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Nerd In the North 5-25
🕑 Added 2025-10-02 01:52:24 +0000 UTCCastle-forged steel came down, the blade of the Night's Watch wreathed in orange fire he'd pulled from somewhere deep in his gut. Simple steel it was, but it served well enough as the fire and force carved through rotted flesh gone frozen. The dead thing stumbled back, blue eyes flickering the way marsh-lights did before they died, and it collapsed into ash and brittle bone that the wind took.
Half-frozen sweat stung at his eyes, skin steaming from the touch of a wight; one struggling to grapple him from behind as he returned another one in front of him to the eternal cold of the grave. Said eyes darted back behind him, narrowed to slits, as Jon spat a word; a tongue he never learned yet understood the same way he did the dark speech of the others. “Vezofra!”
Flame leapt from the tip of his blade as he swung it out behind him, an arc the same shade as the setting sun biting into wight flesh and casting the creature into oblivion. For a second, Jon stared, the former Bastard of Winterfell catching his breath with eyes wide and panicked.
Purple, he knew they were purple now, a truth he tried not to think on but couldn't escape when he caught his reflection in ice or still water. How long? The thought scraped raw in his skull. How long have we been running?
Ghost's jaw opened wide, the sound silent, but the action violent.
Orange fire bloomed from wolf maw, the flames scorching and hungry, a storm of heat consuming three wights in a roar that had no sound but left a wake of force behind it that could be felt. Bodies, dry and cold like frozen tinder, went up in flame, whatever noises the dead could make swallowed by flame. White fur might have left Ghost near unseen in the never-ending snow, but it was the direwolf’s red eyes that made him stand out more than his size, animal gaze fierce and bright with power above man and beast.
A sharp ache pulsed in Jon's chest, hollow and pulling, the way it did when Ghost drew on the fire inside him. His own strength flagged, the power in him a candle guttering in the wind.
Necessary, though. Had to be.
Eight legs, crystalline spears of deathly cold, skittered across frozen ground with the dry, incessant clicking sound Jon had come to know.
And come to hate.
Ice spiders. The ungodly mount of his enemy.
And said enemy was present, an Other in all its inhumanity perched on spider-back in mockery of a knight, eyes cold as winter’s heart as it charged his way; lance of blue crystal aimed directly for him.
Directly for his chest.
Before thought could impede movement, Jon was already in motion across the ice, powder flaking his skin as he rolled across it. His arm swung up with a snarl across his lips, flame-wreathed steel sweeping up to meet the thrust.
Steam screamed where fire met ice, lance falling to the ground and a blue-skinned head parted from its neck followed after.
The back of the Giantsbane was as broad as it was distant, furs soaked dark with blood that steamed in the freezing air. The man may have had the strength of the giant and endurance to match as he roared and fought, crushing skulls and flesh alike, but Tormund was still a man.
And all men could bleed.
All men could die. Ygritte was his saving grace, the girl he took care of as his own beside him, dragging the big man away from the fight. Bow forgotten in her rush for escape, face a mask of fear and exhaustion that he’d never seen on her before, it was all she could do to manage the weight of the Giantsbane. "Move!" Her voice cracked thin against the howling wind in her face. "Keep moving!"
His hands ached where the knuckles had split and bled, skin raw and frozen even with the strength and speed that left trained knights gaping. The hilt was slick with sweat and gore mixed together, the metal beneath vibrating with fractures he could feel more than hear, a low keening hum. It won't hold. Not much longer.
Feet planted themselves in packed snow, the crunch of it loud under leather boots worn ragged with the travel of months in the harsh conditions of the True North. Another wave surged from swirling white; a dozen at the least appearing from the cover of the blizzard.
Old Gods save us. It was not that he could not fight them, no. Jon had fought many more their number and more than simple wights over the past six months of his travels. It was that he had been fighting so long with so little rest that the idea of going on any longer was its own battle by this point; one of the mind as much as the body. Yet the body was a battle yet to end as Jon stared back at the haunting blue lights set in the skulls of the dead advancing his way. Too many. Always too many.
Ghost flanked right, white shadow against white snow, barely visible. Flame erupted from his jaws again, liquid fire washing over the first rank. The direwolf stood tall as a pony now, maybe taller, muscles coiling with strength that had grown with every day of this cursed hunt. Fire caught four wights, their silent screams piercing the wind without sound, pure agony made visible. Another tug in Jon's gut, the fire inside ebbing the way a tide went out. Save it. Need to save the fire.
His chest soared with inner flame as he drew it back from Ghost and home to the source, steel in his grip blazing brighter and harder with the roar of a forge.
A wight in a tattered black cloak of the Night’s Watch lunged his way, rusty dagger in rotten hand. Jon's blade came around flat and fast, the wound going black and smoking as he removed the creature’s limb at the shoulder. A roar split his lips as John lanced out with the blade again and drove the point through its skull, the bones in his arm aching as steel parted skin and bone alike.
Every strike must count. The thought was iron and certainty both. To let them rise again...
Steam left his mouth in a cloud, frosting in the air between him and the next wave already surging forward through the snow.
Will be our end.
Two more Others circled on their monstrous mounts, ice spiders clicking across frozen ground with that same unnatural sound Eight legs each, crystalline spears of deathly cold moving with grace no living thing should have. Their armor shimmered in the pale light, presence making the air thick, hard to draw breath through. One raised a spear of winter made solid, the weapon gleaming with ice and malovelent magics.
The monster pointed the spear not at him, but at the retreating forms of the Giantsbane and Ygritte.
No. Jon’s breath came in ragged gasps that burned his throat, each exhale a cloud of steam the wind tore away before it could settle. His muscles burned past tired, past exhaustion, into something deeper; the kind of fatigue that felt like his bones were turning to powder from the inside. The strength that had carried him this far was fading, leaving him hollowed out and scraped clean.
There must be another way.
Movement flickered at the edge of sight, a wight lunging from his blind side. Broken fingernails raked across his cheek, burning trails that wept blood into frozen air. He spun, the motion a desperate wrench of his whole body, drove his blade through its skull. The force of the blow jarred up his arm into his shoulder, and he felt a sharp ping resonate through the steel.
Another crack. Spiderwebbing from the hilt.
It won't hold.
Ghost's roar echoed across the wasteland, pure fury and pain both. Jon's head snapped around to see the direwolf pinned, massive wight holding him down; a giant, skin grey and split the way old stone did. Ice-blue claws seeking his throat.
"Ghost!" The shout tore his throat raw. He abandoned his position without thought, left himself open as he sprinted toward his brother.
Jon burst forward, reaching him just as the giant's jaws snapped shut, missing Ghost's throat by less than a hair. Jon drove his sword point-first through the creature's spine, all his remaining weight and strength behind the thrust.
Ghost rolled free, panting heavy, deep gash weeping blood across his shoulder. White fur matted dark with it.
Not all of it was from their enemies.
They had been running for days now, through winding canyons of ice and across plains where nothing grew but frozen stone. Every path that should have led them to the wildling camps was blocked, choked with the dead. Forced to double back, find new ways through terrain that shouldn't exist. It felt less like flight and more like...
Like they know where we're going.
Like they were being herded.
Three nights past, huddled behind a rock outcropping that did nothing to blunt the wind, Tormund had pointed north with a bloody finger. "Mance's lot, just over yonder. We'll stumble on 'em by dawn; if the gods don't piss on us first."
But dawn had brought only more wights.
And three more Others, their silent laughter echoing in the hollows of the wind.
A night past, Ygritte had loosed her last arrow into the eye of a wight that had once been a child no more than eight namedays. "'Ow many o' these bloody things d'you reckon, then?"
Tormund had looked at her, face grim as the man rubbed his hands together. Knuckles raw from where he'd bashed wights apart with nothing but his fists and fury. "All of 'em," he said, voice low and scraped raw. "Every buggered corpse walkin' north o' the Wall, an' then some."
That same night they hadn't even bothered with a fire. Just huddled together for warmth, the three of them and Ghost; a small island in an ocean of encroaching death. Tormund had been binding a gash in his arm, strip of his own furs clenched in his mouth as he tied it off to keep the blood from flowing free. "Huntin' us, aye... the fuckers are," the man had growled the words out between harsh breaths, not even a hint of laughter anywhere in him.
"Ain't sport this time. They're sniffin' after summat proper."
Tormund and Ygritte were distant shapes now in the swirling snow, two small figures running for their lives while he held what remained of the line. Good. Let them reach safety, someone should. He was the one who'd brought them into this, his duty to see them out of it; an oath he'd made to himself if not to the Watch.
The Stark in him. The part his father had raised.
All he had left of Winterfell.
Spear thrust came from the Other that had targeted the wildlings, the one on the spider mount. Ice met his flame-wreathed blade in a shower of steam and sparks that hissed in the frozen air. His sword shuddered in his hand, metal screaming in protest; a high, thin sound that cut through the wind. Come on. Just a little longer.
The Other pressed its attack, movements as fluid as flowing water. Beautiful and terrible both, the way winter itself was. Blue eyes fixed on him with ancient, knowing malice that made his skin crawl even through the numbness.
They know.
Weapons locked, ice grinding against failing steel, as he pushed harder and harder.
Jon's strength held the creature at bay, the blade already failing under him.
A blur of white snapped in from the side; jaws wreathed in flame, Ghost furious and empowered with the fire Jon knew was his own. The Other distracted as its mount went down, thrashing beneath the massive form of a flame-mouthed direwolf, the boy seized the moment before thought could slow him, pushing everything he had left into a single thrust.
Steel punched through the creature's armor. For a second, Jon’s heart knew victory.
Then his ears told a different story, the sound of metal finally giving way reaching him as the blade broke clean in half in front of his eyes.
For a second, Jon stared at the broken hilt in his hand, purple eyes wide and panicked.
No.
The Other looked down at the wound in its chest, expression almost... curious on its sculpted face. Then it looked back at him. Its mouth, thin and cruel, curved in what might have been a smile.
Jon backpedaled, broken hilt forgotten as it fell from numb fingers into snow. The Other advanced with predatory patience, no longer hurrying now that its prey was disarmed. This is it. This is how I die. Weaponless in the snow.
Like a deserter should.
Fire bloomed in his hands, last dregs of his power. Flames danced between his fingers, liquid light against grey sky. But he'd used too much, given too much to Ghost. It wasn't enough.
Nowhere near enough.
The Other raised its ice spear for the killing blow. Jon met its gaze with defiant purple eyes, the eyes he'd been born with even if he'd only known them for half a year. If he was going to die, he would die a son of Winterfell.
On his feet.
"Come on then."
A burst of flame split the air the way thunder did as the direwolf's entire body erupted; burning with intensity that hurt to look at, light so bright it seared his eyes even through closed lids. Jon felt his own inner fire vanish completely, siphoned away in a rush that left him cold for the first time in months.
Ghost had taken all of it.
Every last ember.
The flame-wreathed direwolf crashed into the Other the way a firestorm struck earth, ancient ice meeting primal fire. The creature's scream was a sound that could shatter glass, high and thin, pure agony given voice. Both disappeared in a massive explosion of steam that knocked Jon off his feet.
Snow cushioned his fall, barely. Ribs aching where they hit frozen ground.
When the vapor cleared, Ghost stood alone. White fur singed and smoking, the final Other gone; nothing but scattered shards of ice and a dusting of frost where it had been.
But more were coming.
Always more.
Jon tried to rise, legs refusing to answer as exhaustion beat him down, the boy suddenly aware of how tired he truly was. Can't... can't move...
Ghost limped to his side, standing over him with a low growl rumbling in his chest. Protective still, even spent as he was.
Jon patted the direwolf’s muzzle. We fought well.
The boy of Winterfell waited.
Waited for the end.
For the approach of the enemies of man.
For the final feel of cold monstrous flesh tearing his apart.
But no, nothing of the sort happened.
As Jon looked back at them, the wights stopped.
Their advance halting as they stood in the snow.
Blue eyes flickered like flames in unison, heads turning to the distance as Ghost did the same, Jon blinking in confusion. Something that might have been uncertainty in their movements, if the dead could feel such things. What could make them halt?
A roar echoed across the wasteland, deep enough to shake his ribs even lying in the snow.
The wights began withdrawing; outright fleeing as if given new orders, no fear on their unliving faces, but a purposefulness to their movements all the same. In moments they'd melted back into the storm, blue lights winking out one by one.
Jon struggled to lift his head, all he could see now just swirling snow and Ghost's protective bulk watching over him. Whatever had scared off the dead remained hidden in the white.
Ghost nuzzled his shoulder, and Jon tried to stand.
Yet his muscles were far weaker than his will, body refusing him even as he pushed with all his might against exhaustion. Leave me. Save yourself.
But the direwolf had other ideas, powerful jaws closing on his cloak as he began dragging his master across the snow.
The direwolf pulled him off the main trail, into a narrow cleft between ice-covered rocks. The passage barely wide enough for his shoulders, stone scraping against his armor as Ghost hauled him through. Ice gave way to bare black stone, Jon’s eyes widening in shock as he realized his breath was no longer steaming in the air.
Impossible. The cold was gone, a confusing feeling as Jon barely even felt the chill at all since the dreams had begun. But it had been so long since… Warmth.
They emerged into a vast cavern, high ceiling lost in shadows above, that same blessed, impossible warmth deepening as feeling returned to flesh.
Jon collapsed against Ghost's side, white fur stained red with blood from wounds Jon couldn't remember taking. His last thought before consciousness fled: the cave smelled of something familiar, something from dreams he couldn't quite remember when waking.
Old. This place was old.
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
His eyes opened to complete darkness.
No pain. The wounds that should have been killing him were gone, healed so completely they might never have existed. What happened? He sat up slowly, muscles stiff but working. How long...?
Ghost's breathing beside him was deep and regular, the direwolf exhausted but alive. Spent from whatever he'd done to get them here.
Faint light drew his attention before he could question more. A gleam in the darkness ahead, something embedded in the floor. Metal catching light that shouldn't exist. What is that?
He crawled toward it, hands finding smooth stone that was still warm beneath his palms. Then something else. Metal, wire-wrapped hilt, worn leather underneath.
A sword.
Shuddering fingers traced the outline of the blade, purple eyes widening in recognition as the boy in Winterfell he once was knew this pattern the same as any young boy of noble blood in the Seven Kingdoms did. “Valyrian steel…”
Even if he had never heard of it, simply having seen Ice would have made it very clear to Jon what this was; from the distinctiveness of the ripple pattern even in faint light, down to the way it seemed to drink shadows. The legendary metal was driven deep into solid stone, placed there deliberately by someone long dead.
If that was simply it, this would already be a find for the ages, but no…
No, it was far more than just simple Valyrian steel.
The hilt itself bore dragons, Jon’s eyes widening even further as he took them in: three heads breathing flame, small rubies for eyes that seemed to watch him.
Dark Sister.
This was Dark Sister, Visenya Targaryen's sword, lost for generations. Maester Luwin had taught him the histories of the great blades. How did it get here? His thoughts scraped against the question. Who put it here?
The steel gleamed with its own inner light, calling to him the way his dreams did. His hand moved toward the grip without conscious thought, drawn by something he didn't understand but couldn't resist.
The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, warmth spread up his arm. Liquid fire in his veins, nearly the same as that he had grown used to drawing on for power. The blade slid free of the stone as if it were freeing itself from silk, light as a feather in his grip.
Yet as he lifted the sword, something behind him exhaled.
Massive breath from lungs larger than anything he'd ever heard, filling the cavern with the sound. Whatever had made it took up most of the space, Jon having somehow missed it in the darkness.
He turned slowly, afraid of what he would see. The blade half-raised, though what good steel would do against something that size...
The cave wall rippled, what he'd thought was simple stone moving. Breathing.
Not stone at all.
Scales. Massive black scales, each one larger than a man's shield, catching faint light and throwing it back.
A single eye, as large as he was, opened in the darkness.
Comments
Poops
Is that the one eyed Raven? A targayen actually did somthing right?
Taye
Z just casually bullying us. Ends the last chapter on a major cliffhanger only to give us a Jon chapter instead of finding out what’s up with Greg after he jumped out of a window with Sansa and Myrcella.
