the Heartree, of the many souls within. They were in pain, afraid, crying out for help.

He pulled the Fist of the First Men off of his belt and raced through the pyre, bringing it down and unleashing a wave of super chilled air and ice which smothered the fires ahead of him, coating the Heartree in a layer of frost. Jon repeated this with a few more quick strikes to the ground, trying to put out the worst of the flames while still evading the shots directed at him.

For a few moments he thought he'd succeeded, but when the cries still assailed his senses he realized one place that he had missed: below the ground. The deep roots of the Heartree went through the very dungeons of the fortress, and the fires had already spread down them!

His moment of distraction cost him dearly when another bolt struck him. This one wasn't burning however…not with fire anyways. Jon gasped as he felt a debilitating sense of nausea spread through his body, staggering to avoid the next shot.

Poison!

How ironic. He was supposed to be unliving, tethered between life and death, and yet poison could still do him harm. Were there a list of rules that accompanied being one of his nature to be found in this world, Jon would furiously read through it from start to finish.

He found it hard to sense the next wave of bolts and so settled for simply keeping on the move. But all the while he couldn't block out the growing cries of the Heartree as it was burned from the roots up. He tried to freeze the very ground, but he knew it was still a losing battle if the roots themselves were destroyed.

And then there was the outer gate. This fire would be seen for miles around. If there was an assault force waiting for a signal to be given, this had to be it!

Then Wylla. Poor Wylla. All alone and at the mercy of men who would have no second thought about inflicting the very cruelties their gods condemned on her.

And if he fell here, with no Heartree to bring him back in this very spot…how far would he have to travel to return? How much time would pass? How long would the city last while he raced overland to rejoin the battle?

Hear us…Jon Snow…

The frantic and agonized cries died down as many voices spoke out as one.

Hear us…hear us…

"I hear you!" He cried. "I'm trying to help! I'm trying!"

No…we are lost…but we may aid you…

Throughout the raging fires, Jon saw them emerge as if sprouting from the ground. Figures in fur lined cloaks and antiquated, sightless and pale eyes staring into him as he took shelter near a the base of the Heartree, hidden from his attackers by the smoke. Dozens of figures. Men, women, even children.

Winter is coming, Jon Snow. They said without speaking. If our end must be. Then let it be in redemption.

Redemption…

"You…are the Greystarks?" Jon whispered keeping low as the heat within the Godswood began to rise again.

We are what remains. The former Lords of the Wolf's Den answered. And all that we are, we give to you. Winter is coming, Jon Snow. Rise and meet it.

The nearest of these phantoms reached out and grasped Jon's head.

Rise. They chanted. Rise!

Jon felt something familiar. When he first was confronted by Lobra the Wolf back on Skane and been nearly slaughtered by him and his pack, something had awoken in Jon, a ferocity that had burned through him like fire and left him more akin to a raging animal until he took back control.

This was similar…yet where before there had been unfocused aggression, this was clearly steered and guided. Where before there had been no control, only chaos, there was now a sense of harmony. When Jon rose to his feet he could watch as individual tongues of flame rose, coiled and shrank so slowly that he could spend hours entranced by the motions. He could also see more bolts that seemed to crawl through the air like pushing through mud, one of them passing so close that he was able to casually shift his head to one side to evade it.

Rise! Rise! RISE!

Jon exhaled…

And let loose the power that coursed through him, letting it guide him. He flung the Fist blindly through the smoke, yet when he blinked back into view he found it had very clearly struck of of the arbalests clear in the chest, caving his rib cage in.

But he didn't stop there.

Jon switched to his bow, and as he drew it back he saw the Stranger's arms moving, seeming to follow and mimic his motions as he drew the string back, nocking a spectral arrow as it formed. Then he saw the same thing happening to his flanks…copies of the Stranger seemed to sprout from where he stood, each of them nocking and loosing shots alongside his own. What would have been one arrow became several, then many that rapidly shot across the walls of the Godswood, piercing the Axemen like a hot knife through butter. Jon saved the last for his hammer, crossing the enclosure so that he now stood above the closed gate, able to see the courtyard as the inferno continued behind him.

From there he could see shapes pouring in through the outer gate. Men had approached under cover of darkness, but had broken into a charge upon seeing the fire in the Godswood, a beacon visible for miles that could not be mistaken. Now axemen in their gleaming armour flowed through, the beating of hundreds of boots filling the fortress and echoing beyond its walls. And at the same time, from the interior gate came a flood of mounted knights and trident bearing guardsmen, meeting these attackers head on. Among the chaos he could see Wylis Manderly in full armour, sword red with blood and shield repelling a spear jab. Several Axemen with wildfire weapons wee cutting a swath towards him. And out beyond the outer gate, Jon could see no end to the flood of invaders looking to finally breach the city.

RISE! RISE! RISE!

With the dying cries of House Greystark echoing in his ears, Jon leapt from the wall and entered the battle. Just like before, instead of it just being him on the offensive, the Strange was there wth him..several copies of him that faded in and out just as quickly.

Yet their blades were just as real. Jon watched as where one moment a wall of armoured fighters stood, they were cut down the next and he was already moving onto the next group. And from there, it seemed that he had become an unstoppable storm of blades that carved through the Axemen ranks, quickly leaving dozens of them behind. Ahead of him, expressions of determination and blood lust turned to confusion and then terror as Jon continued to push forward, making his way all the way to the exterior gate and beyond it.

Time lost all meaning to him. Blood splattered across his face, and…he found that he savoured the feeling. The taste. A beast roared within him victoriously as it had now been unleashed to sate its thirst!

This was the fabled wolfsblood of old that his family was said to carry. The blood of the Kings of Winter, the fury of a direwolf! In that moment Jon Snow had ceased to be, and all that stood in his place was a relentless berserker who had enough recognition to know where his fury was to be directed.

By the time Jon Snow had returned, he took a moment to recall what had happened before…

And how he had come to be standing a full hundred yards outside the gates of White Harbour, leaving behind him a trail of corpses over a hundred-strong with more inside. He was breathing heavily, blood dripping from Blackfyre in one hand and the Fist of the First Me in the other. At some point he had been stuck with a spear, of which now only the head remained; a few arrows had found their mark in him as well, but had done nothing to slow him down. From the bruising and aching evident on his body his rampage had not gone entirely unopposed.

And before him stood a line of men, shields and spears held towards him, some of them clearly wounded or dragging wounded away. Their fear of him spilled out like an intoxicating aroma just like when he had blunted the Axemens' mammoth charge.

Before he could stop himself…Jon opened his mouth and held his arms out to his sides. That same unholy screech erupted through the night, and the men before him broke ranks and fled into the darkness.

"Snow! Snow!"

Jon was smiling, basking in a euphoria that threatened to smother him. But when the Stranger entered his view and shouted in his face, it served to snap him back to a full state of consciousness.

"SNOW!" He roared. "That is enough!"

"I…" Jon's smile fell, and he looked down at himself again…no longer feeling the fulfillment of a one side slaughter. "I…did…this?"

How many men had he just cut down like wheat beneath a sickle?

"You lost control as the fighting grew too intense." The Stranger revealed. "You gave into the blood lust."

Looking back, Jon felt as if a great weight had begun to press down against him. Step by step, he began to make his way back towards the still open gates of the Wolf's Den. He could see all around him the mutilated and bloodied corpses of men who had been utterly helpless before him.

He shouldn't have felt any guilt. They were invaders who would have done just as bad if not worse to the people of White Harbour, and likely had done the same to others in the past who were just as helpless to defend themselves. Yet as he stumbled back in through the gates Jon could not fight down a sense of revulsion as he saw how it was even worse inside where the enemy had been densely packed.

There were no wounded or dying among the attackers, for none who had met his blade lived to this point.

"This is war, Jon." The Stranger said gently. "You did not force them to any of this."

"This isn't war." Jon shook his head. "That was…I enjoyed it."

"No, you only thought you did." The Stranger insisted. "The Wolf's Blood is a powerful catalyst for strength and aggression. Some allow it to consume them, others recoil away from it…and some learn to control it rather than let it control them. You can learn to channel it like any other ability."

"But what if I can't?" Jon asked, seeing the signs of the defenders at the other end of the yard…and feeling their apprehension and fear of him. "What if I lose control again? What if that was a taste of what I'll one day become if I remain like this?"

"It won't come to that. And until we are freed of this bond I will be there to pull you back from the brink." The Stranger promised. "You are not alone in this, Jon."

And yet, as he witnessed his own allies raise their shields and make movements to direct their weapons towards him next, Jon felt more alone than ever.

"Devil!" One brave man pointed his trident at him. "Away with you!" He gestured to the outer gate.

Several more found their courage and joined him, levelling spears and tridents towards him.

"I said go!" The guardsman barked. "Get the hell out of our city and take your curse with you!"

"Seven who are one, see this demon away…"

"Go! Get out!"

"Leave!"

"You fucking monster!"

Bastard son of a traitor!

Bastard!

Traitor!

Oathbreaker!

Jon stared back at them, expressionless, weapons and person stained wth the blood of his victims. Behind the small but growing procession he saw Wylis Manderly atop his horse, expression hidden by the visor of his helmet.

"Ser Wylis-" He began, but the original instigator of the growing mob had become red faced.

"TO HELL WITH YOU!" He howled, and lunged.

To Jon he may as well have been wading through mud. Blackfyre slipped between two of the prongs of the trident and twisted, Jon's superior strength forcing the guardsman to bend over as the weapon was forced to the ground. Jon then stomped down, snapping the head off of the shaft like breaking a twig.

"SER WYLIS!" Jon bellowed, and the mob that was moments away from pouncing on him backed away in fright. "I will save her!"

The heir of White Harbour slowly removed his helmet, revealing a pale face and eyes that looked past Jon to everything behind him.

"Wylla!" Jon shouted to get his attention. "They have her. The army outside this city. And I am the only one who has any chance of getting her back."

"Don't listen to him!" One of the instigators shouted as Ser Wylis looked between them and Jon, conflicted and struggling to reconcile all that he saw before him. "You all saw it! He is a wielder of magic! Jon Snow has consorted with evil for unnatural power!" He looked to Ser Wylis. "My Lord, give us the word and we will eject this monstrosity from our city."

"You hold your tongue!" Howland Reed rasped, hurting through the inner gate with several men at his side. "That man is the son of Ned Stark and the reason your city isn't overrun." He looked up at Ser Wylis. "Wylis, you know him to be true."

"You side with evil, frog-eater!" One of the city guardsmen now turned his weapon on Howland's retinue.

"We side with the North, you shit-brained little sod." One of the crannogmen growled, hand hovering close to a dagger on his hip.

Already Jon could see conflict brewing. Many off those who had witnessed his massacre of the assault force were too shaken to take a side, but lines were clearly being drawn and Howland had not brought nearly enough men to cow those opposed to them.

Then, Wylis' mouth opened in a booming roar. "SILENCE!" He took a few heavy breaths before sliding his sword back into its scabbard. "Stand down, men."

"But ser-"

"I said stand down now!" Ser Wylis bellowed, red faced and eyes wide as he turned to Jon. "You…Snow…" He swallowed. "You…you swear it. Swear by your father's memory. By your brother's. Swear that you will bring Wylla back to me!"

Jon pressed the tip of Blackfyre into the ground and dropped to one knee, head bowed. "I swear by more than that, sir. I swear by the memory of my father, my brother…" In his periphery he caught Howland Reed's solemn gaze. "And my mother. I will let no harm come to your daughter. And I will see her returned to you."

The rotund knight stared for several seconds, his face unreadable yet a shadow of exhaustion falling over him. "Go." He whispered, motioning with one hand.

Jon stood and turned without meeting the eyes of anyone, feeling their gazes bore into his back like red hot spikes as he hurried towards the outer gate, once again passing over the trail of slaughtered men.

"Fighting their wars forever…" Jon whispered.

One desensitized to death rarely stops to consider just how many bodies they can leave behind them until 'forever' becomes an inevitability.

As he left behind enough bodies to populate a small town, Jon could only reflect on how cheap life had become to him without his realizing it.

Xxx

End of Chapter