Game of Thrones(ASOIAF): The Sorcerer Prince

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Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

ASOIAF and all of its characters belong to GRRM

I own nothing but the original characters I make.

”Dialogue”

’Thoughts’

-Author notes-

Chapter 81: The Truth

That night, Ned walked the top of the Wall with Jon. The wind was fierce, cutting through his cloak like a knife, finding every gap in his wool and leather.

The ice beneath his boots was slick, glistening in the pale light of the stars, and the drop to the north was a thousand feet of darkness that seemed to breathe and shift below them.

The Wall creaked and groaned, as if it were a living thing, ancient and patient, waiting for what was to come.

Jon walked beside him, his arm in a sling, his face pale beneath the hood of his cloak. He said nothing for a long time, his grey eyes fixed on the vast darkness beyond the Wall, where the forest stretched endlessly toward the curtain of light that flickered in the far north.

”How are you feeling?” Ned asked. ”Perhaps it would be best to rest a bit longer. Your injuries...”

”I am feeling much better now, Father.” Jon’s voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it. ”The arrows did not pierce too deeply. The maester said the wounds were clean and would heal quickly.” He paused, his breath misting in the cold air. ”I need to be here. It is my duty as a brother of the Night’s Watch.”

Ned shook his head slowly. ”I am sorry, Jon. This is not the life I wanted for you. It is a harsh life.”

”But it is the one I chose.” Jon turned to face him, his cold grey eyes meeting Ned’s. ”I do not regret it.”

Ned was silent for a moment, wrestling with the words that had been trapped inside him for sixteen years. The truth had been a weight on his heart, a burden he had carried through war and peace, through joy and grief.

He had promised Lyanna, and he had kept his promise. But perhaps it was time to let the weight go.

”I still owe you something,” Ned said. ”The truth. The truth that I once promised you.”

Jon stopped walking, his eyes widening. ”The truth? You mean... about my mother?”

Ned took a breath, the cold air burning in his lungs. ”About your mother. About who you are.”

Jon almost froze. He had been asking about his mother for years, always met with silence or vague evasions. ”Are you going to finally tell me about her?”

Ned nodded. ”It is time for you to know. I did promise you, did I not?”

”You did.” Jon’s voice was barely a whisper. He had not forgotten.

”The name of your mother is Lyanna Stark,” Ned spoke the words slowly, letting them settle. ”And the name of your father is Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Jon blinked. His face was filled with shock, his mouth opening and closing as if he were trying to speak but could not find the words. ”Wait, so... you...”

Ned shook his head. ”No, I am not your father. I am your uncle. Your mother was my little sister. I have missed her every day since she died.”

He told Jon everything then. He spoke of Lyanna and Rhaegar, of the tournament at Harrenhal where they had first met, of how the prince had taken her away and set the realm ablaze.

He spoke of the war that followed, of the death of Rickard and Brandon Stark, of the bloodshed and the grief. He spoke of the Tower of Joy, of the three Kingsguard who had guarded the door, of the fight that had killed his dearest friends.

And he spoke of the promise. The promise he had made to his dying sister, her hands clutching his, her voice barely a whisper in a room that smelled of blood and roses.

”You are not my bastard,” Ned said. ”You are the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. The blood of the dragon and the wolf flows through your veins.”

Jon stared at him, his face unreadable. His grey eyes, so like Lyanna’s, were wide and wet. ”I... I am...”

”You are a Targaryen. The last of Rhaegar’s line.” Ned put a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension in the young man’s body. ”I am sorry I did not tell you sooner. I was trying to protect you.”

Jon’s voice cracked. ”Protect me? From what?”

”From Robert. From the Lannisters. From anyone who would have killed you for your name.” Ned’s eyes were wet, though he did not weep. ”I swore to Lyanna that I would keep you safe. And I did the best I could. But I should have told you sooner. You deserved to know.”

Jon looked north, into the darkness beyond the Wall. The wind howled, and the snow swirled around them, and the stars seemed to shiver in the cold. ”What do I do with this knowledge?”

”That is for you to decide.” Ned squeezed his shoulder. ”You are still my son, Jon. In all the ways that matter.”

They stood together in the cold, watching the stars, lost in their own thoughts. The Wall creaked beneath them, and the darkness stretched on forever.

A ranger found them on the Wall an hour later, his face red with cold and exertion. He was breathing hard, his words tumbling out in a rush.

”Lord Stark.” He bowed. ”Scouts have sighted wildlings in the Gift. A large party. They are burning villages, killing the farmers. We have brought some of the survivors to Castle Black.”

Ned turned to Jon. ”We do not have much time to prepare. I sent ravens to Winterfell, but the reinforcements may not arrive in time. We must be ready to withstand the attack with what we have at hand.”

”That will not be enough,” Jon said. ”We have only around a hundred and twenty men here, plus the men you brought with you.”

Ned nodded. He had come with only a dozen men...enough to ensure their safety on the road, but not enough to face an army. ”How many men does Mance Rayder have?”

Jon thought for a moment, his brow furrowed. ”At least a hundred thousand. Perhaps more. And he has giants.”

Ned raised an eyebrow. ”Giants? No one has seen giants north of the Wall in centuries.”

”I have.” Jon’s voice was flat. ”They are real. And they fight for Mance.”

Ned was silent for a moment, absorbing the information. Then he turned to the ranger. ”Let us go talk with the others. We have much to do.”

The common hall of Castle Black was crowded with black brothers, their voices ragged and tense.

The news had spread quickly...wildlings in the Gift, villages burning, survivors stumbling through the gates with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

The Watch was outnumbered and unprepared.

But the Lord of Winterfell stood among them, and that brought hope to many of the black brothers. His presence was not welcome by everyone, however.

Ned sat at the head of the long table, his hands wrapped around a cup of mulled wine that had long since gone cold. Bran sat beside him, his bow propped against the wall, his eyes wide as he listened to the men speak.

Summer rested at his feet, his golden eyes fixed on the door.

Jon stood near the hearth, his arm still in a sling, his face pale but determined. His own direwolf, Ghost, rested at his side.

The brothers looked to him now, despite his youth. He had been beyond the Wall. He had seen the wildling host. He knew what was coming.

”We have perhaps a hundred and twenty men fit to fight,” Jon said, his voice carrying through the hall. ”Maybe a hundred and forty, if we count the stewards and the cooks. Lord Stark has brought a dozen more.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. The numbers were grim.

”And Mance Rayder?” asked Bowen Marsh, the Lord Steward, his face pinched and worried. ”How many does he have?”

Jon met his gaze. ”At least a hundred thousand. Perhaps more. He has giants and mammoths as well.”

The hall fell silent. Even the fire seemed to burn lower, as if the flames themselves were cowed by the news.

Bowen Marsh’s face went white. ”A hundred thousand? That is... that is impossible. The wildlings could never...”

”They have,” Jon said. ”Mance has spent years gathering them. Every tribe, every clan, every man and woman who can hold a weapon. They are coming, Bowen. All of them.”

Ned spoke, his voice calm and steady, the voice of a man who had faced death before and did not fear it. ”We cannot fight a hundred thousand with a hundred men. We must hold the Wall. Wait for reinforcements. The Wall has never been breached.”

”A hundred thousand wildlings have never attacked the Wall before,” Alliser Thorne said from the shadows. His voice was cold, his eyes fixed on Jon with a hatred that had not dimmed. ”And we have never had a traitor’s bastard advising us.”

Jon did not flinch. ”I am no traitor, Ser Alliser. I am a brother of the Night’s Watch.”

”So you say.” Thorne stepped forward, his hand on his sword. ”Yet you returned with wildlings. You claim to have spoken with Mance Rayder. You expect us to believe that you escaped the King-beyond-the-Wall without bending the knee?”

Ned rose from his seat, his grey eyes hard as winter steel. ”Ser Alliser. My son has given you a warning of an attack. He has risked his life to bring you this information. If you have a better plan, I would hear it. If not, I would ask you to hold your tongue.”

Alliser Thorne’s face reddened, but he said nothing. He could not. Ned Stark was the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North, and his authority here, even at the Wall, could not be ignored.

The twenty Stark veterans who stood near the walls watched him with cold eyes, their hands on their swords.

Thorne retreated into the shadows, his pride wounded, his hatred burning brighter than ever.

After the meeting, Ned walked among his former soldiers. They stood in a loose formation near the armory, their faces weathered by the cold and the wind, their black cloaks dusted with snow.

These were the men who had followed him south, who had been captured in King’s Landing, who had been sent to the Wall as punishment for their loyalty.

”Lord Stark,” said one of them...a grizzled veteran named Harren, who had served House Stark for thirty years. ”It is good to see you, my lord. We had heard... rumors.”

”Rumors?” Ned asked.

”That you had died. That the Lannisters had taken your head.” Harren shook his head. ”We did not know what to believe. News from the south takes a long time to reach this place, and it is often false.”

”The Lannisters tried,” Ned said. ”But I had help. From an unlikely source.”

”The prince?” another man asked.

Ned nodded. ”Joffrey Baratheon freed me. He freed my daughters. He sent us north, with his own siblings as hostages.” He paused. ”He is not like the rest of his family. He is something else entirely.”

The men exchanged glances. They did not understand, but they did not need to. They trusted Ned Stark, and that was enough.

”Will you fight with us?” Ned asked.

Harren nodded. ”We took the black, my lord. Our oaths are to the Watch. But our loyalty...” He glanced at the other veterans. ”Our loyalty has not changed.”

Ned placed a hand on his shoulder. ”Then we will hold the Wall together.”

Bran found the boy in the training yard, shooting arrows at a target made of straw. He was young, perhaps twelve, perhaps younger, with dark hair and eyes that burned with a cold fire.

He had been told by one of the brothers that his name was Olly, and he had come to Castle Black with the survivors from the Gift.

His village had been burned. His parents had been killed. The wildlings had spared him only because he had hidden in the root cellar.

”Nice shot,” Bran said, watching as Olly’s arrow struck the target’s center.

Olly turned, his eyes wary. ”You are the Stark boy.”

”I am Bran. Ned Stark’s son.” He stepped closer, his own bow in his hand. ”I heard what happened. I am sorry.”

Olly’s face hardened. ”Sorry does not bring them back.”

”No,” Bran agreed. ”But you can avenge them with that bow. Father said that the wildlings who have been attacking the Gift will soon come here and try to kill us all.”

He nocked an arrow, drew the string, and loosed. The shaft flew straight and true, striking the target an inch from Olly’s.

Olly stared at him. ”You are good.”

”I have been practicing a lot.” Bran shrugged. ”Father did not want me to fight. But as the son of the Lord of Winterfell, it is my duty to defend the North. And that includes the Wall.”

Olly almost smiled. ”Mine did not know I had a knife. He would have been angry.”

”Did you use it?”

Olly nodded. ”I killed one. A wildling. He was burning our house. I put the knife in his back. I hope I kill more soon.”

Bran said nothing. He did not understand the weight of taking a life, though he had seen men die. But he had never killed anyone himself. He did not know if he could.

He looked at the boy, at the fire in his eyes, and saw a reflection of something in himself...a hunger for justice, for vengeance, for meaning.

”We will fight together, then.”

Olly nodded. ”Together.”

They shot arrows until their fingers bled, and the sun set behind the Wall.

The next day, the preparations began in earnest.

Men were assigned to the defenses. Archers were placed along the Wall, their arrows aimed at the approaches from the north.

The gate was fortified, the winches inspected, and the stores of oil and pitch readied.

The Stark veterans took command of the most vulnerable sections, their experience and discipline a welcome relief to the panicked recruits.

Ned walked among them, speaking words of encouragement, checking on the wounded, ensuring that every man knew his duty. He had fought in wars before. He had seen men die. He knew that fear was the enemy, and that courage was not the absence of fear, but the mastery of it.

Bran stood with the archers, his bow in his hand, his eyes scanning the horizon. His new friend Olly stood beside him, his face pale but determined.

Jon stood at the top of the Wall, looking north into the darkness. The wind howled, and the snow swirled around him, but he did not move.

Ned climbed the stairs to join him.

”They will come soon,” Jon said.

”They will.”

”We are not ready.”

”We are as ready as we can be.”

Jon turned to face him. ”Father... Uncle... whatever I should call you now... I am afraid.”

Ned placed a hand on his shoulder. ”Fear is not weakness, Jon. Fear is wisdom. It is the recognition of danger. The question is what you do with it.”

Jon nodded slowly. ”I will fight.”

”I know.” Ned squeezed his shoulder. ”You are a Stark, Jon. You are a Targaryen. But more than that, you are a man of the Night’s Watch. And you will do your duty.”

Jon looked north again. ”I hope it is enough.”

”So do I.”

They stood together in the cold, watching the darkness, waiting for the storm to break.

That night, the horns sounded.

One blast. Two. Three.

The wildling army had been sighted.

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