Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, settings or constructs from G.R.R. Martin's books. I'm simply having a little bit of fun with his toys.

Foreword: Please forgive my lack of writing ability. I'm just getting back into it, and I'm trying to get back into the swing of things. Thanks! Enjoy!

Longclaw whipped and snarled faster than even the icy chill of the wind as Jon Snow lashed out brazenly. Every fiber in his being groaned in protest as the young man continued slashing furiously at the reanimated corpses of his own patrol. They had ventured Beyond The Wall nearly two days ago, though the sun was quickly fading. If Jon's hope was following suit, he hadn't had time to think about it as he clutched at an open wound underneath his sword-arm and cast Longclaw's Valyrian blade cleanly through the throat of his former brother.

Jon knew he was worn out and bleeding. He thought morbidly that he would rather burn himself alive than suffer the fate of his brothers as a witless wight. He knew, now, that their patrol group had been stalked from the second they left the safety of Castle Black for the unforgiving embrace of the cold. Just as they had quit their walking, and had begun to set up a semblance of a camp, the Others seized the opportunity.

The mist had slowly tiptoed in on legs stiff as an arthritic man's, yet more silently than snowfall. The temperature dropped harshly, as the men crowded around the beginnings of a fire, smoke obstructing their vision, and warmth overtaking their instincts. Wintery fingers pressed and pried at the Watchmen's skin, wherever it was exposed as the wind buffeted their huddled bodies. The man – Hyral – stoking the fire gurgled short a massive breath, spewing black obscenities and crimson blood into the snow. And as quickly as that, the slaves of the Others pressed their assault on the unsuspecting and weary Brotherhood. Had Ghost not unleashed a lunatic howl and pounced upon the mawless wight slipping seamlessly through the trees behind the Lord Commander, Jon would have joined his brothers in a macabre dance of reanimation.

Two of the formerly human creatures had skulked through the densely treed area, blindsiding the men of the Black. The striking black uniforms offset the blinding blue eyes of Jaek and Jaeryd; brothers not only in arms, but in blood, made to take the black after murdering a man in his sleep. Jon drew his sword, and began his six-on-one struggle with a surge of violence even colder than the Land Of Always Winter. As the reanimated corpses trudged towards him, Jon spat in annoyance and frustration, after watching the fire sputter to death in the snow. Dragonglass wouldn't do a damn thing against them, and his sword was only as good as the edge on it.

As they circled him with bad intentions, Longclaw arced and sang of Old Valyria as it bit through frozen flesh and bone, severing bloodless tendons and muscles. His only hope was to dismember his fallen friends enough that they were simply unable to attack him, their heads, arms and legs had to go, and Jon's ruthless swordplay was the only guarantee he had. With both hands on Longclaw, he hacked off Hyral's leg at the femur, and spun away from the others. But Jon was too slow, too tired, too overwhelmed. He felt a searing pain as he – once more – felt a dagger dig deeply under his arm, just as Bowen Marsh and his would-be assassins had done all those months ago.

With his tolerance for pain, and sheer determination to carve out an existence for himself, Jon had survived the attack, crawling on his stomach to Ghost, who had alerted everyone in Castle Black. It was miraculous that he had survived, as if somebody else had stepped into his skin and delivered him to safety. Yet once more, those instincts to survive burned inside of him, as Brandon Stark had burned on the outside.

Maybe it was Ghost warging into him. Or maybe the Lord Commander deserved more credit for his battle prowess than he gave himself. One could never be sure. He purged all of those thoughts, refusing to even lend credence to the idea of death. So he became alive, in a furious whirlwind of Valyrian steel. Jon and Ghost were a blur of savage efficiency, slicing and tearing away at the Other-slaves. As he dispatched the last abomination, Jon felt the hot splash of blood against his skin – his own blood.

Hunks of flesh lie writhing upon the snow as Jon wearily scanned the horizon for trouble. Having dispatched the last of the wights, or disabled rather, the young Lord Commander knew for certain that there were eyes upon him… Icy, unforgiving eyes. The eyes of one of the necromancing abominations known as Others.

Panting and bleeding, Jon sat down by the scattered embers of their – his – pitiful fire, Ghost nuzzling Jon's sword-hand, as if cautioning him to stay alert. The grotesque gurgling and hoarse, throaty groans coming from the dismembered, yet still 'living' wights, pressured Jon into very quickly trying to stoke a flame into existence, if not to kill his former Black Brothers, then to silence them at least. Jon stacked up a few handfuls of the dry wood they had gathered earlier, and watched as the smoldering embers smoked pathetically, unable to catch ablaze.

Everything grew even colder, and the sound of splintering ice resonated stridently through the icy atmosphere, a needle slowly piercing through silk. Bloodied and snarling, Jon sprang to his feet and snatched Longclaw, brandishing it fiercely as roaring winds snuffed out even the idea of his miserable excuse for a fire.

Author's Notes: This was utter shit, I think. I dunno. I just really wanted to get the first chapter finished. I'm just now getting back into writing, and I really have to work to get my chops back in order. I hope this wasn't too boring, or too predictable. I love hearing from all of you, so if you feel so inclined, the 'Review' button is riiiiiight there.