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Chapter Text

Mance, 298 AC

Smoke hung heavy in the air of Winterfell’s Great Hall. The noise of a thousand feasting men echoed around the stone chamber. Two kings inhabited the castle that day, though he was the only one who knew it.

He had ridden hard south for weeks after learning of the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms impending visit to the great northern holdfast. It was easy to slip in amongst the bards, mummers, and whores that plied their trade in the snaking caravan that wound its way through the Barrowlands to Winterfell. He had finally joined the King’s party just south of Cerwyn, only one day prior to their arrival at the seat of the Starks.

This was the first time he had seen King Robert. He was a large man, every bit as vast as the legends had proclaimed, though every other aspect of the tales had been exaggerated. He had obviously been a strong man when younger, though it was clear that his best days had long fled from him. Muscle had been replaced with fat, armour with silks, and his war hammer with full flagons of ale and wine. His voice still commanded respect though, loud and booming, it was one that a person felt obligated to obey.

He had been playing his harp for over an hour but had decided to finish after this song, Brave Danny Flint, the tragic tale of woman of the Watch raped and stabbed to death by her sworn brothers. Bards had the ideal position for espionage, he mused, observing the tensions between the representatives of the various houses vying for influence. The Queen was obviously at odds with her King. He heard rumours that Robert had recently had a spat with his eldest brother, the Master of Ships. The Reach was out of favour with the current regime. The Lannisters and the West where massively overrepresented at court. And, mayhaps most notably, Dorne and the Vale were completely absent from proceedings.

But while all of this boded well for his planned invasion of the Seven Kingdoms, there were certain things that made him worry. All signs pointed to Lord Eddard Stark taking up the Handship. A dutiful man who knew the North, and would defend it at all costs. It was Stark who was behind the battle planning that won the rebellion. Having a capable Northern general defending the realm was a serious set-back to his plans, but there was nothing he could do about it other than hope that having him in King’s Landing placed Stark too far away to mount an effective counter to his attack.

Mance ignored the heckling and drunken boos hurled his way as he made to pack up his instrument. They’ll be getting a replacement bard soon enough. Already he could see two men, one with a penny whistle, walking over to take his place in the corner. Someone tapped him on the back. “If I may?” The voice was young, but firm. Likely some lordling used to wielding unquestioned authority over those he deemed as lesser. “I wish to request a song.”

He didn’t bother turning. “Ask them.” He gestured at the men preparing for their performances. “I’m off for the night.”

“They won’t know it. I’m after the Ballad of Bael the Bard, I believe that he is a hero of yours, Mance Rayder.”

He turned now. Fear flashing before his eyes. How could anyone know me. Dark eyes met him, grey and solemn. The long face was schooled, not giving away an inch to his own piercing gaze.

“There is a knife to your belly, so don’t try anything. I haven’t told anyone who you are, and it will stay that way if you come with me quietly.” He was so caught up in the shock of being recognised that he only now registered the sharp point pressing into his abdomen. He nodded at the boy. The Stark Bastard, he realised, the long face and distinctive eyes marking him out as a relative of the First Ranger.

It had been years since Mance had last visited Winterfell, when he travelled south with Lord Comander Qorgyle. The previous Winter was only just coming to an end. He remembered the experience well, this was the grandest castle he had ever been to. It was alive in a way that none of the holdfasts along the wall could ever hope to be. Servants and smallfolk scuttled around the grounds like an army of ants. The courtyards had clanged with the song of steel. Two boys had dumped a pile of snow atop them as they arrived. He still remembered the raucous laughter that had poured out from behind the crenulations of the curtain wall they had hidden behind.

He also remembered the more than slightly abashed looks the two boys had worn as they were forced to apologise for their transgression by their Lord Father.

It was the same face he looked at now as they walked out into the cool air of the courtyard. It held a far more composed expression now, an icy mask that let nothing through. He was wrong earlier when he presumed the voice belonged to a boy used to commanding authority from an early age. This was a man who had earnt every scrap of respect he was given. He held himself with a confidence that betrayed leadership, though Mance was at a loss as to what Snow had commanded. In his eyes was a ruthlessness that spoke of hidden knowledge and cunning to rival a shadowcat.  Jon Snow was a dangerous man.

And Mance was completely at his mercy.

His voice was low but firm, leaving no room for negotiation. “Benjen Stark will be here soon and you don’t want to be here when he arrives, so lets make this quick. You are going to do me a favour, and in return I won’t tell anyone who you are. Do we have a deal?”

“What is favour do you require?” He croaked out.

“You’ll think me mad.” A sly smirk graced Snow’s lips. “But I assure you, I’m deadly serious.” The knife dug deeper into his stomach, enough to pierce the skin. “I need your help to get over the wall and capture an Other.”

Chapter Text

Jon, Two Moons Previously

How could he forget the Free Folk? He mentally berated himself as he lay in his bed, the shadow pain of his latest death still strong in his body. He had now died almost a dozen times since the stabbing at the Wall.

The first had been stupid. He had spent the month wandering the halls of Winterfell in confusion. He had died at the Wall, he knew that much, but when he had awoken, he was back in Winterfell, years earlier, before it had all gone to shit. It was the day Ghost had entered his life. The day that news of Jon Arryn’s death had reached Winterfell.

For the next month the people of Winterfell had thought him mad. Hells, he himself agreed with the assessment, spouting insane tales of walking corpses, murderous kings, and death and destruction to House Stark. He had been confined to his chambers for weeks.

It wasn’t until well into the royal visit that he had been able to escape, stealing a knife and finding the Crown Prince attended only by the Hound and one member of the Kingsguard. It hadn’t been had to catch the guards unaware, darting between them. The satisfaction at punching the sharp blade into Prince Joffery’s heart had been worth the hopeless trial and quick execution that had come. He had appealed to father to allow him to take the black, though he had no intentions of swearing those vows again, but King Robert would have none of it.

He had woken up again, two months prior, on the day of Ghosts birth. That was when Jon realised the game that he was trapped in.

The next death had been as he was part of a guard escorting his father from a brothel in King’s Landing. The Kingslayer had ambushed them with a detachment of Red Cloaks. It was a slaughter. they stood no chance against the larger force. Father had been investigating something connected with Jon Arryn’s death, but he refused to let him help. He never did, across any of the lifetimes. It was as if father felt that ignorance was an armour, as if he believed that secrets could kill those who carried them. No matter how hard he pushed Jon could never get the name of his mother out of his father.

He had died thrice more in King’s Landing before he gave up on saving father. Once in the fighting that took place after King Robert’s death. The next, he was executed as retribution for the Battle of Oxcross, to make a statement to Robb. He shuddered to think about how his brother would have taken that news. The final time was in helping Arya and Sansa escape the Red Keep. He had been wounded while covering his sisters’ flight. Without proper attention, the gash had festered and, despite the best efforts of a number of Maesters, he had never recovered. No pain he had experienced across his dozen lifetimes could compare with that of amputation.

The more time he spent in proximity to the Crown Prince, the more conflicted he was about Stannis’ accusation. While Stannis was indisputably correct about the looks of the royal children, in temperament Prince Joffery had inherited the King’s greed and selfishness, his anger and cruelty. All the worst parts of Robert’s personality.

Through the lifetimes he had tried to do some investigating, but he found nothing. If the Queen and her twin were having intimate relations, they were doing so very discreetly. And Jon would not bring it up to his father without at least some evidence.

He had died thrice in battle, fighting alongside Robb. Twice in the Whispering Woods and once storming the Crag. Those had at least been quick deaths, relatively painless.

His next ploy was to remain in Winterfell, to see out the war there, advising Bran on ruling the North. Theon had killed him the first time he remained in the North, attacking a poorly defended Winterfell. He had taken a stomach wound in the fighting, though he did not die from it before he had learnt that the Ironborn attack had been repulsed.

The next death was a training yard cut that had festered. There was nothing that Maester Luwin could do to help him as puss oozed from the cut, the red flesh surrounding it beginning to rot away. Dying that way was slow and lingering, a form of torture wrought on him by the universe.

In his most recent lifetime, he was not so unprepared for the reavers. Jon persuaded Ser Rodrick to take a far smaller force to meet the attack on Torren’s Square, augmented by men from the lesser houses of the region. Theon’s raiding band were slaughtered against the walls of Winterfell, Theon himself taken prisoner in the fighting. Jon personally removed his head.

But then news came from the Wall. The Nights Watch’s leadership slain beyond the Wall. What few men they had remaining were too stretched thin to mount any form of defence. He urged Ser Rodrick to send reserves to the Wall. He sent letter after letter to Robb but was rebuffed each time. Finally, he had ridden there himself, taking what few men he could persuade to join him. They arrived too late. The Wall was taken, the Watch destroyed. Mance Rayder had made his seat in the King’s Tower of Castle Black.

Attempts at negotiation had gotten nowhere. The Free Folk didn’t trust him to keep his word, the Northern Lords wouldn’t give him the authority to treat. Robb was on the march again, unable to send or receive letters that would give Jon the authority to strike a deal. He could negotiate no more than an unbelievably unstable armistice. Tensions had simmered and boiled until a small scrap between an Umber man-at-arms and a raider of the Weeper’s War Band escalated into an all-out war. Faced with overwhelming numbers, his token force deserted him. It was a spear wife that took his life that time.

He lay in bed pondering the predicament, trying to figure out a solution to the Free Folk conundrum for almost an hour before a banging on the door forced him out of his thoughts. “Are you alive in there, stupid? You’ll miss breakfast!” Knowing that Arya would not leave him alone, he reluctantly responded with a grunt before forcing himself out of bed. This would be a long day.

It was a long day, followed by a long two months as he tried and failed to find a solution to the Free Folk dilemma. If he went south, he had no way to influence the Nights Watch, or anything beyond the Wall. Joining with Robb resulted in him getting caught up in the war against the Lannisters, leaving him with no authority to request troops to fight at the Wall. Remaining at Winterfell was only slightly better as he could at least take part in the fighting in the North, though his lack of an appointed position in the Keep was a serious issue for his authority. There is only so far that shouting loudly can get you.It wasn’t until the feast to celebrate the King’s arrival that a solution occurred to him.

He had seen Mance Rayder arrive with the royal procession, slipping in with the other bards and singers. He was kicking himself for forgetting that Mance had been here. Jon waited in the smoky hall as Mance played song after song, before the King-beyond-the-Wall finally made to leave. He walked up to the man and tapped him on the shoulder. “If I may?” He asked with a confidence he did not feel. This could easily go wrong, Mance was a fighter, a true warrior. His instincts honed through years of holding power in the lands beyond the Wall. There was a good chance this would end with a knife between his own ribs. “I wish to request a song.”

Chapter Text

Eddard

Where had he gone wrong?

The day had started well, he thought. He had broken his fast with Cat, Robb, and Sansa before attending a meeting with Lord Hornwood about disturbances in the Northern section of his lands. After the they had finished their discussion with a promise to look into the problem, Ned was just about to go for his midday meal when Arya forced her way into his chambers in a panicked, almost frenzied state, havering about Jon being missing. “I knocked on his door this morning but he-he didn’t answer I thought that he was just being stupid – maybe he got drunk last night and was sleeping it off – but by midday he still hadn’t appeared and nobody has seen him since last night and I wanted to speak to him so I went into his room and-and-and… I think he’s left.” She splurted out in a torrent of frightened syllables, “It looked like he’d packed his stuff and ran away. This is Sansa’s fault I know it. Why can’t-”

“Calm down child. Do you really think Jon would run away without telling you?” He hadn’t ever seriously considered the possibility of Jon fleeing Winterfell. Why would he? Jon seemed happy here, hadn’t he? “Go along to lunch child, and I’ll have Jon found in no time.” Arya looked unsure, but she nodded before scampering off in the opposite direction to the small hall that the Stark family took their private meals in. Ned sighed and shook his head.

He had gone to his son’s chamber next. Arya was correct. Jon had clearly fled in the night. But it didn’t look planned. There were signs that he had packed in a rush. Clothes strewn across the floor and a hastily written letter hidden in his bedding were all he had left behind.

He had noticed a change to the boy in recent times. Jon was calmer, more mature. He carried himself with a confidence that as a younger boy had lacked. His swordplay had progressed in leaps and bounds recently. Ned had hoped that this was a sign that he was caving himself a place for himself within in the grey walls of Winterfell.

Evidently, he was mistaken.

But to flee in the night? there must have been a reason. Something must have made him feel like he could not stay. Like he would never truly belong.  

He stared at the note his son had left.

Dear Father,

An opportunity has arisen that I feel I must take advantage of.

There is something that I must needs do. I aim to be gone no longer than Six Moons.

I travel with a Bard who fights like a King. We embark on a quest straight from Old Nan’s tales. Frozen Teeth and First Men’s Fists call to me. I will return soon.

In my absence, take care.

I love you.

Your son, Jon Snow.

If this was intended as a clue as to why or where he had gone, Eddard Stark was at a loss. He tried to recall what Jon had been doing the previous night. Had he attended the feast? Yes. Ned had seen the boy talking to a singer at around the Hour of the Bat. I travel with a Bard. Could this be the man who had taken him?

He summoned Vayon Poole to his chamber and asked the steward to find out if any of the bards or singers had left in the night.

Next, he sent for Robb, Cat, and Benjen. His son and wife arrived first, and he filled them in on what had happened. “What do you mean, he left? Without Telling Anyone! I Swear By The Seven Hells Of The Faith And Every Heart Tree In The North, If Anyone Forced Him Out They Will Pay!” Robb was angry, using rage to mask the fear he no doubt felt. The boy stormed out, likely to perform his own investigation into his brother’s disappearance.

Cat spoke next. “I did not like the boy, you know this. I will not pretend I wanted him here. The Gods only know how often I asked you to send him away, to foster him elsewhere, but I did not banish him from Winterfell. I have not spoken with him in over a week.” She looked down at her feet, frowning slightly. “This is not the way I wanted him gone, running off into the night with nought but a note.”

He was prevented from responding by a loud rap on the door indicating Vayon’s return. Catelyn dismissed herself before the Steward spoke. “My Lord, Hullen reported that two horses have been stolen from the stables, and Farlen says that Ghost has gone.”

He nodded. “And the Bard?”

“There is one named Abel who is missing. I asked around for information about him but could find very little. It seems that he joined the King’s Party late on, around Castle Cerwyn, and mostly kept to himself. He played a little at the feast before leaving the hall early. He has not been seen since.”

We have our suspect.

The door burst open, Benjen spilling in. He was grumbling. “What does his most High Worshipness of the North requires of his most humblest of servants at this hour? I’m still drunk from last night, and was in the middle of eating. You’ll miss the best food if you take too much longer.”

“Jon Snow is missing.” He said. “I believe a singer has taken him.” His brother looked up in shock, all mirth gone from him. “Did you see him last night?” Ned asked.

“I-I- no, I didn’t. I assumed he had found some serving girl willing to share his bed. It’s what I would have done at his age.”

Ned sighed, shaking his head. “This isn’t him. But then again, neither is this.” He picked up the letter, crudely written on a scrap of used parchment, it was all that Jon had left behind for them. “He wrote this before he left.”

Benjen read through the note a half dozen times. After a couple of moments, he began mummering under his breath. “Fuck fuck fuck, this is… this is bad.” He looked up. “I think I know where he went.”

Ned stared at his brother blankly. “That riddle has meaning to you?” Benjen nodded.

“Frozen Teeth and First Men’s Fists, those are locations north of the Wall – The Frost Fang mountains and The Fist of the First Men. Mance Rayder, King-beyond-the-Wall was once the most talented singer in the Watch. Jon said the Bard he left with could fight like a King. I wouldn’t put it past him to use Jon as a hostage.”

He nodded, shock coursing through his veins. He turned to Vayon, still standing in the corner of the room. “Have Hullen ready horses and get Farlen to prepare hounds for a search party. Benjen can you tell Robb of your suspicions, I want him leading the search.” They nodded, before leaving the room. The walls seemed close around him, I Love you the letter had said, Your son, Jon Snow.Those words were like a dagger to his chest. When was the last time he had said those words to the boy? He didn’t know. I’m sorry, I failed you.

He made his way to the King’s chambers. It was the Kingslayer on duty outside Robert’s door. He requested an audience with the King but was told that Robert was “Busy entertaining guests.” He pushed past the white knight and knocked on the door regardless. “I told you no interruptions, Kingslayer!” he heard Robert Bellow.

“It’s me, I need to speak to you urgently.” There was a slight pause before his old friend replied. “Give me two minutes, it’s too early for duties of the realm.” Too early? It is after noon. He waited outside the door for the better part of five minutes before a young girl scarce older than Sansa ran from the room wearing nothing but a ripped dress. “Come in, Ned. What is it that has my frozen friend banging on my door this early in the morning? It’s almost like we’re back at the Vale?” Robert laughed loudly. Was he always this bad at timekeeping?

“My son is missing. I believe that he has been stolen by the King-beyond-the-Wall.”

The King stared at him blankly for a second. “Your son, which one? Rickon? Have you sent out a search party?”

“Jon Snow.” He replied. “My bastard. Robb will lead the search.”

“And you’re sure it was Wildlings?”

He nodded. “Jon left a note that hinted at Mance Rayder. I think it was written under duress. It is likely he means to try to use Jon to force a bargain.”

At that moment the Queen marched in. “Joffery has been robbed.” She declared, in a haughty tone. “Some lowlife broke into his chambers last night and stole his knife.”

“Set more guards to his room then.” Robert suggested with a shrug.

“And the knife? How will we get it back?” She was angry, scared for her son’s safety. Eddard could sympathise with that.

“Bugger that bloody knife, Ned’s son has been taken by wildlings. I’m not going to think about a knife until Jon Snow is back in Winterfell.”

“You would put a northern bastard above your own son’s safety! Someone Broke Into Joffery’s Chambers and Removed a Valyrian Steel Dagger From His Locked Chest. That Person is Wandering the Very Halls of This Keep, Just Waiting For the Chance to Sink it Into Our Son’s Heart!”

“Find the knife yourself, I’m going to ride out to find Ned’s son.”

Lord Eddard Stark suppressed a sigh. This was going to be a long, painful day.

Chapter Text

Mance

The bastard spoke little for the first three days, saying just enough to keep Mance intrigued as to how he knew about events north of the Wall. They had kept off the Kingsroad, riding in the close-knit trees of the Wolfswood. Jon Snow was a warg, of that Mance was certain. He would send his Direwolf in the direction of the road fairly regularly to scout out for people following them, but had as yet found nothing.

“They shouldn’t notice that I’m gone for the better part of a day.” He had explained on the night that they left. “Arya will probably realise something is amiss by around midday, but with luck they won’t find the letter until sundown.”

“Letter?” Days later, he was still annoyed that Jon had left it in his room.

“Aye, I’m not going to run off into the night without any explanation, what kind of person do you think I am?” He spat out a humourless laugh. “I filled it with veiled hints as to what I’m doing. With luck it will take a couple of days for them to solve the riddles. By then we’ll be long gone.”

“And if they already worked it out?” Mance had asked, a creeping feeling marching up the back of his neck.

He shot a wolfish grin “We ride faster.”

That was two days ago, and by now his patience was beginning to wear thin. They were sat around a smokeless campfire cleverly obscured by a combination of boulders and thick vegetation. A man could have been standing not ten paces away and be completely ignorant of the burning blaze. Honestly, Mance was impressed by the young man’s ability to obscure his tracks. Many of his tricks were skills that he had only ever seen north of the wall, and that only further intrigued him.

“Are you going to tell me yet?” They had been having this conversation since fleeing Winterfell. Each time Jon Snow had told him a little more about what he knew about the situation north of the Wall, though he still refused to reveal where he got his information.

Jon knew that he was wed to Dalla, who’s sister was named Val. He knew Val was sleeping with Jarl. He knew Jarl had raided with Alfyn Crowkiller and the Weeper in the past. He knew Tormund Thunderfist’s many, many titles. He knew about the piece of red thread sewn into his cloak.

And he knew why they were fleeing south.

Jon Snow sat in silence, watching the sparks fly up into the star spread sky. To the north soared the Ice Dragon, its eye shining between the trees with the ghostly blue light that heralded death.

“This is not the first life that I have lived” he answered, finally breaking the long silence. “I have died and died and died again. And every time death claims my mortal body, I wake up in my bed in Winterfell, at the age of Seven-and-Ten. The day that Ghost entered my life.” He nodded towards the wolf that lay by his feet. The creature was young, though already larger than many dogs. He shuddered to thing how big it would eventually grow to be.

Mance was strangely unsurprised by the revelation. As if some part of him already suspected this answer. “How did you come to know so much of the lands beyond the Wall?”

It was not a happy tale, Mance could tell that from the face that Jon Snow wore as he began to speak. He told of joining the watch, of a ranging gone wrong. He kept tales of his time with the Free Folk brief and sparse of detail. There are things here he doesn’t want to remember. There was a failed raid on Castle Black that filled his face with grief and guilt, and a battle beneath the Wall that the boy was almost proud of. He spoke of how the leadership of the Watch was decimated, how a rift had formed around his actions beyond the Wall. “Two factions had formed, filling the gulf left by the lack of leadership. The first saw me as the man who held the Wall against your horde. The other believed me to be an oath breaking traitor. In truth, I was both.” Guilt and hurt and regret wracked the young man’s face as he remembered his past.

Jon didn’t speak for a long time. An almost comfortable silence settled between them. “War had come to the Seven Kingdoms.” The pain that had been etched across his face was now reaching a crescendo. “Just before we left on the ranging the King died. My father was killed, Robb rose in revolt. Half the Lords of the realm named themselves King. By the time I returned south of the Wall, House Stark had been destroyed, betrayed by our allies and friends. Bran and Rickon were slain within the walls of Winterfell by Theon Greyjoy, a man they saw as a brother. Robb had been murdered under guest right at the Twins. And my sisters… Arya married to the son of the man who murdered Robb, while Sansa was wed to the Imp.” He was crying now. Silent tears cascaded down his face. “I did nothing to help them.”

Mance spoke for the first time since Jon had begun his tale. “You were sworn to the Wall. If you interfered, they would have killed you.” He knew better than most the burden of the vows.

Jon coughed out a laugh. “They did, but I get ahead of myself.”

He continued with his tale. Stannis had answered their call for help. He was calling himself King by then, claiming that Joffery was not King Robert’s son. He was pressuring the Night’s Watch to pick a new Lord Commander. “He offered to make me Lord of Winterfell, but I refused.”

After a bit of mummery and a few lies, one of Jon’s friends managed to get him elected to position of Lord Commander. There was shame welling in Jon’s face. He looked simultaneously like the five-year-old child who had been forced to apologise for dropping snow on a Night’s Watch ranger, and an old man remembering every regret of his life. “I broke every part of my vows. I took a wife in the Free Folk tradition. I publicly sided the Watch with a rebel King. I brought thousands of the Free Folk south of the Wall, settling them in the Gift, granting several of the castles on the Wall to raiders and chieftains. And then, on the day I was killed, I announced my intentions to lead a force south to join the war that raged across the seven kingdoms. I was stabbed to death by my own brothers, not that I can blame them.”

“I spent my lives since as far away from the Wall as possible, trying to prevent the wars in the South. But nothing has worked, each time has ended in my death. Mayhaps showing the realm the true threat from the North will force them together. A fool’s hope, I know, but dress me in motley and I pass as a jester. And if I fail and the Others take my life, mayhaps if my body is a wight I won’t come back. It would be nice to rest, I suppose.”

Only embers burnt in the fire pit, though the heat was still fierce. The night was silent, not even leaves rustled in the treetops. If he was in the Haunted Forrest, he would have feared the living dead, but here in the Wolfs Wood the quiet felt reassuring. As if the silence was saying there was nothing here to be afraid of.

“You can hate me, if you want, for what I did in pasts no longer remembered.” Jon’s voice was resigned, though a hint of bitterness lined the words. “The gods only know how much wrong I have done.”

As the cold wind began to swirl around them, the King-beyond-the-Wall looked down on Jon Snow, and pitied him.

Chapter Text

Jon 

Three weeks had passed since he has opened up to Mance about his lives. The Wall was in sight now, the snaking milk-glass sword cutting through the skyline. Memories, both good and bad, flooded back to him.

For the first couple of days after that night the King of the Free Folk had seemed wary of him, he had avoided bring up the topic. He hates me. They mostly rode in silence during those excruciatingly long days. Jon was convinced that one-night Mance would kill him in his sleep. I wouldn’t blame him, he had thought, in his position I would. In his first life he had betrayed every single person he had ever known. He turned his back on the Starks when he took his vows, then again when Robb marched south. He turned his cloak on the Free Folk, sentencing Ygritte and thousands of others to their deaths. It may even have been my arrow that killed her. The memory of her body piered with arrows was as clear as if it happened an hour ago. He betrayed the Watch in abandoning his post to march on Winterfell. Have I ever sworn an oath that I kept? No man was less honourable than him. He had abandoned every principle that father had taught him.

When snow falls and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. He had died again and again and again, yet still would not join the pack.

The Gods were having the cruellest jape when they cursed me with this.

He had been surprised when the first thing Mance asked him about was not an accusation. They were hidden in a small cave on a hilltop overlooking the road that Ghost had found. The search party had passed them only minutes prior. He was thankful that Ghost had been able to sniff them out with enough time for them to cover their tracks and hide. Robb was in the party, he could recognise the shock of auburn hair that marked his brother, though Grey Wind did not appear to with them.

 “Why did you let the Free Folk south?” Mance asked. It was a genuine enquiry, one rooted in curiosity. Caught off guard, he answered with the same excuse that he had given the brothers of the Night’s Watch in his first lifetime. “I did not want to face them as dead men.”

Mance had not believed that for a second, instead pressing for the truth. Finally, he relented “They would have died had I not. I could not let that happen.” He hated the admission, as if that one action could score out all the wrong he had done. He remembered Mellisandre’s preaching round the night fires. “If an apple is half black with rot, it is a rotten apple. A man is good, or he is evil. In a barrel, if left unchecked the single apple will ruin the harvest.” He had too many rotten apples in his past to ever be considered good.

“You are a better man than most, Jon Snow.” Mance had finally replied. “You just can’t seem to see it.”

Mance had continued to press for information about his past, highlighting what little good that Jon had done, for the next few days. It almost got to the point that Jon believed him. Almost.

If I were truly a good person, they would not have stabbed me.

They needed Dragon Glass and Valyrian Steel if their mission was to be successful. They could get Dragon Glass at the Fist of the First Men, he still remembered where it was buried. Valyrian Steel was a bigger problem. There were only three weapons made from the material that he could feasibly get his hands on: Ice, Longclaw, and Prince Joffery’s dagger. Ice was a ceremonial greatsword, it’s blade too large to be usable in battle, he would not take that. Longclaw was in the armoury of Castle Black. Difficult to steal, but not impossible. He had gotten fairly proficient at getting into places he wasn’t supposed to be over his lives, the dagger he had stolen from Joffery was proof of that.

They sat atop a hill overlooking the seat of the Watch now, watching the hustle and bustle of the courtyard of Castle Black as they waited for night to fall. The search party that father had sent was in the stronghold, and occasionally he caught sight of Robb, training with the recruits or talking to an officer. He is a good leader, a better man than I could ever hope to be. The plan was simple, inspired by Joffery’s Catspaw assassin. Mance would set a fire in the Grey Keep, and Jon would use the chaos to steal the sword. His cloak was a dark enough grey that in the panicked darkness it would likely pass for black.

They moved down to the keep when darkness fell, the wind beginning to pick up as rain started to fall. He was crouched in Hardin’s Tower, hidden in the chambers he had slept in in his first life. They called it the Harlot’s Tower, he remembered bitterly, after the spearwives clamed it.

The night grew colder, the rain was heavy. He began to wonder if Mance had failed to get the fire to catch, he had no way to communicate with Rayder. He considered warging Ghost to try and see what was going on, but realised that a white direwolf would be even more recognisable than the King-beyond-the-Wall.

Eventually Jon heard movement in the yard. The call of Fire, Fire, Fire reached him moments later. He waited a few more seconds, before running towards the armoury. He saw Donal Noye leave, carrying a bucket of water from the forge, and slipped into the building behind the one-armed smith. He pulled Longclaw off the wall, replacing it with his own blade. They were similar enough in design that the switch would likely not be noticed until the morning. Long after we are gone.

The yard was much like it had been when last he was here, men pouring out of the surrounding keeps, Watchmen and Winterfell-men joined in putting out the blaze. He was moving back towards Hardin’s Tower when walls of the world closed in on him and time itself froze around him. The past crashed over him like the hammer of the waters

Wun Wun’s phantom roar. The final scream of Ser Patrek of King’s Mountian.

The glint of steal.

For the Watch, Wick had said as he slashed at Jon’s throat, For the Watch. he felt the blades slice through his stomach, through his rib cage, into his heart. The hole they left would never heal, not in a thousand thousand lifetimes. The scars that night had left on him would remain, a permanent gash on his soul forever more. The hole, a gaping wound that would devour him whole.

A hand on his shoulder brought him out of his madness. “Jon?” The voice was scared, but so full of hope. “Is-is everything alright? Are you unharmed?” He had ended up on the ground, a sobbing wretch lying in the muddy snow. It took a moment for him to recognise to words, and even longer before he realised who had said them.

“R-Robb?”

He was doomed now.

Chapter Text

Robb

Castle Black was grim. Collapsing towers and abandoned buildings littered the holdfast. But despite the state of disrepair and neglect he found himself in, he did not think he had ever seen a more beautiful place. A shimmering rainbow of light glistened through the sheer face of the vast ice structure. It was enough to bring a man to tears.

He had been here for two days, working with Lord Commander Mormont to prevent Mance and from Jon getting beyond the Wall, while also learning about the current state of the Watch. It was bad, fewer than a thousand men remained to the once proud brotherhood, and many of those here were hardened criminals or disgraced knights. It was not the noble order that father and uncle Benjen had made it out to be.

He would need to speak to Jon about his future when they got him back, there was no way that Robb would let his brother spend the rest of his life here.

When they had initially left Winterfell, their party consisted of well over a score-and-a-half of men, including the King himself. It had taken just two days before King Robert decided to turn back, coincidently right after they had run out of wine and ale. Robb had grown up on tales of a mighty warrior, the Demon of the Trident, the hero who had brought down the Dragons. To say he was disappointed would be an understatement.

The man who wore the crown was a fat, drunk, whoremonger who wore his age significantly worse than father did. Robb was ashamed to say that he was glad that the King had left, reducing his party to only five-and-ten Winterfell men. They made much faster progress north along the Kingsroad after the southroners had left. Their horses ate up the miles, their cloaks flying freely behind them as they rode, and yet they found no signs of his kidnapped brother.

Day after day past as his hope of rescuing Jon had slowly waned. The longer they rode for, the less he thought his father’s story made sense. Why would Mance let Jon leave a letter, and what kidnapper let’s their victim pack their gear before leaving?

By the time they had arrived at the vast Wall of ice that the Night’s Watch guarded he was convinced that Jon had run off with the wildling King. But why? Was his life really that bad in Winterfell that he saw exile beyond the Wall a favourable option compared to remaining their home. He knew that mother had never been overly kind to Jon, and that Sansa took most of her behavioural cues from her, but Father loved him just as much as his true children, and Arya was closer to Jon than anyone else. Hells, it was his youngest sister who had realised he had gone!

Jon had been Robb’s best friend for his entire life, they were brothers, joined at the hip as they terrorised Winterfell in their childhoods. They had begun to drift apart as they entered adulthood, Theon nestling in between them, a wedge that had begun to fracture their brotherhood. But he had believed himself still in Jon’s confidence. Now though, he knew he was wrong.

Something must have happened with Jon to force him out without even saying goodbye to Arya. He tried thinking back to the past few weeks to see if he could remember anything that may have triggered this. Jon had been acting oddly lately, but nothing to indicate this, if anything he would expect the opposite; Jon had matured significantly since they found their wolves.

Not for the first time since leaving Winterfell Robb regretted the decision to leave Grey Wind behind.

Night had fallen now, and the majority of men were in the common hall, eating whatever tasteless slop Hobb had thrown into the cauldron tonight. I need to speak to father about the state of the Watch, the King as well. They would leave on the morrow, returning to Winterfell having failed to find Jon. Arya will never forgive me. He was alone, save for Uncle Benjen. Both of them in a somber mood, the silence between them a cloak of misery. A half-empty skin of wine sat between them, and a finished on lay on the ground at their feet.

The sounds from outside the window grew louder, people were shouting something he couldn’t make out. There was more noise than the few men that where normally on night duty should be able to make. Robb sauntered over towards the window. He could see men rushing across the courtyard. To the west he could see an orange glow, low to the horizon. I didn’t think the whole night had passed, though I drunk more than I planned to. It was uncle Benjen’s fault, probably, though he did not think he had gotten too drunk. He could still walk in a more or less straight line.

He looked back out the window, towards the sun rising in the west. The west? he thought. Fire.

“Fire!” He could comprehend the calls now.

He made his way outside in a rush, looking to be of help in getting the fire under control. Castle Black’s well was in the kitchens, to prevent it from freezing over, but that was at the other side of the holdfast. The armoury was closer, and that would have water by the forge. As Robb approached the building, he saw a shaking body lying on the floor, a black corpse in the shadow of the King’s Tower sobbing quietly into the ground.

He reached out to the shoulder of the body in an attempt to rouse him from his madness. He turned the man, no, boy over so he could see him. Grey eye peered back at him unseeing, the long, familiar face was white with fear.

“Jon?” He hoped his own shock and fear at seeing his brother in that state was not as noticeable in his voice as he suspected. “Is-is everything alright? Are you unharmed?” He would kill the man who did this, gut them with a blunted spear then dismember their limbs slowly. “R-Robb?” Jon whispered, his voice shaking with cold or fear or shame.

He dragged his brother back into the room he had been in with uncle Benjen, holding out the wine skin for Jon, who gulped it down. Colour was beginning to return to his long Stark face, though he was far from back to rights.

It was anger that won out when Robb eventually managed to speak. “What Happened.” He growled, “That Would Make You Want To Run Rather Than Remain In Winterfell? What Happened That Forced You To Leave Without Telling Us – And No, That Letter Does Not Count As A Goodbye.”

Jon was silent for an eternity, evidently struggling to come up with a reason for his flight.

His temper began to cool a little at seeing Jon safe. “Father thinks you were kidnapped, the King himself joined us in searching for you.” Though he left after we ran out of wine.

“I know you’ll think me mad, I know you won’t believe me, but there is something I must do, alone, and I must do it soon. I was going to return.”

Robb barked out a laugh. “You said that in your letter. It wasn’t good enough then; it isn’t good enough now. And anyway, you aren’t doing it alone. Mance Rayder was with you, I presume he lit the fire?”

Jon nodded. He still refused to meet his eyes. “I need the help of the Free Folk.” Robb gave him a questioning look. “The wildlings.” Jon elaborated.

“Tell me what it is, I can help you brother, I promise. I know you well enough to know that you are not insane. Whatever it is that caused you to break down in the yard is real, and it scared you. I want to help you fight it, brother.”

Firelight flickered across Jon’s face as he paused to gather his thoughts.

“I had… visions… glimpses of possible futures. and in all of them, all I saw was death. Death for father in the South. Death for you and Lady Catelyn too. Death for Sansa in lands unknown. Death for Bran and for Rickon within the walls of Winterfell. And death coming for us all from the North, the True North, the land that summer never touches. The Others march on the Wall, and with them the army of Death itself. The hundred thousand warriors of the Stranger is gathering strength, and soon it will attack, and if we are not prepared Westeros will fall. I cannot let that happen.”

Robb stared at his brother in shock. The conviction that choked his voice, this was something that Jon truly believed. The White Walkers of the Woods were villains in Old Nans tales, the ones that kept them up at night when they were no older than Rickon. And yet, the terror that Jon conveyed, the way the room grew colder, darker as he spoke left little doubt. For a brief moment, Robb fully knew it to be true. A raven cawed above their head. Yes it said Yes, Yes, Yes. “What did you see just then, in the yard?”

Jon looked him dead in the eyes for the first time since before the King had arrived in Winterfell. “Cold steel piercing my heart, the betrayal of brothers and the death of my soul.” His voice was cold, but beneath the façade of indifference Robb could hear the pain and warring emotions that battled within Jon. There is more to this. But pressing deeper would tear at wounds not healed. Wounds that may never heal.

“If I try to bring you back home, will you run again?”

Jon replied with a nod. “So you believe me?” He asked, his tone underlined with surprise.

“I-” Robb sighed “I believe that you believe it, and that is good enough for me. I won’t stop you from leaving” He wasn’t happy with letting Jon go north, but he knew there was little he could do to stop his brother. “Is there anything you need?”

Jon replied with a shake of his head. “Farewell, Robb.” he said with a sad smile.

“Until we meet again, brother.” They embraced each other tightly before Jon turned to leave.

He sat, watching out the window as Jon left the holdfast, his dark grey cloak blending in with the deep blue shadows of the night. I pray we will meet again someday.

Chapter Text

Mance

They left Castle Black in the wee hours of the morning, riding west non-stop for half a day as the last gasps of night died in the sunlight, and the sun rose behind them. Jon was sombre after they left Castle Black, he rode lake a man going to his grave. Something had happened when he was stealing the dragonsteal sword, something that Mance had no doubt involved Robb Stark, but he would not pry.

It was hard leaving brothers behind. He had done it himself when he left the Watch all those years before. Family was important, no one knew that better than those north of the Wall, but there was no room for either of their families in the snowy forests and vast tundra that lay beyond the snaking mirage of ice. Not Stark nor Crow was welcome among the free folk.

When Jon Snow entered the true north, he would place a veil between himself and anyone who owed him anything.

They passed Queensgate a couple of hours after sunrise, while the light was still low enough to shimmer a rainbow off the Wall. He remembered his youth, growing up in the custody of the Night’s Watch. The Shadow Tower’s septon had proclaimed loudly and often that it was a sign from the seven. The colours of the Wall, he claimed, representing the Father and his justice, the Mother and her love, the Warrior and Smith, Maiden and Crone. He never spoke of the Stanger.

It was the Stanger that Jon and Mance sought to fight now. The Stanger wrought in pale ice, with cold blue eyes, who danced with corpses and played with men. The septons had death all wrong, Mance realised, it didn’t take you, not permanently. It always returned. As sickness begets sickness, death begets death. And sooner or later, if the living were unprepared, death would take them all.

It was midday when they reached Deep Lake, the sun just beginning its quick decent into night. Summer was coming to an end, he didn’t need any white ravens from Oldtown to tell him that. The sun was noticeably lower in the sky than it had been at the same time of day mere moons prior.

By the time they arrived at the Nightfort Jon looked like a dead man walking. Neither of them had slept in almost two days, and they were showing it. Venturing into the abandoned fastness was a vision into the decay of time. A desolation of rubble, ruins and reclamation of nature. It was a stark message; The wilderness will always win in the end.

He took a moment to consider their plan, to take a small force of men north, and return with an Other. It was the plan of desperate fools, scare more realistic than storming the Wall, but it was all they could do. All they had was a sword held by Jon, a knife wielded by him, and the vague promise of hidden dragonglass in the eastern most reaches of the Frostfangs. If Mance was honest with himself it was hopeless, but should he begin to think that way… No, I will not give in.

This was the citadel of all the great shames and terrors of the Night’s Watch’s long and bloody history. Danny Flint had died here, raped and murdered by the black brothers. High above, watching frozen into the Wall itself, the seventy-nine sentinels stood their eternal guard. The Night’s King himself had ruled from these accursed halls. If there was a legend about the Black Brothers, you could bet your left lung it took place here.

A frigid breeze wafted through the crumbling walls as they navigated the maze of the main keep. The black gate was in the kitchens, that is what Jon had claimed. A well hiding a passage through the Wall, guarded by wards from the dawn of days. In the half light of the deeper chambers he could hear the many scurrying feet of rats, descendants of the of the Rat Cook’s wroth.

Eventually they found the kitchens, an eight-sided room with a vaulted dome for a roof. The well was there, stood resolute in centre of the room. A bloody red of Weirwood spilling out of it, crooked yet defiant. It looked young, spindly, without a face. Nevertheless, power radiated off it. A sense of ageless wonder that captivated the awe and filled a man with terror. There were forces active here that laughed at the human pettiness laid bare afore it.

The steps were carved into the side of the well, twisting downwards in a spiral as they descended past the heart tree and into the everlasting darkness. Death lurked in the shadows and the echoing footsteps it hid.

It was a long way down, so far that he could scarce see the small speck of light glowing at the bottom. The steady echo of footfall beat out like drums, and he began to sing to match it. ‘Once were a man who were Lord of the Black’ he began. It was the ballad of the Night’s King, a sad melody common north of the Wall, but barley known in the south. ‘He commanded and saw from up high’  The deeper hues of his voice resonated in a haunting descant behind his singing. ‘From the top of the Wall, He came down to the Call’ It was dark as pitch in a moonless night now, the only light coming from the ethereal shine at the bottom of the well. ‘Of the one with the star blue eyes’

As Mance reached the bottom of the steps he gasped at the face of purest moonlight that greeted him from the gate. The last echoes of the song died in the heavy air before the face of the gods themselves. It was an ancient face, its feature shrunken in the way that only time can mould. If a man could live a thousand years, it would look like that.

It opened its eyes, whiter than sin. Blind, yet capturing all. It spoke, loud and clear, smothering the darkness in the cruel sound of silk. “Who are you?” Who-who-who the well responded. Jon stepped forward to address it. “I am the sword in the darkness” Jon began, and Mance was taken twenty years into the past, to a time where he was a green boy younger than Jon, stood before a heart tree just north of the Shadow tower reciting the exact same vow, committing himself to the Watch for life.

It had been a clear day when he said his vows, the sun high in the sky failing to ward off the cold. The Halfhand had sworn his vows that day too, long before he lost the use of his right hand. Everyone else from that time was dead now, they had been for years. He was the only one from that batch of recruits to desert his post. He felt a brief well of shame at the thought of Qhorin still doing what he believed was right while Mance had long abandoned him. They were enemies now, but once they had been brothers. He hoped they could be once again. He chased those thoughts away. Now was not to dwell on regrets of the past.

“-that guards the realms of men.” Jon Snow finished.

The gate was silent for a moment before it spoke again. “Mayhaps in another life you were.” Life-life-life “But service is not destroyed by the passing waters of time, nor the raging torrent of Death.” Death-death-death-death “Lord Commander, you may pass.” Pass-pass-pass.

The mouth opened, lips contorting themself wider and wider, the bark of the tree wrinkling into ever more defined crinkles. The haunted forest beckoned as they left the safety of the Wall. The air in the mouth of the gate as strangely warm, with the fain scent of salt lying in the air. Another step forward and the cold retuned with a vengeance. The King-beyond-the-Wall was back in his kingdom.

 And now, the hunt begins, He thought, But who is the hunter and who is the prey?

Chapter Text

Fionnlagh

He had been watching the central sector of the southern perimeter since qualifying as a Body Controller a year ago. If Fionnlagh was being honest, it was a boring job. All he had to do was encourage the fyreflesh north of the Wall to attack the Night’s Watch, while not alerting the Watchers-on-the-Walls to their movement. The pay was good, and the gig came with decent benefits, but he had hoped to be assigned a challenging sector. He had heard that the fighting in the Valley of Bronze was particularly fierce as of late.

The closest he had come to a decent fight was two moons ago, when an imbecilic new recruit had slain a party of fyreflesh that two of the Watchers were tracking. He had given them good deaths at least, it was what they deserved. But the paperwork he had had to submit was endless.

He almost pitied the fyreflesh, they were so similar to the singers and the giants and, yes, even his own species, the iceflesh, yet unlike the other anthropoid creatures, they lacked consciousness. When he had taken command of a dead singer during training, he could feel their soul fighting back, he had been told that the same was true with the giants. But the fyreflesh, they lacked anything beyond a body.

It was almost a kindness, his mentor had told him, that we do them in taking control of their corpses. It gives them the illusion of a soul. That thought gave him comfort when he wore the flesh of the lesser animals. Controlling the bodies of Singers and Giants was strictly regulated by the council. It was almost impossible to gain permission outside of training, not that many people wanted a licence. There were few Iceflesh left with the ability of a Controller, maybe only fifty who had completed training, and the same again who hadn’t. People who controlled the body of sentients were largely frowned upon, stigmatised. They were seen as cruel, evil even.

Recent centuries had not been kind to the iceflesh. Sickness had long wracked the lands of Always Winter, but the famines were new. New and deadly. Their population was lower than at any point on record. Lower even than after the great war, eight thousand years ago. They needed to expand southwards, and they must do it soon lest their strength grow too small to defeat the fyreflesh. They may me mindless beasts, but the knew how to fight. The last war between them had ended in a pure, cold hearted butchery of their people, and the partition of the lands. That was the start of the great decline.

They had once inhabited all the lands north of the swamps of the Neck, but when the fyreflesh arrived in the lands to the south, those who sing the song of the earth were forced northwards. In the conflict that had followed the singers had sided with the fyreflesh, only to be turned upon after the wars were over. That’s what you get for siding with beasts. Most of the singers now lived in a fragile partnership with the iceflesh, coinhabiting the lands to the north. Only a small number of singers still claimed to hold faith with the fyreflesh, cooped up in a cavern protected by magic just north of his sector. A terrorist group that called themselves the Guardians of the Old Gods. In truth they were a band of power-hungry ideologues jacked up on a false feeling of moral superiority who had hijacked the Weirwood Net for their own ends.

The GOGs were planning something big, that much was clear. But the council were still unsure as to their schemes. It was part of Fionnlagh’s job to find out what.

They claimed that the fyreflesh were every bit as sentient as the other higher beings and tried to use that to advocate for greater rights for them. Their true agenda, according to the council, was to provoke a war between Ice and Fyre, that would eradicate both, allowing the singers to rule the entire continent.

It was a fool’s dream they held, but one that was looking increasingly probable. Over the last couple of decades, as animals in the forest had begun to decline and the number of fish in the seas dwindled, the council had taken steps to increase the strength of the military. And now they were clearing the haunted forest of fyreflesh, forcing them into the uninhabitable Frostfangs or the impenetrable Wall. The Watchers would not stay dormant for ever, sooner or later conflict would break out. At this point Fionnlagh feared that all-out war was unavoidable. That was why he had enlisted. He would not stand by and watch as his people were slaughtered by mindless barbarians. Not whilst he had the powers of a Controller.

He quickly flicked though the minds of his bodies, looking for anything of interest. His squad were spread out across the sector, ready to warn him if anything went wrong, but he was the only controller in the group. As such, Fionnlagh was in charge of monitoring all of the lands between the Wall and the most easterly major tributary of the Milkwater, with the exception of one small keep that was directly watched by the council. He spotted nothing irregular until he reached for his scout stationed near the Nightfort, the ancient citadel of the that had once housed the Watchers. Outside the Black Gate a man sat atop an elk. Ravens circled over his head. The Wanderer he realised.

A century ago, the GOGs had managed to interfere with a controller’s mind as they raised a body, wrenching it from the controller’s command. It had been a thorn in their side ever since. Nigh impossible to track and untiringly relentless, it did as it was bid far more effectively than any body under the control of an iceflesh. It was a mystery that had long eluded them, how the singers managed to get such fine influence over the corpse.

Seeing the Wanderer here was bad. It meant that whatever the GOGs were planning was coming to fruition. He would need follow the body for as long as possible. The council would need know as much as possible of what was transpiring here.

He summoned his squad to the location and waited in his scout’s body for something to happen. It was late in the afternoon that the Black Gate finally opened. Two fyreflesh and a large wolf stumbled into the light. He recognised the elder of them as Mance Rayder, the leader of those north of the Wall. The second was young, very young, and completely unknown to him, though he bore a slight resemblance to the man who lead the fighting force of the Watchers. He could be the man’s son?

If it was, this could pose a major setback to the councils plans. Their strategy relied upon inciting conflict between the fractious forces of the fyreflesh. If they were working together, with the support of the GOGs, their task would be significantly more difficult.

He sent his preliminary report off to the council and waited. Fionnlagh watched as the Wanderer handed the younger of the men a bag. A ripple of terror ran through him as the light glinted off the shining black arrowheads. Obsidian. This was bad.

They set off north east, the boy apparently leading the group. “Can you follow them” he asked Mhairi, his second in command. He was thankful of the Iceflesh’s ability to communicate mentally over vast distances. The only other creatures with anything like this ability were the singers, who would wear living ravens to take messages across the land. Fionnlagh had heard tales that the fyreflesh use ravens to carry written messages across their realms, but that was far to complex behaviour for such mindless beasts to have mastered.

He left the dead body his mind had been residing in and began the long trek to join up with his squad. The sun was setting, the great fire in the sky dying in a burst of colours as the light slowly faded above.

By the time he caught up with the quarry they were halfway to Whitetree and night had long fallen. It was their time now. The fyreflesh ruled the day, but at night non could resist their power for long. Flames could hold them at bay, but flames were fickle and died like any other creature. Fire could starve, could suffocate, could freeze. In the heart of winter, nothing would blaze.

As he had made his march he had gathered strength. Every corpse and carrion that he passed he added to his collection. And now, as he hid in the darkness, half-cloaked in moonlight he had control of no fewer than twenty-three fyreflesh, two stags, eighteen wolves and a polar bear. All of that to stand up against a man, a boy, a direwolf, and the wanderer.

When the order to engage came from the council, this would be a massacre.

Chapter Text

Jon

As they stepped into the afternoon sun they were greeted by a man and an elk. He was dressed in the black of the Night’s Watch, but he was no brother. Sam had called him Coldhands, back in his first life, back when he was as green as spring leaves on a sunny day. It was this man, or whatever stood afore them, who had led Sam south of the Wall after the great ranging. He should have expected to meet Coldhands here, after all it was him who had led Sam and Gilly to the Black Gate after they had fled Craster’s Keep.

Ghost crept near him and Jon could sense something amiss through his connection with the wolf. It had been a very long time since he had last ventured north of the Wall, but he had never forgotten the overriding feeling of dread that consumed a person in the Haunted forest. It was as if you were being constantly watched. It clawed at the back of the neck, as if talons were trying to remove your spine.

“Greetings” Coldhands said. “Come, we have such little time.” He held out a rough spun sack, one that had once been buried beneath the Fist of the First Men in some time that would now never exist. Arrowheads, daggers and a broken horn. It would prove most valuable for their task.

They made the slow trek north on foot, as the stairway in the Nightfort was too narrow, too rickety to let their horses pass through. Snow was thick beneath the closely packed trees, the cover of pine needles doing little to shield the earth from the fury of the weather.

“I know what you have been through, vagrant of time, what you have lost and found and lost again.” Said Coldhands, his voice grim in the frigid air. “I know what you have lived, and yes, what you have died. It is not easy to flit between timelines like a leaf on an autumn gale, yet you have carried the burden well, young brother.”

Jon looked up. “How do you know why I cannot die?” He had been searching for answers for almost two decades, but this was the closest he had come to the truth.

The black cloaked ranger was silent for a moment or two, before he slowly nodded. “You know them as the Children of the Forest. The Others move to attack the realms of men, shattering what fragile piece lies between the higher beings. An all-out war between man and giant, child and Other. Every race vying for nought less than the total eradication of every other race. The children cannot survive alone and saw you as their best chance at survival. The spell near broke their power, but it worked. You cannot die while the Heart of Winter yet beats.”

He had a goal now. An escape from the circle of destruction he had so long been trapped in. An end to the pain, the toil, the mortal coil that life had so long woven around his neck, and silken noose that threatened to rip apart his very humanity. It is was a nigh impossible task. He knew of the Heart of Winter from a handful of contradictory tales told around the night-fire by Old Nan when he was scarce older than Rickon.

Some said it was the original greatsword Ice, stolen in battle by the most ancient of enemies of house Stark. Others claimed it to be the source of power for the White Walkers of the Woods, made by the Night’s King within his seat of the Nightfort. More still claimed it to be the last vestiges of the first Other, a corrupted man who transfigured by ice into a cold-hearted monster.

No matter what story Old Nan weaved, some things remained consistent. It was the source of power for the Others, hidden in the Lands of Always Winter, guarded by creatures of graceful ice, that made good men great, and great men harsh. And it was always always connected to the Starks of Winterfell. He laughed at that; a Stark bastard looking for a bastardised Stark heirloom. Connected to the Starks, that much she got right at least.

Ghost could tell they were being followed, yet no matter how hard he searched for their trackers while wearing his wolf’s skin he could not catch their scent. It was not the free folk, Mance assured him as the sun began to set, they would have showed themselves by now – be it to petition their King or to challenge his crown. Jon could not shake the fear that it was the Others, though they should not be this far south this early, not in strength large enough to challenge them. The great ranging was a near year hence and was not ambushed until many leagues to the north.

Jon knew that they must needs join up with a party of free folk as backup soon, lest they be forced to join battle with the Others with just the three of them. The sun lay on the horizon when Coldhands finally indicated that it was time to settle down for the day.

Jon and Mance settled around the fire in a sheltered clearing, Coldhands standing guard, shrouded in the inky darkness of night. They were well into the haunted forest now, and still had no solid plan of attack. He turned to his companion. “Are there any warbands who would be able to join with us in this area?” Jon asked Mance.

“Crowkiller will be sniffing around by the bridge of skulls, the Weeper was planning on taking his men out towards Storrold’s Point, Ol’ Rattleshirt should be near enough though. He’ll be up for anything with the right motivation.”

Jon was about to nod in assent when the flickering orange of the fire caught his eye. Red on white, flowing freely in the cold icy breeze. He remembered her lips on his, the nights shred in a sleeping sack, the look of betrayal as she shot arrow after arrow while he fled.

Her body, broken in the courtyard of Castle Black.

You know nothing, Jon Snow.

He was not ready to meet Ygritte again. Mayhaps he never would be.

“Is Tormund near?” He knew that Ruddy Hall was just north of the Antler river but was unaware of its specific location.

Mance looked at him with concern across his face, though did not probe for answers. “Aye, he was planning to move to the Milkwater sometime soon. If me make good time we may meet them as we travel north.”

They settled back into a comfortable silence watching Coldhands’ ravens circle above, black blots against the star-speckled deep blue sky of night. Suddenly one of them cawed out in alarm. Jon was immediately on his feet, Longclaw drawn. Mance held Joffrey’s dagger in one hand, a dragonglass knife in the other. Jon looked over to where Coldhands had been standing, but all be saw was the ghostly outline of death highlighted against the horizon, the long-dead ranger prostrated in the snow.

More wraiths entered their clearing, wights as well. They were surrounded, outnumbered and outmatched. But Jon would not go down without a fight.

In a voice more confident than he felt he called out to the foe. “If we die, we die, for all men must die. But first we’ll fight.”

All he heard in return was the haunting melody of laughing ice.

Chapter Text

Jon

He moved forward to engage the Others. They were outnumbered, massively. If they could not end it quickly, they would have no chance at survival. The blades sung an otherworldly hymn as they met, a clang that quivered with a note from the deepest bowels of seven hells. He swung high with a quick slash at the Other’s face before moving for a stab at his foe’s abdomen, but both attacks were met with effortless parries that threatened to knock him off balance.

The Other moved with an elegance that would put even Lady Stark to shame, it was like watching a flawless dancer pirouetting across a dance hall. The ease at which his probing was dismissed had him in awe at his enemy’s skill. A second Other joined the fray. Jon was not prepared to fight two on one. He moved into a defensive stance, backing away towards the treeline. He deflected and blocked each attack, but with every strike that met his blade he could feel the strength in his arm waning. Each down-blow he caught sent shockwaves down his legs. He could not keep this up for long, the Others were too strong, too powerful, too unrelenting.

The thick trees of the forest gave him some cover, forcing the Others apart. One-on-one he had a chance, and the trunks were too closely packed together for them both to get clean swipes at him. He glanced behind him to ensure he had a clear path of retreat and saw Ghost grappling with a dead bear, apparently with the upper hand as the rotting carcass of the beast was pinned under the young direwolf. He could not admire his companion’s handiwork for long though as another wave of blows came raining down on him from the White Walker before him. She is aggressive, but slow to put her guard back up, he realised, and she favours a three-strike pattern, high to the left then low to the right finished with a strike from above. If he was lucky, that repetition might provide an opening.

He parried the first strike, then the second, before catching the blow in his cross guard. Twisting, he tried to wrench the blade from the snow demon’s grip. The blades broke apart, but the Other was pulled off balance.

To his left he heard a scream that could only mean that Mance had fallen. Rage filled is heart. That was his friend, his companion that they had slain.

Jon moved forwards to deal the finishing blow, but before he could strike he saw reflected in the Other’s shining white armour that the other White Walker had managed to navigate the overgrowth to make his way around the back of him. He threw himself to one side rolling out of the way of his icy blade, but slipped trying to get back up again.

This was the end now. He gave one last attempt to raise a feeble guard, but that was broken, and longclaw was send spinning into the snow. The blade cut through his stomach like it was nothing. He felt the sword slide through his guts and pierce his back. The Other twisted the sword as he removed it, sending quivers of pain that wracked his entire body. Jon looked down to see his guts spilling out of his body. Entrails draped across his belly as the snow stained red around him. He had died often enough to know the sensation of death, but the weightless numb that overcame him towards the end was still a surprise even after all the times he had experienced it.

The jerk that brought him back in time would come soon, no doubt. He could vaguely see the Other who had slain him standing over his body, performing some kind of rite. The warmth will return soon. He smiled. This life had been a failure, true, but he had learnt who had cursed him, and more importantly, how to escape it.

He was fading out of consciousness now; it wouldn’t be long. The world was fully black now, all sounds garbled, undecipherable. He could feel the chains that held his soul beginning to loosen.

The tug never came. Or rather, it came from everywhere at once. His very soul became a rope used in a psychic tug of war. What happens when two eldritch forces fight over the same broken spirit? He would find out soon enough. The Others and the children fought within his mind for dominion over their battleground, and Jon was nought but a silent observer. A breeze as cold as death itself tore away at the veil of reality. The layers peeled back, and he fell though the gaps, through the scalding cold and frigid fires of the Gods themselves. He could see the true shape of the cosmos. It rippled like a vast curtain in the breeze. Rolling fields of particles and waves that stretched through the very core of everything.

He hovered above it all, an observer to the great truth of reality, watching as everything that could have happened and everything that may occur was laid out plain in the fabric of existence. He looked back to the searing inferno that birthed everything, the million billion suns that created all, he saw beyond, to the cold that would one day burn everything that ever was or ever will be. Every instant was a painting, and each painting spanned eternity.

We are so small in our patch of the cosmos. He realised. So petty. The smallest breath of wind in the vast solar sea was all that it would take to consume us. It was a barren beauty he saw stretched out before him. Like the vast wilderness east of Winterfell, it was empty, with only nature to fill the gaps. There was grandeur to the view, true, but nothing to compare to the bountiful splendour that was life.

He saw the connections that mapped all that lived and all that died. Fish and frog and fly and ferret, all were one and all were different. He was there when the first men left Uthoryos to settle the world. He saw them separate and change as the march of aeons moved forwards. Some grew vast and hulking and hairy, others small and spritly. Some harnessed the power of fire and some, ice. He was there when the mazemakers built their labyrinths on Lorath. He watched empires grow and merge and fall and rise again. Valyira and Asshai, Hardholm and Sarnor, all took their brief decades in the sun, and all fell to the night.

And through it all, the Others survived, hiding and weak. He watched as their children starved in the streets, as sickness tore through their towns and butchered their people until they had no choice but to turn south. Towards Winterfell. Towards home.

The homeward tug was strong now, the Children of the Forest were winning the fight within his mind, but could not shake the influence of the Others. Not completely. He felt his body form around him, his body marred by a dozen lives and deaths. Scars marked his skin as old wound that would never heal reformed across him.

He woke with memories of a dying dream and feeling of unbound wonder.

Jon blinked; last he knew he was in the haunted forest. But now he was home, in Winterfell, like so many deaths before. But this time felt different. Something was wrong. There was complete silence, unnatural silence. Not a noise could be heard. His body felt awful. It was dark outside, dark enough that a reflection formed in the glass of his window. He looked himself over and was shocked to see it riddled with scars.

There was a hole in his chest, and bruises lined his neck from when he was hanged. There was a scar there too, from his beheading. His right arm was pink, the remnants of the festered wound that had once claimed his life, and it too bore a scar from when it was removed. His entire body told a tale of constant battle. But his stomach was the worst. Markings of pale crystal rippled out from where the Other’s blade had pierced him. A snowflake etched onto his very soul.

It was only then that he realised his heart no longer beat, that he did not need to breathe. He was well and truly dead now. The thought made him laugh, though there was no humour there. He had longed for death for so long, yet even now that he had died there was no escaping life.

He felt something tugging at the back of his mind, an urge that was not his, a desire to move, to watch, to kill. He pushed back, surprised to find it was a two-way connection. “Who are you” he asked. Jon could see the snow and thick pine forest that indicated he was looking out at the lands north of the Wall. All he could feel was the cold. The force of a thousand blizzards slammed into his mind, knocking him out of the body he had briefly inhabited. He lost consciousness once more.

When he awoke it was light outside. Someone was pounding on his door. “Jon?” A young voice asked. “Wake up you idiot. I need somewhere to hide. Sansa and the Septa are being stupid again.”

Arya was looking for him.

And he was a dead man.

Chapter Text

Arya

Stupid perfect pretty little Sansa was insufferable. If Arya had said those things she would have been confined to her room until the end of time. But because it was Sansa, and Sansa could do no wrong, it was her who had been yelled at by Septa Mordane just because she stood up for herself for once.

She knew that hitting Sansa was wrong, of course it was, but what was she supposed to do, sit there like a flower in a sheep field as fluffy little cloven hooves trampled her into the mud? No, that was not how she did things. Jon would understand, he always understood. And if nothing else, mother would avoid him, giving her some reprieve from the inevitable punishment.

She had expected to find her favourite brother training in the yard, Robb and Theon were, learning how to fight under the tutelage of Ser Rodrick, but Jon was not. It wasn’t fair that the boys got sword lessons, but when Arya wanted to fight, she had to get Jon to teach her. Nothing was fair. Not truly. Jon was the best person in the whole world, yet because he was a Snow and not a Stark, nobody would ever care enough to know.

“You seen Jon?” She called out to Robb. He shook his head. “I’ve not seen him since last night. He’s probably brooding in his chamber again.”

Theon laughed. “He knows where he belongs, bastards like him should remain out of sight.” That earnt him a particularly hard hit from Robb’s sword. Before it could escalate further Ser Rodrick stepped in calming the two boys down, before he looked over at Arya. “Should you not be at your needlework lessons, young lady?”

She nodded and proclaimed “I’m going there now!” before scurrying towards Jon’s chamber.

“You’re going the wrong way then!” Rodrick laughed. He wouldn’t tell father though. Not until later, and by then she would have already gotten out of needlework.

She almost ran into Joseth the stable hand as she rushed into the main keep, flying through the corridors and halls towards Jon. He always made her feel special. It was good knowing that you would always be someone’s favourite, no matter how much everyone else may hate you.

He didn’t answer when she knocked. Not straight away anyway. “Jon, can I come in please?”

“Are you in there?” She started to knock harder, almost frantic. “Jon?” Surely he wouldn’t turn her away. “Wake up you idiot. I need somewhere to hide. Sansa and the Septa are being stupid again.”

He heard a groan from the other side of the door. “Give me time, Arya, then I’ll let you in.” He sounded rough, like he had been dragged behind an untamed horse as it careened through a forest. “Is everything alright in there Jon?”

“Do I really sound that bad?” He croaked out, trying to laugh but fooling neither of them. “I’m coming in” she declared, before pulling at the door. It didn’t open, Jon must have locked it. Jon never locks his door, he doesn’t need to, no one ever goes in other than him and her. Arya was worried now. “Please Jon, is there some thing wrong?”

After a couple of seconds the door finally opened. Jon had clearly thrown on his cloths since she had arrived. He was deathly pale, the only colour on his skin that Arya could see was large bruising on his neck that he had evidently tried and failed to cover up by wrapping something around his neck.

“Who did that to you?” she growled. “If it was Theon, I’ll punch the arse. He deserves it. He thinks he’s better than you when he’s not. No one is better than you.” Jon laughed at that, a proper laugh. It should have hurt her to have yet another person laughing at her, but this was Jon. She couldn’t bring herself to hate him, not ever. “It’s nothing, little sister.” He lent over to muss up her hair, and she feigned outrage at the gesture. “Your hands are cold, we should light a fire.” Jon shook his head. “I’m fine Arya. Honestly I’m fine.”

He didn’t sound fine.

“Now, are you going to tell me what your sister did this time?” It was the same as always. She called her horseface, wildling beast, said that she had the hands of a smith. It shouldn’t hurt her anymore, but it did. She leaned into Jon to tell him, but as she was wrapped up in a hug she realised something was very wrong. Jon wasn’t just cold, he was freezing. She moved in closer. Father had always told them that if they though that someone was going to freeze you were to share your body heat with them. She tried to do that now.

“Jon, you’re ill. I’ll fetch Maester Luwin.” He froze for a moment before eagerly claiming he was perfectly fine. “You aren’t though.” She said. She was scared for him.  She was never scared. “You feel like ice. At least put a cloak on. And take that ridiculous thing off your neck.” She tugged at the fabric, removing it.

The scar was new. A red line that ran all the way around her brother’s neck. “You need to see the maester. Now.” Arya ordered. She squirmed out of Jon’s grasp, despite his best attempt to hold her, and ignored his pleas not to get help. Idiot, he’s clearly ill. Normally Jon was smarter than that, but for some reason he did not want anyone to know he had been fighting. Does he think father will be wroth with him? Of course he wouldn’t. He would tear Winterfell apart to find anyone who harmed any of their family. They were a pack.

She burst into Luwin’s chamber and immediately started to talk. “Jon’s ill but is refusing to come to you and someone has attacked him and his injuries look really bad and-”

“And slow down there, sweetling.” Father said from the corner of the room. She hadn’t even noticed he was there. “What is the problem?” You said Jon was ill.” She paused to catch he breath before responding. “Jon didn’t come to breakfast today, and he wasn’t training in the yard with Robb or Theon, so I went to look for him in his chamber. He hadn’t even dressed when I knocked on his door, and you know how early he likes to get up. When he did let me in, he was trying to hide bruises and other marks around his neck. He was pale, deathly pale. And he was cold as snow. But he didn’t want to get help.” Father glanced at Maester Luwin, as if looking for reassurance. “I think he is afraid you might be disappointed in him for fighting. It’s stupid. Why can’t he just be treated like Robb or Bran. Even Rickon is given more respect than Jon, and he is a baby.”

Father gave a sad smile. “Come, sweetling. We’ll check on your brother together.”

As they crossed the main yard they were joined by Robb, who had just finished putting his sword back away in the armoury. When he heard where they were going, he suddenly started acting guilty, as if it was his fault that nobody had noticed Jon was ill until Arya had spoken to him. “I should have known some thing was wrong when he didn’t show up this morning.” He kept repeating in an annoying manner.

When they reached Jon’s chambers, they found that he had barricaded the door closed. They could hear him sobbing from the corridor. “Is everything alright in there son?” It clearly is not, idiot. That’s why he’s crying. “I’m a monster.” Jon’s voice was wretched. “Stay away from me.”

Jon said it with such conviction, such utter revulsion with himself that Arya almost burst into tears. How could Jon ever think himself a monster. No one is further from being a monster. Father sent Robb to Vayon Poole to get keys before turning back to the door. “No, you are my son. Let me in. Whatever’s wrong, I can fix it.”

“No, father. You can’t. Leave me. There is nothing anyone can do to fix me.”

The look on anguish on fathers face nearly broke Arya. “I love you, you know that. More than you can possibly understand. I don’t care if what you have done or what is wrong, let me in. We can face this together. Please, Jon…”

Time dragged slowly on as Jon refused to respond. Arya stepped forwards. “Jon, we want to help.” She was crying now. Jon had always been the person who she went to when she was scared or alone or in need of someone to rant to. And now that he needed assistance, he was refusing their help. “Just let us in.”

Robb returned then with the master key. “I’m coming in now” Father warned. Jon gave one last attempt to persuade him not to, but father opened the door regardless.

He asked for Luwin to examine Jon. “I don’t need a Maester.” Jon claimed. None of them believed him. “You look like a corpse” Robb said. “No, no. I don’t look like… I’m fine, I’m fine. You don’t need to look at me, I’m fine.” Father signalled to Robb to help him hold Jon down. “Arya was right, you are cold to the bone” father said. Robb forced Jon out of his tunic and the whole room gave a gasp of shock.

Jon’s whole body was littered with what must be fatal wounds. The most noticeable ones were the hole in his heart, and the snowflake marked onto his belly, but those were far from the only injuries that he had. “Who Did This To You?” Father was almost apoplectic with anger. “I Want Them Fed To The Dogs. Tell Me Who It Was.”

Maester Luwin had moved forwards to examine her brother. “Lord Stark,” he began, “His heart-”

“I Can See That It Has A Hole In It, I’m Trying To Figure Out Who Put It There.”

“It’s just… forgive me, my Lord, his heart is no longer beating. He is not breathing either. He is dead, yet he still moves. At least half a dozen of these wounds should have killed him, and it appears that they have. I’m at a loss as to him he still… I do not know.”

“Twelve”

“What?” She asked. It was the first thing Jon had said to them since they entered his chamber.

“Twelve of them killed me.”

“Tell me what you know.” Father asked Jon. He sighed. I’ll tell you, in private.” Father nodded and Luwin turned to leave, muttering something about checking records. Arya made to protest but was carried out of the room by Robb before she could.

“We will find out who did this, and they will pay.” he vowed.

“They will pay.” Arya agreed.

Chapter Text

Fionnlagh

He did not understand what had happened, could not comprehend it. One moment he was in the middle of the woods raising the fyreflesh’s still warm body, and the next he felt a jerk tug at his very soul and he found himself back at the outpost, his head pounding like a drum. He went outside to get some fresh air and to clear his mind. The sky was dark, but he could see the first signs of light beginning to dawn above the eastern sky.

A pulse of fear clawed at him through his connection to one of his bodies. He followed the connection, confused at where the emotion came from. Only giants and singers have emotions, and I have none of them. The body in question was in a building made of rock that was unlike anything he had seen before. It was far grander than anything that he had seen the fyreflesh living in before.

Fionnlagh could see the body reflected in the window. It was the boy that he had killed in the woods. He was pock-marked with gashes and tears. He could see the stomach wound that he himself had inflicted on the boy. How? This was not possible.

He looked so much younger here than he had wrapped up in the layers that the fyreflesh needed to survive the harsh conditions of the true north.

Curiosity compelled him to explore the citadel he had somehow found himself in.

It was the GOG’s, he remembered. They had fought him over control of the fyreflesh, they must have done something to try to remove me from the boy. He needed to know why this person was so important to the terrorists.

He urged the body to move from the room, to look for anything that might prove useful, and to kill any living being it saw.

Something rippled through him. Rejection. This wasn’t possible. He was thrown from the body, but as he was forced out he felt something following him back into his own body. “Who are you” he heard echo around his mind. Fionnlagh was scared. This was impossible. Everyone knows that fyreflesh are soulless. That is the first thing you learn about them.

Yet here he was, sharing his own body with the spirit of a fyreflesh.

No. Something was wrong. Was it the singer who had hijacked the body as he tried to raise it? It must be. Of course, the Wanderer was with them. That must be how they did it.

He forced the singer out of his mind with such force that he almost cried out in pain. He pulled himself back into the child’s body and was surprised to find it sleeping. Good, I can hide within its memories. It would give him time to learn about whatever he was cohabiting the body with.

He peered into the memories of the boy. The fragments of the past that he saw made no sense. Why did the singer that had taken control of the fyreflesh have such strong emotions connected to memories of the body? He felt the anger of memories of an unjust life. Splinters of experiences ranging from exhilaration at the first sword lesson, to the anger at being treated by the world as so much less than his brother. From envy when he realised that Lady Stark would never love him, to his own love of Arya that ran so deep it almost hurt.

He had only had time to view a handful of memories when the other consciousness awoke from its slumber. There was a vague knocking that he could hear. He crept closer to the forefront of the body’s awareness, taking care not to be noticed, and watched as the body interacted with its sister. Jon. That was what the girl had called it. Jon. After the girl, Arya, he recalled from the memories, had left he announced himself to the other soul.

“What do you want with this body, you monster?” He demanded of the singer.

He felt a wave of fear jolt through the body. You weren’t expecting this, were you beast.

“This is my body.” An unsure voice replied. “Are you the Other that killed me? Is this how you turn us to wights?”

The gall of the singer, to pretend to be a fyreflesh. Who did he think he was fooling? “You think I don’t know what you are, what you do to us?” Anger overcame him now. He pushed his own memories towards the singer, forcing the spirit to experience his own painful past.

It hurt him too, to revisit that dark part of his psyche. The deep depths of despair that he had sunk to after the attack. He still felt the fear and the panic and the endless, formless pain that threatened overwhelmed him whenever he thought about that night. He had lost a sister in the attack, a mother, seen them melt into little more than a pile of shimmering bones, pale as a fading moon, as if they had never been anything more than a mirage. The true intensities of all that he had lost was deeper than the blue seas of the endless north. He pushed the singer into it, deeper, trying to drown it in the pain that it had created.

“This is your fault, the doing of all your kind.”

And then it nudged the smallest fragment of its own life back onto him. Fionnlagh was not expecting it, his defences had been torn down by the full force of his own anger and grief, and it was those emotions that he recognised in the memory of the boy.

It was the boy whose memories he now saw, that was as indisputable as it was impossible.

A letter sealed with pink. A crowded hall baying for blood. A knife in the snow.

Guilt and betrayal and the crushing knowledge of failure.

There was no singer in here.

But the teachings of the council were clear, no fyreflesh had a conscience. It was what set them apart from the other anthropoids, what made them lesser. Was this why the singers had targeted this fyreflesh? It must be.

In his confusion he felt his anger cool, his grief fall away. As the body he inhabited lay curled in a ball, sobbing on the cold stone floor, the truth of what he had subjected the boy to dawned on him. I am the evil one here.

There was a banging on the door and he heard a voice asking if the boy, Jon, was alright.

“I’m a monster,” Jon replied. “Stay away from me.”

The man replied in a quivering voice. “No, you are my son. Let me in. Whatever’s wrong, I can fix it.”

Fionnlagh could feel Jon’s despair, his utter belief in the worst of himself, the belief that Fionnlagh had forced on to him. “No, father. You can’t. Leave me. There is nothing anyone can do to fix me.”

The response was soft, the sound of a man broken by the news of a dead loved one. It was not the voice of a mindless beast. “I love you, you know that. More than you can possibly understand. I don’t care if what you have done or what is wrong, let me in. We can face this together. Please, Jon…”

As the man tailed off Fionnlagh was left face to face with the knowledge that everything the council had taught about the fyreflesh was wrong.

He fled back into his own body, the familiar cold a calming contrast against the heat of the fyreflesh. He was alone in the new dawn, the haunted forest stretching out before him, snow-topped trees reaching out to touch the sky for as far as he could see.

He could not help but think about all the fyreflesh he had slain. Conscious beings all, many of whom had not even known he was there until the blade went through their body. Am I evil?

Are we all?

There was no way that the council could not know this, they had been watching the fyreflesh for millennia. It was the reason it had formed, taking over from the prior republic in the dying days of the great war, as the fight was lost and even their very survival was in doubt. Yet all anyone was ever taught of the Fyre was of the mindless evil that moved it.

And as he stood on the snowy hillside, lost the understanding that all he knew was a lie all he had was one thought pounding away at his mind like the rhythmic beat of a marching tune.

What must they think of us?

What must  they think of the monsters that slay them in the night?

Chapter Text

Ned

Jon looked so small curled up in his arms. Scarce more than a child, yet he had suffered through… something. He was cold, unbreathing, his heart still. Every part of the young man’s body was mired with scars. His mind too had received crippling wounds, injuries cruel enough to convince him he was evil. A monster. The only monsters are the ones who did this to you. And yet, Jon still survived, in some form or another.

When Ned was his age he was a carefree youth whose biggest concern was what mischief Robert would get them into. Only yesterday Jon had been that same innocent child, yet now he had evidently been through pain that few could imagine.

He held Jon tightly for the longest time, until at last he sensed that the boy was ready to talk. “You said that twelve of these killed you,” he began, trying to keep the worry and anger out of his voice, “What did you mean by that?”

Jon met his eyes for an instant before averting his gaze. He seemed hesitant in answering. “I have lived a dozen lives, and died a dozen deaths, and every time I die, I awaken here, on this day. But every time until now I returned to a living body unmarked by the death I lived.” Jon looked so young, so scared, yet so strong. “It is a long story, father, and I know not where to begin.”

Ned did his best to give a reassuring smile. “Start at the beginning, I’ll listen to whatever you have to say. I have nothing urgent to be done today.” That wasn’t strictly true, but he trusted Cat and Vayon Poole to deal with anything that may arise.

Jon gave a short laugh at that. “You have an execution this afternoon, then after that you must begin preparations for the King and his entourage.”

“King Robert is coming to Winterfell?”

“Aye.” Jon nodded. “Lord Arryn is dead, the King means to name you Hand, he rides for Winterfell already. You must say no.”

“And if I don’t?”

Jon scowled. “We die. War and betrayal and the cold claws of winter will take us all, father. In every life that I outlived you, you were executed for treason by the Lannisters following King Robert’s death. In my first life, the one I lived for the longest, house Stark was utterly destroyed only three years from now. Following your arrest, Robb called his banners and attacked the south. He was named King of the North and the Trident.” Jon gave a small smile at that. “Robb… he is a great battle commander, one of the finest military tacticians of the age, but he is not a good strategist. And a poor leader of men. He won battle after battle, but lost the support of his vassals. Theon broke faith first, followed by the Karstarks and Freys before finally the Boltons turned their cloaks.”

Ned found it odd, almost callous, to hear about the repeated destruction of everything they held dear spelled out in a tone of such dismal acceptance. They sat there for hours as Jon spoke of the feeble attempts at changing the future.

“In the end, what can a lone bastard do in the face of seven kingdoms?”

Ned knew not how to respond, save for pulling Jon closer to him.

“In my last life I gave up on trying to hold the kingdoms together and ran with Mance Rayder.” Jon said.

“The King-beyond-the-Wall? Where did you meet him?”

Jon laughed. “He’ll join us as part of the King’s entourage. I hoped that by capturing an Other I could convince the realm of the threat. It was a fool’s plan, if you can call it a plan at all. We were attacked not a handful of leagues north of the Wall. We did stood not a chance. But as I lay dying in the snow, waiting to be brought back in time,” It still felt odd to Ned even after hours of discussing it, hearing about deaths of the boy he loved so dearly, “The Other tried to raise my body. The conflicting magics of Ice and Forest did this to me.” Jon locked eyes with him, his irises a grey verging on black. But for a moment, as they caught the sunlight streaming through the window, the slightest hint of blue reflected in the boy’s eyes.

Eddard Stark looked at the young man he had raised for the past decade and a half and felt only pride.

“Don’t you ever tell me that you are a monster, Jon Snow. You are the bravest person I know.”

“Ned?” He hadn’t heard the door opening, neither of them had. He turned to see Cat standing in the corridor looking in. Her face was strained. “Robb told me you were in here. He said not to disturb you, but this is important. The Night’s Watch deserter has been found.”

He forced himself to give her a small smile. “Aye, I know, get Robb to ready the men, then make sure Bran is set to go, he is old enough now to bear witness.”

“Should I come too father?”

Ned paused for a moment before shaking his head. “You need to rest, you have been through a lot recently.”

“On your way back there are wolves, six of them.” Jon whispered with a glance towards the doorway. “One for each of us. Save them and they will protect us.”

He nodded before wishing Jon well and giving his hand a short squeeze, then he turned to leave the room. He caught up with Cat before they had left the hallway.

“The boy, he looked ill, pale as summer snow. Has Luwin been to see him?”

It took a moment for Ned to process the words. Cat rarely concerned herself with Jon, she never had. He supposed that that was mostly his fault. In the early years especially he had done his utmost to keep them separated. Was that a mistake? It was too late to think about now.

“Aye, it is serious. I’ll tell you about it when we return.”

“Do the children know? I presume that Robb is aware, he was not himself when I spoke to him earlier.”

“Arya found him, and Robb had to hold him down to be examined. Jon was quite insistent that he was fine.”

Cat looked at him with a worried look on her face. For all that she wanted Jon gone from Winterfell she did not actively wish harm on the boy that her children adored. She was about to ask another question, likely whether Jon would need maidservant to check in on him, when Ned interrupted her. “He needs rest, my love, we’ll speak on this when we return.”

They parted ways, him to prepare Bran for his first execution, her to oversee Robb readying the men.

Lord Eddard Stark re-entered the keep with six direwolf pups and the dreaded certainty that nothing would ever be the same again.

Chapter Text

Jon

Jon sat in silence for the longest time, the light breath of the wind gently wafting the heavy drapes. Some part of him knew that he should close the window, shut out the rest of the world, yet he could not muster the will to do so. He watched as the clouds drifted by, free and fleeting, unshackled by the frigid chains this brief and loveless world.

There had been times, scattered across the various lives he had lived, brief moments where the pain had been too much, and the struggle had overwhelmed him, where he had opened the way for the dark thoughts of despair. But never had he staggered this close to utter desolation. Not even in the dankest, driechest hour of imprisonment in the black cells, as first his arm and then his body had burnt with fever and the only smells that reached him where the fragrant scents of his own filth and festering flash had he truly given contemplation to the futility of his failures.

His body was contaminated with death, a brand of ice marked his belly. Every wound he had received in every lifetime lay bare across his chest. And in his head lay the mind of and Other. What dark thoughts could they muster upon him? When he had awoken that morning, he had felt the urge to seek, to find, to kill. It had off been fought that time, but how long could he withstand a potential assault. Jon had seen many battles across his lives, but one thing that was consistent across it all was the devastation left behind. The Blackwater ablaze, tattered tents abandoned in the pre-dawn muck after the battle of the camps, Winterfell burning during Theon’s raid. What damage could the Other inflict on his mind as they fought for supremacy?

The glaring sun had moved round far enough to stream into his room, and the beams burnt at his eyes. Jon forced himself up to pull the drapes together. He had never truly appreciated them before. They were old. Faded and motheaten, though they quality was such that once they must have hung somewhere important. They Lord’s solar mayhaps, or the private chambers of the Lady of Winterfell, or one of their trueborn children. There were roses sewn into the borders of the fabric, silver thread strong against the sun-bleached blue of the drapes. He was stuck for the first time by the extravagance that adorned his chamber. It was an old and well-worn opulence, but everything he owned held value, be it sentimental or material. Nothing he experienced in any of his lifetimes held a candle to the shining sun that was his quarters here. Not the Lord Commanders chamber at the Wall nor his room in the Tower of the Hand in King’s Landing had a fraction of the care that had gone into making this his home. Was I wrong, he found himself wondering, to take the Black that first lifetime? Had he really been forced out or was it the brash thinking of a young man’s wounded pride.

It was too late to ask that now, it had been for a decade now, and pain and regret were old friends now. All that Jon could do was face his new reality with a strength he feared he did not possess. He could not stay here. Here he was loved, protected, but at any moment the Other could return, could turn is body into a weapon, one that could tear his word asunder.

No, he would not let that happen.

“Neither would I.”

He jumped, looking around to figure out where the voice came from.

“I’m sorry, we got off to a bad start. I fear misunderstandings have sullied our perceptions of each other.”

As Jon realised the source of the voice, he tried to force the Other out, but the beast stubbornly refused to leave.

“I am no beast,” the voice claimed, “and neither are you.”

“What but a beast kills indiscriminately without thought nor remorse? What but a monster sends the cold corpses of the ones we love back to slay us? What but a craven hides in the icy shadows of winter as it’s minions fight it’s battles?”

“A person brought up on tales of the mindless beasts to the south that slaughtered their people and desolated their homelands. I cannot say what the Council truly believe about your peoples, but what they teach us is wrong. All my life I was led to believe you are evil, mindless animals who live only to burn at all things good and sacred. Seeing your thoughts and reading your memories expose the truth against their lies.”

“You Think Us Evil?” Jon asked in a fury. “You Who March South With The No Goal Other Than the Complete Destruction of All That Live In Westeros?”

“I did,” The Other sighed. “It was all I was taught of you, all any of us were. But we do not wish for your extinction, or at least I do not. This is a war of survival, the very life of my people is at stake. We will not survive another famine, nor a plague half as bad as the burning fever that struck last year, nor can we win a defensive war against your peoples. We push south not for malice but for fear.” Jon felt the urge to open the curtains and bask in warm light of the sun. “This castle is a testament to the ingenuity of  your people, a creativity I was taught you lacked. Since I was a child, barley able to walk I learnt of the monsters that hunt the day. My own family was slain by people advocating for your people. If I can prevent others from feeling that loss, I would do anything.”

He stepped back towards his bed, needing to sit and try to make sense of what the Other was telling him. No, this could not be, could it? The Others were evil, it was one of the few truths he yet held to, but what this-this thing was saying… No.

But…? He had sounded so genuine.

“I understand your mistrust, I don’t fully trust you myself.” The Other began “But we have here a chance to avert a conflict that would end in the destruction of one of our races. Surely that is not something you would pass up?”

He stalled, thinking it through. Had he not once believed that the Free Folk were evil too, rapists and bandits who lived only to kill greater, more civilised men? That was a falsehood, why could this not be one as well? Mance was trying to take his people south to ensure their survival, was it truly beyond the realms of possibility that the Others faced the same struggle?

The nervousness in is thoughts betrayed his doubt as Jon asked what was needed to avoid war.

“Food, primarily.” The Other responded. “Our lands are poor, too cold for grains to grow, too desolate for livestock to thrive. We live of sea food, but the catch is shrinking. Empty nets are more common than ever before, starvation and poverty are rife.”

Jon sat there, looking out the window, watching the murmuration of starlings circle the sky above. The vast flock moving this way and that was a reflection of his own thoughts, turbulent in the ever changing winds of his mind.

“I’ll need to think on it.” He was unsure as to why he even entertained the possibility of peace in his mind. The Others where evil, are evil. Surely this could only be a trap. But he needed the Other to at least think he was considering trusting them. “You know my name, but I do not know yours?” It was an olive branch, but one stripped of all fruit.

The Other seemed to give an almost jovial laugh. “My apologies Jon Snow, I am Fionnlagh Ailpein. It was good to make your acquaintance”

Jon could feel the Other, Fionnlagh, turning to leave his mind. “Before you go, I would ask you to await permission to enter my thoughts in the future.”

“As you wish.”

A lonely emptiness settled upon Jon after Fionnlagh left his mind, a calm that felt like a still lake on a starless night. A gulf devoid of hope, vacant of despair. He needed to move, to get up and get out, to talk someone, anyone. But instead he just sat there, watching the world drift by his window. What if he was not lying? It was a pointless question to ask. Of course the Other was not to be trusted, he was an Other, a harbinger of icy desolation. Even the south told some stories of the White Walkers of the Woods.

Jon drew his curtains shut, the deep blue drapes closing out the world as he fled into himself. All his fears and uncertainties battling for supremacy. He felt tired, so tired. Tired of trying, of failing. Tired the endless deaths and the never ceasing stream of losses. He had faced the world a dozen times, and after a dozen losses all that Jon could do was crawl into bed and weep, for Mance forced to face the Others. For Robb, and the war he had fought so many times. For father, whose head had been taken before his very eyes. For Gilly, trapped in Craster’s Keep with no chance of escape.

The sheer scope of his task seemed unsurmountable.

A soft knocking stirred him from his misery. Jon knew not how long he had been there, but he was suddenly acutely aware of his lack of hunger. He had not eaten since waking many hours prior, and by rights he should be starving.

The door knocked again, a soft rap, gentle but firm. Too disciplined to be Robb or Arya, too quiet for Rickon or Bran, too unsure to be a servant. Just as he opened his mouth to turn the intruder away, the door creaked open, and the last face he expected to see stood in the entrance. The piercing blue eyes of Lady Stark looked down at him with nervous worry. She stood there, unsure of what to do or what to say. An awkward silence lay thick over the room.

“My Lady, what can I do for you?”

Chapter Text

Catelyn

I have never seen him so worried, she thought to herself as she watched the retinue of men ride out for the Night’s Watch deserter. It would be the first time Bran saw a man beheaded, yet Catelyn knew this was not what had her husband in such an anxious mood.

Robb had been acting oddly too, she mused. He had tried to hide it from her, but her eldest son was an open book. So unlike his father, who’s face showed but the barest indication of the turbulent streams running below. But then, comparing anyone to Ned makes them look emotive. Every one but the boy. Only the bastard was better at hiding how he felt than Ned.

It was the boy who had them like this, of that she had no doubt. All that Ned had told her was that it was serious. Will it spread? Both Robb and Arya had been in the room, and Ned had been holding the boy when she entered.

“Don’t you ever tell me that you are a monster, Jon Snow.”

Why would Ned feel the need to reassure the boy of that? Of course he was no monster. A bastard yes, but not a monster. If Catelyn thought the boy a monster, then Arya would be locked in her chambers before allowed near him.

But Ned had been so earnest in reassurance.

Something had happened with the boy, something big.

Catelyn found herself in the Maester’s Tower, the stramash of books and plants and various vials strewn across the table as Luwin sat in the corner, a book of Northern Mythology in his hands. I did not knock, she admonished herself, that was not proper. “My apologies for the interruption, Maester Luwin.” He bowed his head in respect.

“What assistance my I offer, Lady Stark?”

“I understand that my Lord Husbands son is ill, is the ailment something to be concerned about? I have received no word of plague afflicting the realm?”

“In truth, my lady I cannot say. It is unlike anything I have ever seen or heard of in all my decades as a Maester, chained and sworn. It is not infectious, of that I am certain, but beyond that I cannot say.”

“Would Lord Stark not thank you to find a treatment rather than be reading Old Nan’s bed-time tales?” It came out ruder than she intended, a product of the stress that seeing her husband and eldest son in such a state of distress had placed her in. Luwin inclined his head. “Of course, my lady. I am doing all I can to figure out what ails Jon.”

“I thank you, Maester.” She responded, having repressed the urge to scoff.

She left the tower, walking into the cool morning sunlight. She made her way to the sept, where the girls would be attending needle work with the Septa. It was a small sept, nothing compared to that of her childhood home in Riverrun, but it held so much more meaning to her. Ned built this for me. For all that their marriage had gotten off to a poor start, she would always love him for that act of kindness. Just seeing it calmed her nerves.

She found the septa looking over Sansa, as well as Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel. Arya was nowhere to be seen. “She was foul, mother. She just ran out for no reason. Why can’t she be more like Jeyne, mother. Jeyne is a perfect lady. Arya is a wildling in a dress.”

“Hush now child, I wish to speak with septa Mordane. Would you be a good girl and supervise your friends while we’re gone?”

The septa told her how one moment the four girls were sitting doing their needle work, talking quietly amongst themselves, “Arya’s stitches were an affront to the Maiden herself.” she exclaimed, then Arya suddenly lept up in a rage and pulled Jeyne’s hair before fleeing the room. She had not been seen since. “I did send a guard to look for her, but they could not find her. No doubt she is with the bastard.”

Clouds were beginning to dot the sky as she walked across the central yard. She could hear the clashing steel of guardsmen training, and here and there a bird darted between the keeps, singing proudly into the midday breeze. As she passed the godswood she could hear the dull thwack of branch on tree, and she followed it to find her younger daughter angrily hitting an elm.

“It can stand there longer than you can, sweetling.” Catelyn said as she wrapped the young girl up in a hug. “Here, tell me what is wrong.”

“Nothing.” Arya cried into her shoulder. “It’s nothing that you would care about.”

Catelyn took a deep breath. “Is it your half-brother?” Arya always got angrier when the boy was referred to as bastard, and that was the last thing she wanted right now. “Maester Luwin told me that he is doing all he can to heal the boy.”

“You are praying he will die, aren’t you! What did he ever do to you? Why do you hate him? Maybe you will get your wish now! If you had seen him-” Arya had completely broken down into tears in her arms, and Catelyn could feel the weight of her daughters fears as they clung to each other. “Here now child, he will recover, Luwin believes he will, and I trust his judgement in these things.” She kissed Arya on the temple. “And I have Never wished death upon your half-brother, you and Robb love him too much for that.”

It wasn’t strictly true. There had been times, a few shameful occasions, where the boy had angered her enough for her passing fury to imagine a world without the bastard. Each time she had prayed to the Mother for days asking for forgiveness, but in her heart Catelyn knew it was not enough to redeem her sins.

“He is my brother, as much as Bran or Robb, even more so than the baby.”

At that she had to supress a grimace. Catelyn may have made peace with the boy’s existence, but she would never be happy with his place in her family. Bastards are traitorous by nature, remember the Blackfyres, the Redgrass Field.

“And you didn’t see him, he was… he was…” Arya squirmed out of her hold and fled into the darker parts of the wood, where even light dare not tread. She would not be found until she wanted to be, and that would not happen until Jon had recovered.

She glided through the keep, stuck in a cycle of her thoughts. Catelyn knew that Arya disapproved of her treatment to Jon, she had made her thoughts quite clear through the years, but she was shocked that Arya would even consider that she wanted the boy dead. Out of sight and far away from her, yes, but not dead. It would hurt her family too much to see him buried.

Catelyn found herself standing outside his chambers. She did not know how she had gotten there, but something made her knock. When she received no response after the second time she began to worry. Was he… Luwin had said it was not fatal, but what if he was wrong? She wanted to flee, to run. If she was the one to find him, would Arya think she had…

Before she could think further she pushed the door open, mildly surprised that it was not locked.

“My lady” he began, his voice was weak, but it held a confidence that she did not recognise. He was sat on his bed, blanket draped over his shoulders, back to the door, but his face was turned towards her. “What can I do for you?”

He was pale, that was her first thought. His skin a waxy yellow, his dark grey eyes sunken and lifeless. She could not meet his stare at first. For a moment she was taken twenty years back in time to the blood-red stone of Riverrun. It was a sunny day then, too. The Maester had barred her from seeing mother for days, so when she was finally allowed in Catelyn had assumed that mother was better. She had wept when the cold hand had reached out for her own, the one that had once been so graceful when embroidering now lacking the strength to even close around her own. She had fled then, and by the time she had regathered her courage, it was too late.

She wanted to run now, to find the secret nook in the old oak tree overhanging the tumbelstone and hide in there from the world. But the tree was gone now. Flooding had collaped the bank years ago. She was no longer a girl hiding from her dying mother, she was the Lady of Winterfell stood before her husband’s bastard. She could not afford to show weakness.

“My Lady?”

The was a hesitant concern in his tone that she did not expect. Worry directed towards her. Were it anyone else she may have been moved, but the bastard could owe her no pity. She would not allow it of him.

“My Lady, you are pale. Should I fetch the Maester?”

Catelyn shook her head, failing to find the words.

She could feel the cool grey eyes, so painfully reminiscent of her husbands wash over her. She forced herself to meet him eye-to-eye. Something twisted deep inside her when she realised that this was the first time in years that they had held each other’s gaze. There were subtle differences between his and Ned’s eyes that she had never allowed herself to see before. The boy had a coldness to him, Catelyn wondered if her children received the same look or if it was reserved only for her. His stare was that of a dead man, with only the hidden blue of hatred and love and passion and fear guiding him to life.

“I was told that you were ill, they would not tell me what afflicted you.”

The boy looked back towards the window and let out a sigh. “They do not know what ails me.”

“Do you?” She challenged.

He laughed. “In truth, I could not say if I know or not, my lady.” There was something not quite hopeless in the way he said her title.

She crept deeper into the room, every instinct telling her to leave. Something was wrong, he was sounded broken. Gone was his pride, his front of bravado that he only let down when he believed himself out of sight. If the boy had let his walls down for her, she could only guess at the scale of the event that had caused it.

“Did Arya get into a fight with you? Robb?” The bed creaked as she sat on it, her back turned away from him.

“No.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but he did not.

“You should drink something; it will do you good.”

He grunted something that might have passed as agreement. It only furthered her concern. That the boy would do that in front of her… something was very wrong.

She went over to the pitcher by the side of the room and poured out a horn of watered-down ale. “Here.” she said, holding out the drink.

He did not take it.

“Please, you are ill, weak from some unknown affliction. If not for yourself, stay alive for your half-siblings. They would miss you should you die.”

“But you would not.”

He said it with such calm detachment that Catelyn could not help but shudder. A cold draft rattled the windows as the clouds drew tighter. No, I wouldn’t miss you, but my children would. And for that reason I wish you to live. She did not know how to tell him that.

At her silence, he gave a bitter chuckle. “It’s too late, you have your wish.” He turned to face her now, his body outlined bold against the clouded light of the Northern summer. He was lined with deep gashes and half-healed holes. Clear evidence of corruptions cloaked his skin, while a great mark of a snowflake was branded on his stomach through some unholy torment. No blood flowed from his body, and Catelyn knew that it had already left. And empty shell stood before her, a husk touched by demons.

She turned and fled.

Echoing down the hallway she heard the bastard call out to her. “Is this not what you wanted?”

No, it isn’t.