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 128: The Frozen Waste

The cold winds had not stopped blowing since they left the cave, making the journey more challenging.

Jon Snow pulled his furs tighter around his shoulders as his breath misted in the frigid air. 

The world stretched before him was nothing but an endless expanse of white and grey snow-covered hills, frozen rivers, and a sky so pale it seemed to have been bleached of all color. 

The Frostfangs loomed in the far distance, their jagged peaks piercing the sky like the teeth of some ancient beast.

’The lands beyond the Wall are so vast,’ Jon thought while recalling his previous adventure.

Back then, he was younger and much more naive. He walked into the unknown with his brothers of the Night’s Watch.

Now he was willingly traveling with those who had once been his enemies, searching for his lost brother.

He glanced back at his new companions. Kára led the way; her sharp eyes were always scanning the horizon, always searching for something that would indicate they were going in the right direction.

Her bow was never far from her hand. 

The other wildlings followed behind her in a loose formation, ready for an ambush at all times. 

They had been traveling for days now, ever since they had parted ways with the Stark men.

Harwin and the others were on their way back to Winterfell now, carrying the captured wight in a cage of iron and wood. Jon had watched them go, his heart heavy with the knowledge that he might never see them again. But they had their mission, and he had his.

Find Bran, and bring him home.

Kára had seen the direwolf heading northwest, towards the Frostfangs. And where Summer went, Bran could not be far behind.

”The Fist,” Kára said, her voice cutting through the wind. ”We’re almost there.”

Jon looked up and saw it…the ancient ringfort rising from the snow like a fist thrust up from the earth. He had been here before, in another life, when he had been a member of the Night’s Watch. He remembered the feeling of dread as he stared out into the darkness from the top of that hill during their first night of camping.

’The Fist of the First Men. That’s where we found the dragonglass weapons.’ This had another meaning to him now.

The First Men must have used the Fist as an advantage point to fight against the Others and their army of the undead. 

And even now, thousands of years later, the same war was still being fought.

They climbed the slope toward the Fist, their boots crunching through the frozen snow. 

The ringfort was empty now. Jon walked through the ruins, his hand resting on Longclaw’s pommel, his eyes scanning for any sign of danger.

But there was nothing. No wights. No Others. Just the wind, and the snow, and the silence.

”Are there any survivors up here?” Jon asked, his voice echoing in the emptiness. ”The wildlings who fled Hardhome…some of them must have come this way.”

Kára shook her head. ”There are still a few tribes in the Skirling Pass and near the Milkwater. But the dead have been hunting them. I don’t know how many are left.”

”The Milkwater River,” Jon repeated. ”That’s where we’re going?”

”Aye. The river will lead us to the Frostfangs. It’s the quickest way through the mountains. But we need to be careful…other tribes of wildlings may not be friendly if they are alive. And if they are dead...”

She did not finish the sentence. She did not need to.

Jon understood. The dead were everywhere. They lurked beneath the snow, waiting for the living to make a mistake. They were patient, because they had all the time in the world.

”We’ll be careful,” Jon said. 

Kára looked at him, her grey eyes searching his face. ”You sound like you’ve done this before.”

”I have,” Jon said. ”And I survived. That’s more than most can say.”

They found the wildling village, or what was left of it.

Jon saw it from a distance. It was nothing more than a cluster of huts and longhouses… their roofs were caved in, and their walls blackened with frost. 

”There’s no one alive here,” Kára said, her voice barely above a whisper. ”I can feel it…there is only death. Keep your eyes open.”

Jon felt it too. There was some kind of invisible pressure, an eerie aura he could not explain.

But he had felt it before, at Winterfell, and at Hardhome, everywhere the dead had walked.

”Stay close,” he said. ”Keep your arrows ready. If anything moves, kill it for good.”

The wildlings fanned out, keeping their bows drawn, and their eyes locked onto the ruins. 

Jon walked toward the center of the village, Ghost padding silently beside him. The direwolf’s hackles were raised, his ears flat against his skull, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

”They’re still here,” Jon said. ”I know it...”

And then they came.

The dead erupted from beneath the snow like demons rising from the underworld. There were dozens of them, or a hundred perhaps. Their pale blue eyes were glowing, their bodies twisted and broken. 

They were the wildlings who had once lived here, the men and women who had called this village home. Now they were dead, and they were hungry.

”Form a circle!” Kára shouted, drawing her bow. ”Protect each other! Don’t let them surround you!”

The wildlings moved with efficiency, their backs pressed together, their arrows flying into the oncoming horde. Each obsidian-tipped shaft found its mark, shattering a wight into a shower of ice and bone. But there were too many. For every one they killed, three more took its place.

Jon moved like a deadly whirlwind, Longclaw singing through the air. The Valyrian steel cleaved through the wights with ease, each stroke shattering a frozen body into a cloud of snow and fragments. He was faster than he had ever been, stronger, more precise. The dead fell before him like wheat before a scythe.

But even he could not be everywhere at once.

”No!” Kára’s voice cut through the chaos.

He turned and saw her pinned against a collapsed hut, a wight closing in on her. Her bow was empty, her arrows spent. She reached for her knife, but she was too slow. The wight lunged, its claws reaching for her throat.

Jon moved without thinking. He crossed the distance in a blur of motion, his enhanced speed carrying him faster than any mortal man. Longclaw flashed, and the wight exploded into a thousand pieces.

Kára stared at him, her eyes wide, her breath coming in ragged gasps. ”I... I thought I was dead.”

”Not today,” Jon said, offering her his hand. ”We’re not done yet.”

She took his hand, and he pulled her to her feet. For a moment, they stood there… their faces were so close that Jon could see every detail of it.

He saw the fear in her eyes but also something else…something that made his heart beat a little faster.

He took a step back and looked away. ”We need to move away from here before more of those things come after us.”

Kára nodded as she regained her composture. ”This way. There’s a path through the mountains. It’s dangerous, but it’s the only way.”

Hours later, they reached the mountain path that led them directly into the Frostfangs.

It was a narrow trail that wound through the jagged peaks. Jon turned and saw the wights massing at the base of the slope. They were not climbing after them. Instead, they appeared to be patiently waiting for something.

”They’re not following,” Kára said, her voice trembling slightly. ”Why aren’t they following?”

”They don’t need to,” Jon said. ”They’re herding us. Pushing us toward something.”

Kára looked at him, her face pale. ”Towards what?”

Jon did not answer. He could not answer because he did not know. But he had a terrible feeling that they were about to find out.

They walked for hours, the mountain trail winding ever higher. 

The wind howled around them, whipping snow into their faces, biting at their exposed skin. 

”How are we supposed to find anything here?” Kára asked, her voice hoarse. ”We’ve been walking for hours. There’s nothing here but rock and ice.”

Jon looked up at the peaks around them. They had reached the heart of the mountains, the place where the world seemed to end. And somewhere out there, somewhere in this frozen wilderness, was Bran.

”I don’t know,” Jon admitted. ”But you saw that direwolf coming this way, right?”

”Aye. Northwest. Into the heart of the mountains.” 

Jon nodded slowly. ”Then we keep going.” He pointed at Ghost. ” Once we are close to Bran, he will know.”

Kára looked at him and sighed. ”You really believe he’s alive, don’t you?”

”I do,” Jon said. ”If I stop believing, then everything I’ve done, everything I’ve sacrificed…it means nothing.”

Kára was silent for a long moment. Then she said, ”You’re a strange crow, Jon Snow.”

”Not a crow anymore.” Said Jon. ”I left that life behind when I-”

”Crow!” One of the wildlings shouted.

Jon frowned. ”I already told you. I’m no longer a-”

”No, wait.” Kára interrupted him. She grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around. ”Look, over there, near that peak.”

Jon was about to speak when something caught his eye. A shadow, moving in the distance. He squinted, his enhanced vision picking out the details.

It was not just a crow, but a flock of them. Dozens of them, perhaps hundreds, spiraling down from the sky. They circled above the plateau, their black wings beating against the grey clouds.

”Crows,” Jon said. ”Why would crows be out here? There’s nothing for them to eat.”

The crows descended, landing on the rocks around them. They were strange, these birds…their eyes too bright, their movements too deliberate. They watched Jon with an intelligence that seemed almost human.

Then one of them spoke.

”Stark!” The crow said.

Jon froze. The crow looked at him, its head cocked to the side, its beak opening and closing.

”Stark,” it said again. ”Stark. Stark. Stark.”

The other crows joined in, their voices rising in a chorus. ”Stark! Stark! Stark!”

Kára stared at the birds, her face pale. ”What is this...?. What are they doing?”

Jon felt a chill run down his spine. He had seen this before. It was the same feeling he got when looking at the strange eagle from that wildling warg he met a long time ago. A man named Orell. 

”Someone is controlling those birds. A skinchanger.”

”All of them?. Who could do that?” Kára

”Bran,” he breathed. ”It’s Bran.”

The crows took flight, spiraling upward, their black wings blotting out the grey sky. They wheeled above the plateau, their voices still calling.

”Stark! Stark!”

Jon turned to Kára, his heart pounding. ”They want us to follow them.”

”This could be a trap,” she warned. ”The Others can control animals. They could be leading us to our deaths.”

Jon shook his head. ”No. This is Bran. I can feel it. He’s calling me.”

He looked up at the crows, his eyes following their flight.

”Bran,” he said again. ”I’m coming.”

And then he began to walk, following the crows into the heart of the Frostfangs.

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