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The man who passes the sentence
That dawn Jon and Robb should never have heard what came next.
___
Decades had passed since the Night's Watch had taken upon itself the duty of protecting the realms of the First Men from the evils beyond the wall.
They saw the kingdom of the First Men fall.
They were present before the arrival of the Andalusians and their conquests.
They bowed before the new kings, but they never abandoned their vows at the door.
They heard their roars as they murdered each other hundreds of times.
And they prevailed even in the face of the heart-rending fall and shriek of these same people.
But they never abandoned their posts.
The Night's Watch was the ultimate symbol of honor and discipline before the kingdoms of the First Men, a series of castles and fortresses thousands of years old, created to stop the invaders who threatened the health and prosperity of the 7 kingdoms and... And... That was all that Jon and Robb had been told, but... it was not as they expected.
It had been a childhood whim of the two brothers, hidden in a shipment of sweet spices. This sugary delicacy began to be conceived in the blackwater swamps and became a rather pleasing luxury among the common people and nobles of the north, and not long after, throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
House Reed had grown rich on the strange delicacy, thanks to the help of a silent woman who walked barefoot through the swamps on cold nights in Reed's lands. No one had seen her full face, no one dared try to stop the woman, except Lord Reed himself, who had offered the woman asylum with bread and salt.
The woman, by showing her face only to chew and accept the little man's hospitality, sprinkling salt on the bread and chewing it, had captivated the hearts of most of the marshmen. If she had been a noblewoman, it would have been logical for a foreign beauty to be in noble lands, but… so much so that the woman had accepted the hospitality and stolen the hearts of the men and some of the marsh women.
She had disappeared from her chambers the day after the invitation, leaving a thank-you note. Next to it, one of the refined sweets lay on the ironwood desk, and just a few inches further, the magnificent recipe for the sweet treats. Lord Reed, upon tasting them, decided to try to replicate them in a way that would taste just like them, hence their striking name, "The Maiden's Passing."
Such was its success that the treat turned to dust in the northern markets, and as House Reed grew richer, so did the north. The Night's Watch had received a shipment of these sweets sent along with a few marsh men-at-arms who had come to swear loyalty to the watch; some lesser nobles from the marsh houses had joined the watch, but before all of this, these shipments had passed through Winterfell, where the little four-year-old foot soldiers were experiencing what in the sweet lands of Yi Ti were called sugary hobbies.
Every slip-up meant a thousand lost sweets, and when the little culprits were found, neither Lord Stark nor Lady Catelyn herself had the heart to scold or punish the two whimpering infants. Lady Stark might have punished the bastard, but with her husband, she let it slide. But that didn't stop them from being locked away, with all due attention, obviously. It didn't matter if they were children, they deserved punishment for being so adorable and using puppy dog eyes to avoid their just deserts.
Later, Benjen Stark came to greet his sweet-natured nephews and, of course, to meet the little one-year-old baby, Sansa Stark.
Robb had always wanted to see the wall, but Ned was stubborn. It wasn't out of contempt, but because he simply didn't want his son to lose faith in his dreams. He was still too young to understand; they had barely begun to use the sword, and his extremely careful lessons with Maester Luwin had initiated all three of them.
The night watch was no longer what it had been; the wall was in decay.
On the other hand, for obvious reasons, the bastard threw a tantrum when Lady Stark forbade him to meet his sister, and in the end Lord Stark had to be present, even to the displeasure of Lady Stark, who had to grit her teeth as she watched her eldest son and her bastard husband take turns carrying and playing with little Sansa, who giggled happily at the touch of her siblings.
Lady Stark gave her husband the silent treatment for three months, but that was a story for another day.
While Lord Benjen was taking the almost non-existent recruits for the wall, orphans without parents, or old elders from the cold north, the two children again had problems with their sugary addictions, and when the bravest and oldest of the two, Robb, was playing in the barrels and cargo that the wagon had as an adventure, they both found large barrels, full of their cheerful, orange treats, like two curious puppies each one sank into the buckets, and began to devour sweets, until after a war without quarter, and with almost a third of the barrels completely devoured, both children felt tired, so much sugar must have filled them with energy... but... simply... those sweets had not been created to give strength... but to calm them.
Days later, both brothers, who had had the best dreams of their lives, woke up at dawn on the third day, and their little heads popped out of the barrels just as a burly man in a black suit opened it and screamed as he saw a little boy poke his head out of the much-talked-about candy. "To all seven!" the burly man shouted as he backed away, screaming.
Jon rubbed his eyes; he still wanted to sleep a little longer. "It's dinner time... Maron..." "Where are you?" the little boy asked, half-drowsy. "Robb, where's Maron?"
"Your imaginary friend must be asleep, Jon. Let her sleep." Robb yawned softly as the burly man lifted him out of the barrel and then carefully set him down. "Thank you," he cheerfully extended his hand. "I'm Robb Stark."
.
-Shit.
That was all the burly man said as he pulled Jon out of his own barrel, before taking a sweet and eating it.
"Come on, little ones, I'll take you to Benjen and then we'll see what to do with you," he said, carefully grabbing both children by the shoulders and guiding them out as quickly as possible.
As they were led through the warehouse aisles and out the door, they heard the voice of the aforementioned man.
—I, Benjen Stark.
The ritual had begun when the two children arrived; they found the man standing before another man, chained, kneeling, surrounded by other men in black clothing, armor, and leather suits with dark accents.
"Renger and Protector of the Night's Watch, sworn brother of the Order, and brother to the Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark," Benjen dictated, his sword held close to his chest, his eyes closed in prayer. "In the name of Robert, of House Baratheon, first of all named, King of the Rhoynar, Andals, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven of the Seven Kingdoms, I, Benjen Stark, of House Stark, and sworn member of the Night's Watch… I condemn you to die."
He concluded his speech and sighed, then raised the long sword made of steel.
The man who passes sentence must wield the sword, he told himself.
Gritting his teeth, he dropped the gun.
The sword fell, the head fell with a dull sound, cleaving the deserter's neck perfectly and staining the faces of both children who had approached, themselves stained by a hot jet of fresh blood from the headless corpse.
Those kids should never have been a part of that.
.
.
"Double shit," the burly man said, wiping the blood from his face, unwittingly attracting the attention of everyone present.
Both children remained standing, paralyzed with their faces covered in blood, staring at the pierced head.
"...No," the Renger muttered in denial, dropping the weapon and then striding through the snow toward his nephews. "Children, close your eyes," the Renger ordered, but it was too late.
He had cut a piece of innocence from both of them in one fell swoop.
Soon the younger boy's eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell backward. For a child who had never known death, this shouldn't have meant anything; it would have been a shock, and he'd only be confused by the trauma… But for Jon… this was his third death.
____
By nightfall, the Night's Watch had entered into conflict. On one hand, it began with the displeasure that such young children had had to witness the deserter's indictment or death. Some of them had seen death even at two or one years old, but most of them had been in times of war; it hadn't exactly been the best start for the bastard and future Northguard.
Benjen had thought that Ned had entrusted them to him, because how was it possible that his brother could lose one, no, both.
Then the fight over the sweets began; they had no idea how the two of them had devoured almost half a barrel of sweets between the two of them, and yes, as Benjen had mentioned, they'd been there since Winterfell, sleeping in the barrels for almost two or three days after filling their little tummies with sugar.
"This isn't a nursery," the Weapons Master said with disgust. "They've eaten a huge amount of the sweets Read sent us that we could have used as famine rations," the man accused Benjen.
"I know, I'll send letters to Ned, have them brought back quickly, and Lord Reed will send a new shipment," he soothed.
—Well, that will do for there…
A thunderous shout interrupted his reply.
"We're under attack!" There was a shout from the lower floors. "Sound the alarm!"
Both men instinctively stood up and grabbed their weapons, quickly leaving with most of the guard present, moving away from the rooms at a quick pace.
No one noticed how two green eyes shone silently, hidden behind the windows.
A small, mocking laugh echoed through the halls.
"Ha, thanks for the information, Kneelers," a young girl mocked as she opened the window and hopped into the castle. She then took soft, silent steps toward the chambers, smiling happily when she found a neat bed with two wolf pups, two cute children of the Kneeler guard. Osha smiled and gently lifted them both, trying not to wake them. "You'll be our chance at a better life," the girl said, hugging both children, who were sleeping after the trauma and the effects of the marsh candy star.
With that, she turned her body and walked to the opposite door through which Thorne and Benjen had run, and left, just as she had come; she took the two children without mercy.
____
The black castle was burning.
"Close the gates, don't let them in," Mormort roared, fighting off three savages who had all snuck up on him at the same time. When one charged, he raised his massive leg and kicked it in the chest, knocking it back; then he grabbed the hand of the one who lunged at him and threw it through the second floor. The last one, a spear-wife, trembled as she watched her people die at the hands of the enormous bear. "What happened, little one? Did the bear get your tongue?" the bear sneered in disgust.
Before he could continue, the door slammed shut and Mormort whipped around; the ten men clutching the door were flung to the winds as a giant burst through the main gate of Castle Black, followed by the roars of scores of wildlings running amok all around.
Then a crunching sound sounded from behind him, and before Mormont realized it, an arrow was nearly piercing his throat, caught in Ser Alliser's armored arm, which seized and crushed it. "Be more careful, damn it!" he roared, striding toward the wildling, who tried to raise his bow again, but was ripped open in the stomach as Thorne sliced through him with a firm blow.
An arrow whizzed past Mormont, killing the man he had kicked, only for Lance's wife to run for her life.
"How the hell did so many of them get here, even a fucking giant?" Yoren roared, running another savage through the back, then pulling out a dagger and impaling a spear-wife in the air that tried to attack him from behind, who trembled in fear as the life drained from her eyes. Yoren gritted his teeth.
No, it didn't feel right in the least to kill a young girl who looked no older than 16. "Sorry, kiddo." Yoren pulled out the blade and buried him again; when he knew the boy had stopped moving, he swung it hard at another savage running up behind him. Then he grabbed the recently deceased girl's spear and impaled them both.
"Ahh!" Benjen Stark launched himself from the second floor with a war roar and crashed through the giant's rear, sticking to the back of its neck, his sword firmly embedded like a parasite. The enormous creature shrieked in pain and tried to grab him, but Benjen thrashed wildly, swinging the giant sword, burying it deeper and slowly tearing everything inside, until, after a titanic struggle, the giant stopped moving and fell to his knees. Benjen leaped quickly and missed the giant's falling body.
The wildlings, seeing their greatest trump card fall, began to retreat and flee again. It was slow… but Ser Alliser saw time slowly, a young woman with two small, adorable mounds of flesh on her shoulders, which shook sleepily; her eyes filled with horror.
"He has the children!" he pointed out, running toward the door and cutting down every wildling he saw, trying to get at Lord Stark's infantry.
"Shit, we're leaving, Osha," roared one of the wild redheads upon being discovered.
The other guards saw the savage called Osha taking both infants and, instead of resting, they tried to reach the gate, fighting like animals and destroying the already disorganized invading forces, but for every step they took, Osha retreated five, and when they finally reached the gate, with dozens of dead savages, there was no trace of the children, nor of the savage.
—No… —Benjen Stark, the first giant killer in over 100 years, fell to his knees in front of her, on her watch… His nephews were assaulted. —No! —He got up and ran like crazy towards the door exit; his nephews were in danger. When he finally reached the exit, he grabbed an edge ready to turn and begin a relentless hunt, but he was stopped by three guards who held him in position. —Get out, dammit! They took them, out, they're mine, my nephews, give them back to me!
"Calm down, Stark," Mormont said.
, trying to grab the angry man with all his strength; such enormous strength made no sense. "They'll be fine; it was obvious they were the targets," Mormont explained quickly.
The angry wolf was paralyzed.
"What?" Benjen looked at him in horror.
—They knew where they were, they knew when the rooms were least protected, hell, they even managed to sneak a giant in who knows where; it was clear they risked a lot to take them.
The men had gathered, the few that remained; the attack had been so swift and strong, so silent, and the numbers so uneven that the order had suffered enormous casualties.
Mormot sighed sadly; Donal Noye's body was lying mockingly in front of him. The man mocked with a small laugh. "My watch is over... hehe."
And then his eyes closed and his head fell limp.
"Casualty count," he ordered, snapping his head around to Qhorin Halfhand.
"One of us for every five of them," he said, while, on one knee, he closed the eyes of one of the deceased.
-Numbers.
"Hmm… I think about 36; the attack was massive. I'm worried it wasn't just here…" He murmured softly, still watching the flames of the fortress slowly being extinguished by the snow.
Mormort gritted his teeth and roared orders.
—Send letters to Shadowkeep and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea Castle; we must know if they are alive, and prepare all available horses… We must recover them before…
Thwack!
"Fuck!" the old bear roared in pain as an arrow pierced his stomach. The arrow was so precise that it pierced the man's skin and flesh. Not far away, a savage survivor on the second floor grabbed a bow and arrow from the warehouse that had also been raided and looted.
Before the savage could fire again, a sword pierced his body, and he fell to his knees, then dead; a recruit had quickly attacked him from behind, then gone back inside, continuing the hunt for the infiltrators.
It would be a long night.
Siblings
"Let me go!" roared little Robb, kicking, as Osha held him tight.
The children were carried while a good number of wildlings trotted away from the black castle, getting closer and closer to their goal, the fissure.
"Can you handle them, girl?" asked the huge man with a red beard.
"I'll be fine. They're quite adorable," she said gently as Robb kicked his feet. The youngest, Jon, was still peacefully asleep. "And this little one hasn't moved much. He's not like this other ruffian," the wildling mocked, trotting over with both children in her arms.
"We have ravens two minutes away; the Shadow Tower folks probably haven't had any better luck than we have," shouted a young man riding a giant Huergo wolf.
"I keep wondering where you skinwalkers get those things from," the redhead asked, trying to keep up.
"Huergo things, Tormund," the young man said as the Huergo wolf trotted on, not leaving anyone in the group behind. "My niece has a pet mammoth."
The savages continued running through the forest; just as the skin-changer had said, the roars and neighs of stallions could be heard in the distance.
"We're almost there," he murmured, increasing his pace.
"We're staying, Tormund. We won't make it with the bodies at our heels," the fire said calmly. "Go to the fissure and take..."
Jon… they want to take us… They want to steal us… They want to take Robb…
It was in a completely slow motion that Huergo stopped explaining and opened his lips in horror, trying to notice something. "Osha!"
Jon… Jon… we're hungry.
Osha screamed as she felt something bury itself deep inside her stomach. The bastard had suddenly woken up and buried his jaws directly into the wildling's body. Osha tried to quickly pull it away, but it only took that time and her moans of pain to allow the Shadow Tower guards to arrive and attack.
The first to arrive was the leader of the guard at Shadowkeep, Qhorin, who had been the first to take the reins of a steed and run, leaving the guard at Castle Black to regroup, only to have the good fortune to join up with the men at Shadowkeep, who were far from happy after the assault on their castle.
"Finish them off," the man roared, raising his sword and bringing it down, unleashing several groups of scouts and several Rengers from the Night's Watch. "Recover the children at all costs."
The all-out battle began like hell; at first, the undisciplined savages were crushed mercilessly, without good weapons and without talent for war; only the strongest savages could do anything.
Kager Mors, from a vassal house of knights, kicked the red-haired man to the ground, raised his sword to slay the giant slayer, but was immediately attacked by a monstrosity.
"AHHHH, take it away from me, shit!!!" he begged as the giant Huergo wolf devoured him alive in a matter of seconds. He tried to stab the beast in the throat with a dagger, but his head was bitten off and spat out by the Huergo.
"Tormund, we must go. We have no chance in numbers or weapons. Get the children out of here. If we manage to get them beyond the wall, Stark will be forced to parley, now." He shouted, shaking his hand, and the giant wolf launched itself at another member of the Night's Watch, tearing him apart as well within seconds.
Giant Killer didn't have time to reply, he didn't look for him, he grabbed Osha, who was still writhing on the ground, while the smaller boy bit the raw flesh of his left stomach.
"God, I don't want him to be a fucking man, and if he was sucking, he'd do it like a pro!" he yelled as he finally tore himself away from Jon. Tormurd was swift and precise, slamming a club into the infant's head and knocking him out. He tried to grab the firstborn, who had been knocked unconscious by Osha's blow, but couldn't as the half-handed ranger fell on top of him like an arrow and went into a defensive position, pulling the sleeping child behind him and pulling the firstborn away from Tormurd.
—Kard! Get these bitches away from us!
He had no other choice and lifted Osha and the bastard, taking them both while Kard, the Huergo wolf's skinchanger, stayed behind fighting with fewer and fewer savages at his command against the ravens.
He moved like a beast, lashing out with a spear and piercing every man on guard, but his men were falling in a tailspin; the nearly one hundred savages fleeing with him were slaughtered, but he and his beast held on for minutes.
Until the position became simply untenable and he vomited from sheer exhaustion.
Later… only he remained against almost 62 crows, 7 rengers and a half-handed legendary scout.
"Go, Hima. You've done well, my child." The young man hugged the Orphan Wolf and pulled out a dagger as his eyes rolled back in his head. Soon, the Orphan Wolf fled quickly, controlled by his half, whining as he followed his family's orders.
The savage then dodged swords and arrows like the knights of legend, stabbing every fool who came close enough. Only to have his life ended simply by an arrow to the throat.
—A… god… god… Hima
He uttered his last words before falling dead, drowning in his own blood.
The fissure
Tormund ran with Osha leaning against his side, holding her as if he could keep her from collapsing in his arms. Blood stained her hip, hot and thick. The bite wound was deep.
"Gods," Osha spat through gritted teeth. "Damn, he'll be a total bastard in bed when he grows up."
"Stop talking that shit," Tormund snarled. "You barely had first blood, damn it."
"Am I bleeding too much?" she gasped, her voice breaking.
"Not really, not really," the huge man lied, trying to keep her standing while he carried Jon in his other hand.
"How much, Tormund?" he said with difficulty.
"Do you remember when a wraith ripped open Bren's stomach?" "Something like that," he replied, without looking back.
"Fuck you," she managed to say, with a moan of pain.
The child in her arms, his face stained with dirt, cried silently, his eyes staring into space. But inside that broken little head, something throbbed, something murmured, something curled.
"Jon.…"
"Soon we'll race to the front. We'll have a chance... one where we won't be outdone, where that sun-blessed woman won't look down on us like trash. One where we'll never be last..."
"One where we are more than ourselves. More than you."
"Jon".
"Jon".
"Wake up".
"And run."
...
The fissure was close. An ancient crack that had appeared out of nowhere in the wall, dark and vertical between the icy cliffs. No one knew who had created it, but some elders spoke of giants who walked the mountains and disappeared there. Mance had been the first to mark it as a royal road. The raven who turned wild. The traitor who became a symbol.
When the wights began to march, when whole villages were devoured in the night and children vanished, Mance watched. He noticed that the walkers didn't cross beyond a certain line. They grew weak. They fell apart. Or they turned back.
And then there were the roarers; they looked just like them, only somewhat frozen. They killed everything, both themselves, both giants, and both wraiths; they roared like madmen and ran like wolves. Someone had called them werewolves.
They had come to screw and to stay, but that was the only advantage they had; they attacked anything, they multiplied as they wished, and like them, these things hated walkers, so, friend or foe... these things distracted them.
And then there was the rift, the only entrance to the safe land of the kneeling, a wraith, a huge one, with blue skin and a spear; it had followed them, tried to enter, and exploded with a shriek. Every day they had to get closer to the wall. It would take years before they could be seen anywhere near it, and the resources were still vast… by the modest standards of the free folk.
That was the way out, the crack.
And there they were. A handful of survivors. Tormund Giantsbane. Osha, bleeding and cursing. And a boy who didn't yet understand the world... but could already hear it murmuring from within.
The wind whipped Tormund's face hard. The air thickened as he crossed the rift. A new world. A new north.
"Hold on, you crazy goat!" he shouted, pushing his way through the stone and frost.
And beyond the fissure, in the shadow of a sleeping mountain, a new story began.
One where Jon Snow should never have existed.
And yet, there it was.
.
.
It was so fucked up that right after they escaped, after almost an hour of running, the bastard escaped from them, running faster than them, like… no one ever knew.
Three sunrises later
The child had crawled back.
Not long ago, the Night's Watch had discovered another great secret:
Taking the sword away from the bastard was almost suicidal.
A unanimous opinion.
The child, barely fed, covered with blankets and half asleep, transformed into a beast as Ser Alliser touched the weapon.
Thorne had done it carefully, almost like someone stroking a wounded dog. But as soon as his fingers approached the edge, Jon's teeth sank like daggers into the back of his leather glove.
The guards laughed. A tantrum, they said. But the laughter died away at Alliser's second roar.
The glove was bleeding. Not from a scratch, but from the boy's teeth breaking through the skin.
Alliser wasn't screaming out of fear. Nor out of rage. He was screaming because he didn't want to kill him.
The child did not share that courtesy.
Four men tried to separate them. Benjen Stark was the first to react, yanking the boy hard. Two more held his head, trying to force his jaw open. Another poked him in the stomach with a finger, trying to make him gasp.
And a fifth, the most idiotic of all… tried to snatch the sword from him.
"Put down the damn sword and help me!" Ser Alliser roared desperately. "Fuck me, he'll take my hand off!"
One last tug. One scream.
The back of his hand was raw, and a piece of leather… and flesh still hung from the boy's mouth.
"She's mine! I won't give it to her!" Jon shrieked, kicking like a beast, turning to bite the next guard who dared to come near.
The chaos ended when Benjen, panting and covered in scratches, carried him down one of the hallways.
Hours later, in the infirmary, the discussion continued.
"What the hell does the old wolf give them, to make them bite like that?" Thorne snapped as the healer stitched his hide. "Those teeth... they're almost as sharp as a wolf's."
No one responded.
Only one veteran, shrugging his shoulders, muttered:
—Sometimes they are born that way.
"Well, fuck me, those teeth are almost touching the bone. It's a miracle I can still move my hand even when I hit a nerve," the healer grunted as he hurriedly bandaged it.
"What the hell is a nerve?" one of the rookies asked.
"Northern stuff, kid." "Nothing we Southerners understand," Yoren said, shrugging indifferently.
"And what will we do with the boy?" "We can't let him keep the sword," Bowen Marsh intervened.
"I dare you to take it from him." "Perhaps he's still hungry," Qhorin Halfhand mocked.
"It's not like he's as stupid as that cloak-changeling Rayder. He probably saw some savage's tits and went off with her," another one snapped.
Silence fell like a slab.
A taboo had been named.
"Excuse me… it's a habit," Bowen excused himself.
"Don't worry, ser," a soft voice answered from the doorway.
Maester Aemon.
—The boy was brought in under... complicated circumstances. Something like this was inevitable. He... simply returned to his people.
He turned his gaze to Alliser and smiled wryly.
—I'm glad to see you alive, Mr. Thorne. I heard you were attacked by an angry beast.
Thorne just snorted, rolling his eyes.
At that moment, Benjen Stark burst into the room and threw the sword onto the table. The Valyrian steel clanged like thunder on stone.
"How did you get it off?" Lord Mormont asked.
"He fell asleep," Benjen replied tersely.
"Lucky bastard." "He nearly took the back of my fucking hand off," Thorne replied, holding up the bloody bandage.
"Fuck, Thorne!" the healer exclaimed. "You just reopened the wound!"
"Back to the point!" Qhorin interrupted, his voice firm. "What do we do with the weapon?"
—… Did he really give it to her that easily? —Yoren asked, suspiciously.
"Ned's going to kill me," Benjen muttered.
—I don't think so. You're his brother, after all.
—If you gave your two children to your brother… and he almost let one die and lost the other… How would you treat him?
Silence.
"Good point," Yoren agreed. "Well, Stark… it's your funeral."
After a moment, no one continued.
Yoren stared at the sword on the table, its dark edge barely reflecting the candlelight.
—The thing about kids is you never know if they're just playing… or if they've gotten tired of the game, he said into thin air, as if he wasn't expecting a reply.
Qhorin chuckled softly, but no one else shared it. The atmosphere remained thick. Alliser muttered something and turned away, still pale, as the healer continued to press bandages against his hand. Mormont watched silently, thinking more than he spoke.
Benjen, without sitting down, took a piece of stale bread and broke it with his fingers.
"There's something about that kid I don't understand. It's not just trauma or anger. He shouldn't have survived out there," she said as she sat down in a chair.
"Nor bring that with him," Mormont added, looking at the sheet.
"He's your nephew Stark; after all, he is like Lord Stark. The gods have brought your nephew back to you, that's the point," the maester said softly.
Yoren narrowed his eyes.
—The boy kept singing in his sleep, you know? I don't know those lyrics or songs in the least, nobody does… in languages the north wind shouldn't hear.
"Are you saying it's haunted?" Bowen Marsh said skeptically.
"I'm saying something dragged him back to the wall. The boy may be from the North… but he's only four, so maybe it's not the back of the hand he's biting… But something even worse," Yoren said, pressing on his throat, then crossing over. "And they won't know they're dead until they stop breathing."
The conversation died with that.
In the cold corridors of Castle Black, a small figure crept through the shadows.
Jon wasn't really sleeping.
I was dreaming.
The sword lay beside him, wrapped in rags, like a sleeping baby. Sometimes he held it without noticing. Sometimes the blade shuddered… as if responding to its warmth.
Benjen had brought her back after the argument; some feared that if he despaired and didn't see her, they would be the next victims like Thorne.
The veins beneath his skin throbbed in new patterns. It didn't hurt. Not anymore.
But every time he opened his eyes, the world seemed a little... slower. Hollower. Quieter. As if something were looking at him through his own eyes.
"Maron..." He whispered, gritting his teeth. The words came out, even though he didn't know what they meant. As if someone else had put them on his tongue.
From a half-open door, Robb Stark watched his half-brother. He was, like his brother, only four years old, but he understood that there was something broken in Jon… something that hadn't been fixed with bread, blankets, or kind words.
Robb didn't fear him; his brother would never harm him, but he didn't dare go inside.
"You don't have the right to die... bastard..." He whispered from the safety of the door. "You... can't leave me alone."
And then, even more quietly:
—Don't go, Jon.
The boy closed the door carefully, quietly, as if by doing so he would prevent something inside from hearing him.
And within this… the worms retreated, again… an innocent consolation made the strain retreat… made it evolve, more… and more… enough.
So she would leave and he would come back.
The horse snorted as they rounded the final bend that would take them to the Wall. The procession was small: just a few men, a maester, and a stony-faced lord.
Eddard Stark hadn't spoken in hours.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the letter.
"Jon is safe."
And then the same words repeated themselves in his head: "Promise me, Ned."
That's what he said.
Nothing else.
Neither how. Nor why it took them three days to report it. Nor why Robb was also in danger.
"Jon is safe."
It was all I needed to know. And yet, it wasn't enough.
—Damn you, Benjen… —He whispered.
The north wind did not respond.
But something, up there on the Wall, was already waiting for him.
And he had the eyes of the man I must not name.
Soon the man and his followers stopped in front of the imposing castle that protected the kingdom of men.
"Dad!" A cry came from the youngest of the group as he ran toward Ned.
Lord Stark quickly dismounted the stallion and dropped to one knee; then he picked up his firstborn and hugged him tightly.
—God… Robb, you're okay… You don't know how happy I am. —She hugged her son tightly while kissing his forehead.
As the father comforted his son, the latter did not let his guard down in the slightest, and while he was still comforting his son, his cold, cutting voice sang, "Where is Jon?"
It was the only order from the northern guard.
....
...…..
...….
.....
...
...
…..
…
..
.
.
.
.
—Jon. Jon. Snow… Wake up. They want to rob us. It's not fair… Teach them… teach them…
Bite.
Bite.
Bite…
Save us. Save us. Save us. Save us.
Free us.
The corneas popped open with a sickening, wet sound. Tiny black parasites crawled across his eyes, dark veins lining the whites. But Jon didn't scream. He didn't squirm. He just went with the flow.
Mom was with him. She was here.
Post-credits
283 AD
The evening was soft in Winterfell.
The sun's rays streamed through the tall windows, barely warming the room's stone floor. The maids had left the baby alone for a moment, having watched him asleep in his woven blanket. But Jon wasn't asleep anymore. No. He was crawling.
First on the rug. Then, beyond the wolf blanket. And later, staggering like any stubborn child, toward the dimmer areas of the room.
Her tiny hand touched the edge of a stone on the ground… then the other. She dragged her tiny body with effort and curiosity, her lips half-open and drool dripping from her mouth. She babbled meaningless words.
—Duh... gah... —He whispered, pointing at something.
There was something in the corner of the room. A small, almost imperceptible crack where the concrete separated from the rotten wood that had once been part of a beam. And from that crack…something was growing.
A flower.
Small, pale, almost ghostly. Its petals were a grayish white, but its veins pulsed with a faint pink glow, as if breathing to the rhythm of the world. It shouldn't be there. No flower can grow under stone, in the middle of winter, between cracks where the sun doesn't shine.
But there it was.
And Jon saw her.
He approached as only babies do: staggering, hands on the floor, dragging his diaper, snorting with exertion. He stopped right in front of her.
The flower trembled.
As if I could see it too.
"Ahhh…" Jon said, stretching out his trembling fingers.
His barely formed nails lightly scraped the petals. The flower opened. A microscopic cloud of spores was silently released. Jon smiled. And put it in his mouth.
Just one bite.
Just a flower.
But it was enough.
For a moment, everything seemed to stop. The air vibrated. The room seemed to fall silent.
Jon blinked, a trickle of drool running down his lip. The flower, now crushed between his gums, released a last trickle of black sap that ran down his throat.
The spores found their home.
Silence.
And then… a whisper.
"Jon…"
It wasn't heard in the room. Only in his head.
The child didn't cry. He didn't cough. He just lay back, smiling vaguely.
The flower no longer existed; its stem, from which it had emerged, however, remained low. As it moved away, it grew even longer, and as it moved further away, it traveled for miles, until, after hours and hours of stem development, this stem and thousands of other stems connected to a concentration of the fungal superorganism.
Meanwhile, from where the flower was consumed.
Only a small crack remained, a little wider than before, with a minimal trace of blackness seeping into the wood.
And deep in that corner, much closer to the superorganism, hidden from the eyes of maidens, lords, or gods…
The Cadou had taken root.
____
[Notable deaths: Donal Noye: Guardsman/Status: [Deceased]
Kard: Complete Orchard of the Wild/Status: [Deceased]
Warning: added advantages to each side
[The savages have better control over the skinwalkers and are more organized.]
[The others have begun to mutate through fights against the cadou.]
[Cadou has created new strains]
[Night's Watch has received a huge talent buff; most are at the level of minor knights, and the most experienced are at the level of royal guard recruits.]
[Jaime Lannister and Barristan Selmy are on a level equal to Sir Arthur Dayne, with his sword.]
Sides with disadvantages:
[North suffers shortages of grain and staple foods, greater dependence on fresh water]
[Seven kingdoms in decline due to mass slave raids, millions in debt to the Iron Bank]
Control:
[Valkyrie in full assimilation]