#but at least they still got their grumpy uncle Fools Shot to look after them

[soundcrusher]

Heh, I did it! It's finished. Getting this done was worth staying up way past my usual bed time. XD

Either way, the Mecha Pilot Au belongs to @cuppajj , I'm just someone who wrote something in it/for it. :3 (Please, let me know if I need to change somehing cuppa. I'm not afraid to re-write some things. ^^)

Also, just so that everyone knows which of my ocs is which: Theron = Thrillchaser (Reg) Robing/Red = Reg!Phoenix Samuel/Snow = Sg!Phoenix Fools Shot = Fools Shot (Reg) Beatrice/Bessie = Tankcrusher (Sg)

So with that out of the way, please enjoy.

Trigger Warning: mentioned character death (?)

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Theron, also known by his mech’s name ‘Thrillchaser’, always knew that his past deeds would catch up with him. After all, someone like him didn’t deserve happiness, or a life outside of fighting. He always knew that. Finding Beatrice and marrying her was something Theron would have never imagen could happen. But there they were, young, well, she was a bit older than him, full of love and ready to move on towards a brighter tomorrow.

And then, after finding a home far away from Cybertron, their happiness grew with the birth of their little twins. Their birth might have been complicated, and the nurses had to drag him away from his beloved and their children a few times, but once he had his sons in his arms, all his worries melted away. They were healthy, despite being so small, and they were here. It almost made Theron feel like all the fights he had joined while working under the Decepticons were worth it.

Although, if he had known what was about to come next, Theron would have probably fought harder to keep Beatrice with him. With their children.

“You know that they need my help.” Was what Beatrice said, as she packed her bag, while Theron was taking her things and putting them back. Telling her how wrong it was for her to go onto a suicide mission, especially now that they had a family.

“Do you really want them to grow up not knowing who their mother is?!” Asked Theron in desperation, as Beatrice zipped her bag up and slung it over her shoulder. “Please. Stay, you know that there’s not much of a chance for you to come back. Don’t they have enough fighters? Don’t they have enough people to chase off those monsters? Please, Bessie, my diamond, please, stay.” The desperation in Theron’s voice only grew, as he grabbed his wife's hand, trying his best to pull her back into the safety of their home. Even though he knew that she was stronger than him. “And if you won’t stay for me then, please, stay for them. They need you Bessie. Please. Robin and Samuel both need you.” But his begging did not help nor sway his love to remain with him and their sons. No, once Beatrice made up her mind, there was hardly anything holding her back. Especially if it involved protecting her family.

So, with one sad smile, she leaned down to give Theron one final kiss, before leaving their home for good. Never once looking back at him and the tears he shed.

Since then, every evening following her departure, when work was done and his sons were sleeping soundly in their bed, Theron would sit on the porch. Softly strumming his guitar as he waited for Beatrice to come back. Hoping and praying to Primus that she would make it back home. That she would return to them safe and sound, and that no-one would ever take her away from them.

But he always knew that happiness wasn’t something he was ever allowed to have.

Theron could still remember the day when he received the letter. He was so excited to hear news from his wife, that he didn’t realize his sons were coming in. The letter and its possible good news got all his attention, although, after reading it, the world started to spin around him. He could distinctly remember Red and Snow calling out for him, before rushing over to catch his swaying form, or at least try to. And as his knees hit the ground, he pulled them closer. Hugging them tightly, as if he was scared they would leave him too.

“She won’t come back… She won’t…” Was all Theron could mutter for a while. And as his sons asked him what he meant, he found himself forced to explain to them what ‘Missing in Action’ means and how unlikely it was for Beatrice to come back.

They understood, at least Theron thought they did, and life went on as if nothing happened. The only thing that changed though was that Theron no-longer waited outside for Beatrice to come back. No, after getting the news about his wife, he decided that there was no use in waiting for her return. So, he spent the time with his sons. Teaching them everything he knew, which also included Mecha piloting. Was it wrong? Yes, especially if you consider that his sons weren’t even ten when he showed them how to pilot his mech, but what was he supposed to do? He has always been weak for their big pleading eyes and their trembling lips. So, he would take them into his Cavalier, place them on his lap, and show them how he was piloting Thrillchase.

Looking back at it, he probably shouldn’t have done that. Because once they were ten, they came running to him during work. Telling him about the mech they have found in the back of Fools Shot’s scrapyard, before they were looking at him with that look Theron knew all too well. They wanted to keep the Trooper Class mech.

“It belongs to Fools Shot, and I can’t just give you things that are on my boss’ scrapyard.” Started Theron, hoping that his sons would drop the topic. But Red only looked at him, before running towards Fools Shot and asking him about the mech. Snow stayed behind with him though. Whispering a quiet “Sorry”, while clutching his working overalls in his smaller hands. And Theron couldn’t help the soft sigh escaping him, as he ran a gloved hand over Snow’s hair. Telling him that it was okay, before looking over to Red, who was running towards him with a bright smile. “We can have him!” Cheered the older twin, as he grabbed Theron’s hand and pulled him to where the mech was. “Fools Shot said we can have him! He even offered to help us repair him! Isn’t that great dad? Soon enough we can be true pilots, just like you!”

Theron should have put his foot down on this day. Maybe then the incidents to come wouldn’t have happened, but he was just one man, and a single father at that. A father, who hasn’t seen his sons this excited ever since he told them that their mother wasn’t coming back. A father, who was taken back at how much Snow was talking and how much Red was smiling, as soon as they were by the mech. And a father who, in the end, wanted his sons to be happy. So, he reluctantly let them keep the mech. He even helped them and Fools Shot repair it.

And as his sons were thirteen, the mech was done. They had to completely rework his insides to better fit two pilots, and the outside. Red and Snow were very adamant on how they wanted their mech to fly, just like his. “It would give us a better advantage over the bigger mechs.” Was what Snow said, and Theron had to agree. A Trooper Class mech might be taller than a regular one, but it was still smaller than the other classes. So, Fools Shot somehow managed to make the mech fly. And then, it was Theron’s turn to teach his sons how to pilot their own mech. Which he was quick to regret, after finding out that his sons got into a fight with another pilot. A pilot known as Runningway, and who participated in some questionable practices. The worst part though was that he got very close to killing his sons during their first fight.

Emphasis on 'close', because Snow, somehow, managed to take Runningway by surprise and get him back out of their mech, while Red quickly scrambled back into his seat and made sure their retreat was fast. And when Theron asked his sons about how they managed to get away, Snow looked at him and simply shook his head. It was only later that Red told him what happened.

They were both sitting on the porch, with him softly strumming his guitar and Red wrapped up and clutching one of the quill blankets Beatrice made for the twins. Or, at least she tried making one. It turned out a little wonky. "It was a good idea to have our seats back to back… Sammy was completely hidden from Runningway." Was what his older son said after a while. "He didn't see him coming, when he wacked him with the steel chair… And then I kicked him, like you showed me papa. I… didn't think we would make it…” Muttered his son quietly. “If Sammy didn’t… if he hadn’t… It was my fault. I aggravated Runningway. I nearly… I nearly got Sammy…. I nearly got him killed! Papa! I nearly got my brother killed!”

Theron stopped strumming. His son was wrong. Robin was wrong with thinking that the fight was his fault. And so, Theron put his guitar to the side, before wrapping his arms around Red. Guiding his crying son’s head to where his heart was, while softly running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t your fault. Robin. Pilots like Runningway don’t pick fights because you aggravated them. Yes, it may play a part, but they usually do it, because they have a fragile ego. They NEED the feeling of being in control. They NEED the rush of hurting someone weaker than them, because they NEED to know, they need the feeling of superiority, and they NEED to know they’re in control of life and death, because their ego starts to crack and hurt, as soon as you prove them wrong. You didn’t hurt him as much as he hurt you physically, but the knowledge of you two surviving has left cracks where it hurts. Runningway will ALWAYS remember this, because he was bested by two thirteen year olds who haven’t been piloting as long as he has.” Theron softly lifted his son’s head up, to wipe away his tears, while smiling proudly down at Red. Taking away his guilt for at least one moment, before his face scrunched up to portray the fear the older twin was feeling way down in his heart.

“But what if… what if there’s a pilot who will come close to killing us?” Asked Red.

And Theron only smiled down at his son and shook his head with a smile on his lips. “You’re forgetting something. If there truly is someone out there, who will try to hurt you, dare I say even attempt to kill you, they will have to go through me first. Even if it kills me.”

There was still an unsure expression on Red’s face, as he stared up at his father. Not because Theron wasn’t a capable fighter or pilot, but rather because the thought of losing his father was one that didn’t cross his mind. And Theron, knowing both of his sons well, could read Red’s expression like a book. So, he pointed up at the night sky. “See those stars?”

“Yes?”

“Every last one of those, are the souls and sparks of pilots and mechs who died. Be it in the war, in a battle, or because their time has simply come. And do you know why they are up there?” Asked Theron, to which his son simply shook his head. “Well, they’re up there, to watch over us. To guide us and when we need it, they will send a light to help us. Sometimes, the light may take their time to reach us, because they’re lost too. But in the end, they will find us. They will always find us…”

“Why are you telling me this papa?” Asked Red, which caused Theron to chuckled sadly, as he looked down at his son. A sad smile gracing his lips. “Because, one day, I will join them. I won’t always be there for the both of you, but I want you to know that I’ll always watch over you… And when you miss me the most, all you have to do is look for the brightest star.” Theron said, before looking back at their home. “… But I think we can worry about that, when the two of you are a little older. Come, I think it’s time for you to get some sleep too. Can’t have you falling asleep during our piloting lessons.” Theron smirked down at his son, which was met with a slightly unsure smirk from Red. His son was still processing his words and trying to figure out what he’s supposed to do with them. But Theron didn’t mind. He was sure that Red was clever enough to figure it out.

And as the two entered their home, and Theron made sure Red was going to bed and Snow was still sleeping, the future looked as bright as the shining stars of the night sky.

At least, it was bright for two years.

Theron knew something was wrong when he went to work that day. Snow, Red, and their Trooper, who they called ‘Phoenix’, were missing that morning. “They probably went out to that natural cliff side to train some more…” Was what he told himself, after looking around the house just in case he missed a note. But even with that reassurement, he still felt like something bad was going to happen. And Theron was proven right the second one of their customers walked into their repair shop and said that they saw a Commander Class mech roaming around the planet. Something that was quite unusual to see around here, considering that most didn’t even bother coming here. Unless they were looking for some spare parts or trying to run away from the law. Theron wasn’t interested in the news though, because everyone had their reasons to come here, until he heard the rough description of the mech.

Only then did his blood slowly freeze in his veins, as he put one and one together. He knew that mech, hardly anyone didn’t, and he knew the pilot.

He knew what that pilot did to others, and his kids were out there.

Everyone looked at him strangely when Theron threw down his welding equipment, but he didn’t care. No, all he cared about was finding his kids before anything bad could happen. Not even Fools Shot’s frantic yells and calls could stop him from rushing out of the workshop, towards his home, and into the shed where he kept his Cavalier. And after suiting up, Thrillchaser was already on his way.

However when he found Phoenix, he was already pinned against a cliff by Overlord. That wasn’t what brought Theron’s blood to boil in anger though. No. It was the hole cut into the Trooper and the faint but frantic calls and screams of terror from Red that made him even rush faster towards the fight. And with one loud angry scream that echoed through the cliffs surrounding their “arena”, Thrillchaser attacked the much larger mech with all he got in the hopes of luring Overlord out of the cockpit to come and fight him.

And it worked! Theron doesn’t know how, maybe Primus was finally smiling down upon him, but it worked! His sons were safed, at least, for now, but did it really matter? He doubted that Overlord would be able to find them any time soon. At least, he hoped so as he fought a losing battle. And hey, didn’t this also mean that his kids won this fight, because they survived?

That thought alone caused Theron to laugh, even as his mech was pinned down and cut open by none other than his opponent. Although, even as he was hoisted into the air by his throat, Theron did not once stop laughing or smiling. No, on the contrary, he only smirked down at Overlord with the knowledge that this monster wasn’t able to kill his sons.

“You look quite happy to die.”

Theron let out another barking laugh at that statement, before it was cut short by a cough. “Oh, it’s not my death I’m laughing at, it’s you.”

“Me?”

“Yes… Because the big and bad Overlord was just bested by two sixteen year olds in an old Trooper mech…” Was all Theron got out, before it became hard to breathe. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that to someone who was crushing his windpipe, but he has never been someone who simply caved underneath a monster. Not even one like Overlord. Also, his expression was just too hilarious.

“They didn’t ‘best’ me. They only got lucky, nothing more.”

“Y-yea…. tell y… your… yourself that…. B-Because we… both know… they won… They survived… they survived you… they made it… Over…lord… you lost the fight… because… they survived...they won… thee round...” Damn, it was getting hard to say anything,let alone come up with a good comeback. Is this how it feels to die?

“… There’s always a second round.” Were the last words Theron heard, before he felt a sharp pain pierce his body.

Yea, this is definitely how dying feels like.

[strawberry-sanrio]

R.I.P 2 MY YOUTH PART 1

R.I.P 2 MY YOUTH PART 1

10k x reader

warnings: angst

word count: 2.5k

description: i was mostly inspired by the bridge of this song for this oneshot. anyways basically the reader is murphy’s niece who they had found along the way in season one. reader fell into a one sided love with 10k and he never looked her way ever, not until now (takes place in the beginning of season 3).

·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ 　　.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .

None of them had expected to find somebody related to their least favorite member of the group, and they hadn’t. In fact, you had found them thanks to Citizen Z who had willingly led you to them knowing you were very much still alive. That was one thing, but the thing they had least expected was you as a person. You were absolutely nothing like Murphy, not even in the slightest way. Your personalities, mannerisms, and even looks were different in every way possible. Even so, there was no doubt that you two were related- not with the way Murphy treated you.

The strange hybrid had a soft spot for you, he always had since you were born. His older sister had you when he was about twenty-five and from the moment he saw you in the hospital room, he just knew you were a little bottle of sunshine. Although he was always grumpy and acted tough, the man would take you out for ice cream and buy you gifts. Even when he entered prison for postal fraud, you visited him with your mother at every chance you could. The last time he saw you was when you were thirteen. Not knowing whether or not you were still alive was something that often kept him up at night, more than most things did at least.

So when you met again and you joined their mission, it was only normal that the man would be overprotective of you in every and all situations, including those of first loves…. Needless to say, Murphy, just like the rest of the group, had seen it coming.

You and 10k were around the same age and had both been exposed to the cruelty of the world far too young compared to the rest of the members. You were a pretty girl, and he was a handsome young man- both strong and kind, always up for helping others at any cost. You would never forget the smile he gave you the day you met, and the way your heart sped. It was inevitable…. for you.

Tommy had not felt the same way. Sure, he loved you in more ways than one, but he was not in love with you. You made his heart race, sometimes, just like other girls did. You were beautiful, but so were other girls. He felt protective over you, just like he felt with the rest of his teammates. There was nothing different, or so he had thought.

You knew this. How could you not notice the lingering stares he gave Cassandra as she looked out the car window. Or when he gave the first prize rifle from the shooting contest to Brittany, a pretty girl he had only briefly met. Even Red, a random girl dressed in all red that mingled with Tommy quite well. Really, how he seemed to accept and return any attention given to him by any female near his age.

Taking all of this into consideration, you shouldn’t have been hurt when the blue-eyed beauty painfully rejected your feelings for him. But you were.

“Y/N,” he whispered, clearly distraught by your sudden confession. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen it coming, Doc had noted it to him long ago. “I… I don’t think right now is the right time.”

“You mean… For me, right?”

You looked over to Cassandra, who was sleeping on the floor on a blanket they had found along the way. Even sleeping, without having showered in quite some time, and stained with blood- she was pretty. Prettier than you, you had thought.

Before the clearly conflicted boy could answer, you shook your head- your beady eyes becoming even shinier in the pale moonlight. You gulped.

“It’s whatever, please just forget it,” you told 10k, giving him a reassuring smile that probably wouldn’t have fooled anybody but him. Maybe it didn’t even fool him, but he took it anyways.

A part of you had wished that he wouldn’t forget it and maybe feel awkward around you, so that you would know that your feelings sincerely reached him, but he didn’t. In fact, he acted so casually- it began to hurt. You knew that you should’ve stopped feeling for him and given up then and there, and you did… for a while. For a while you thought about nothing but taking out your feelings by killing zombies and completing the tasks needed for the mission, but as you buried your feelings deeper- they only grew by tenfold.

When Cassandra died and came back as a strange hybrid thanks to your uncle, having to see 10k suffer because of her only made things worse. The pain only grew and he began to distance himself from everyone around him. Even through this, you remained by his side. You left your uncle to follow him, and you pushed through the agony. The little moments you shared with him- chatting underneath the stars in the back of the pick up truck and him teaching you how to fish.

After she actually died, at his hands, you helped him heal as much as you could and he let you. You and Tommy were practically attached at the hip, even when you slept- he would stay beside you and take watch. Perhaps it was because he had already lost so many people, if he lost you- he probably wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

Needless to say, Murphy was not happy about any of it. He had never liked 10k in the first place, even less when he killed Cassandra, but the fact that you were helplessly in love with him and would defy your own uncle for a boy… It was infuriating, to say the least. Deep down he knew that 10k was a good person, much better than anybody else out there, but even so he couldn’t accept it. Not even when you were on the floor crying for him as he got shot thanks to a team of bounty hunters who were after the one and only blue hybrid man.

“10k,” you croaked out, tears daring to escape your beautiful e/c eyes that seemed even more majestic to him as everything was a bit hazy. “They’re going to take you to the submarine where there will be doctors, uncle Murphy will be there too- don’t worry.”

Despite having been shot, your words were as clear as daylight to him, after all, Tommy had always focused in on your voice.

“But- but what about you, Y/N?”

You shook your head, sniffling lightly in worry for the boy who you loved so much. The sight before him now reminded him of the day he rejected you… He regretted it. Now having to go alone with only Murphy made him realize how weak he was without you and how hard it would be. He had taken you for granted.

“No,” 10k refused, trying to get up, ignoring the agonizing pain coming from his abdomen. “I’m not going without you, Y/N.”

“Shhhh you’re right when you come back when you’re all healed up you will not be going anywhere without me, but for now you have to go okay? When you get back you can tell us all about it. I’ll be waiting for you, all of us will.”

The other members nodded in agreement and gave the ravenette encouraging smiles that told him to go on. Hesitantly, he nodded back and let you help him up.

“I’ll be back,” the boy affirmed, staring deep into your orbs. “I promise.”

You smiled, giving him a friendly kiss on the temple before handing him off to the guards and turning to your uncle who was awaiting your goodbye.

Believing you probably weren’t going to be seeing him for a very long time (if ever), you gave him a tight hug, the tears finally escaping your eyes as you hugged goodbye your only living family member.

“Please be safe, uncle Murphy,” you told him, hugging him even tighter. “And… Please keep him safe. Keep 10k safe, for me, please.”

The blue man hugged you back, almost tearing up as well. He had always been attached to you, but the apocalypse somehow managed to tighten your relationship even more than ever before.

“Don’t worry, kid. Lover boy will be fine.”

The two of you pulled away, both wiping away the tears that had unwillingly fallen.

“Stay out of trouble, uncle Murphy.”

“Never.”

And that was the last time you had seen either of the men you loved. Even after the submarine had sunk, apparently your uncle had come back for you and the others when you were out using the bathroom at a somewhat inconvenient time. According to Roberta and the others, 10k was not with the blue man. When they told you that, your whole body froze. There was no way 10k could’ve died- there was no way Murphy would let that happen, now when he knew how much his niece adored him. It was pretty much impossible, but it made no sense. If he was alive, where was he? And why hadn’t he come back to her as promised?

You decided not to follow after your Uncle. If it was true that the boy you were in love with was dead because of your uncle, you couldn’t bear the thought of being with him. You were much better off with Roberta and Addy- who both knew the feeling of losing the men they loved. And Doc, who cared for 10k almost as much as you did.

You had hope that Murphy would give up there, but he didn’t. No, in fact, he returned for you.

“My dear niece, Y/N,” he called out, coming out of nowhere with his arms wide open.

You hugged him, obviously excited to see your only relative, but also eager to hear from him what really happened to 10k. There was no way he was dead.

Once you pulled away, you gave him a ear-to-ear grin— finally asking the question you had on your mind.

“So where’s 10k?”

Murphy stopped smiling.

“He’s fine, honey. Just come with me and I’ll explain everything. We will build a new world with doctor merch and you and him can live happily ever after! It will be great,” he explained, pulling you along as he walked God knows where.

“W-wait what?” You stuttered, your eyes widened at his strange words. “I... Heard somebody with very precise aim shot at Warren’s feet. Was it 10k?”

Murphy was silenced by your question, not knowing what to say next. He could lie to anyone, anyone but you. He had done enough of that to his whole family and it ruined his life before the apocalypse had even started. The only relationship he managed to salvage were those of his sister and mother. Now... What would happen?

The relationship’s demise was coming soon, either way. If he lied, there was no point— she would find out soon enough and it would be even worse.

“Yes.... and no.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, subconsciously backing up as this confirmation of the information you had obtained processed.

The blue hybrid knew he wouldn’t have to explain. You were a bright girl, it wasn’t long before the realization seeped into your features— later coming the denial.

“No,” you denied, shaking your head furiously. “You didn’t.”

“Sunshine, I had no other choice.”

You shook your head even more, tears slipping out of your pained orbs.

“Tell me you didn’t bite him. Murphy, tell me you didn’t.”

He didn’t say anything.

You pushed forward hitting him on the chest as hard as you could, punch after punch as you cried— angrily shaking your head.

“You didn’t!”

Your cries became even louder, and your punches even stronger— actually beginning to hurt the blue man.

“Y/N that’s enough.”

“No, no, no, no!”

You pushed him to the ground, getting on top of him and continuing to punch his chest in utter and pure resentment.

“You did not bite 10k!”

“I had no choice.”

His words seemed to set something off deep inside you that only made you even angrier, giving you more strength to actually seriously injure him— and it didn’t go unnoticed by him. He was worried for himself.

“You has no choice?! That’s bullshit! Utter bullshit! You may be able to miraculously fool everybody else with your pathetic excuses but not me Uncle Murphy!” You shook your head. “Not when I’ve been hearing them my whole life!”

Oh boy. That was not the correct choice of words. They stabbed him far further than any injection ever had and they reached something nothing else ever had— his heart. He did not like that. Without even thinking about it, he internally called for help— summoning just the person you were arguing over. Except... it wasn’t him. Not really.

Tackling you to your side, 10k held a knife to your neck— pinning you down so you would be unable to hurt your uncle, his master, any more.

You looked up at him. It wasn’t him. You knew that. You knew that there was no way in hell that the 10k you loved and knew would ever hold a weapon up to you, not even in a life or death situation. Even before his emotionless icy blue eyes you could sense the struggle between his will and newfound impulsive nature that only told him to serve Murphy. And even though it hurt you, you knew that deep down it was hurting him by tenfold. To know that he had become exactly what he had seen in Cassandra, you were sure that the disgust and needless guilt would submerge him fully under soon enough.

“10k, it’s okay,” you told him, smiling despite your shaking body. Anybody would be a fool not fear him, even more so now that he was under a certain cynical blue man’s control.

“It’s okay. If you hurt me it’s okay, I’ll let you. I’ll forgive you no matter what.”

Even in the state of mind he was in, frenetic with the side effects of Murphy’s bite, your words reached the back of his head where his thoughts were only as loud as a whisper— and his heart swelled at your gentle words. Even though it had only been a few days since he last saw you, you seemed so much more beautiful than before. Your voice seemed sweeter and your eyes, deeper. He wondered if you had always looked that way and he was just a blind idiot. More notably, he wondered if anybody else had seen you the way he was seeing you. The thought of it made him uncomfortable, and even a bit upset.

Before he had the time to think next about what you were doing, you somehow managed to flip him over and get on top of him, now hovering over him— letting any tears that were left drip onto his abnormally pale face.

“Y/N?” His voice croaked out, looking up at you— torn.

“I’ll come back for you, I promise.”

Before he could say anything more or think about the words you had spoken, you jumped off of him and went running back to where Warren and the others were waiting for you. You didn’t say anything to them, you couldn’t. You were still in shock.

There were a lot of questions you needed answers to, and you were not going to settle until all of them were answered.

[winchesterandpie]

Part of the Company Part 5 (Thorin x reader)

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader

Word count: 3332

Warnings: None

A/N: A million billion thanks to the amazing @jezzula for helping me edit (seriously, you’re the best, ily)! We’re still on a bit of a slow burn here, but you’ll have to see how much longer that lasts... *evil cackling* Gif is not mine! Translations are from https://islenthatur.wordpress.com/welcome/ 

Enjoy!! I love you all!!

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

I did not like this bag. It was itchy, it was restrictive, it was currently impeding me from going on a murderous rage, and just an overall 1/10 experience, to say nothing of our impending fate of being eaten. I wouldn’t recommend it. To be fair, I wasn’t on the spit yet, but being under a pile of dwarves wasn’t much better.

“Don’t bother cooking them. Let’s just sit on them and squash them into jelly.” Now, that sounded like a thoroughly unpleasant prospect.

“They should be sautéed and grilled with a sprinkle of sage.” At least with that idea my death wouldn’t be wholly unstylish. Points for artistic creativity to that troll.

“Ooh, that does sound quite nice.” The dwarves were grumbling and complaining about the situation, but I had tuned them out in the hopes of hearing something useful.

“Never mind the seasoning; we ain’t got all night!” Oh? This could be interesting. “Dawn ain’t far away, so let’s get a move on. I don’t fancy being turned to stone.” Definitely interesting. Now I just had to get out from under a pile of dwarves and stall the trolls. As it just so happened, Bilbo had the same idea as I did, and he was on top of the pile.

“Wait! You’re making a terrible mistake!” Bilbo called.

“You can’t reason with them, they’re half-wits!”

“Half-wits? What does that make us?” Somehow, after more than a century with dwarves, it never failed to surprise me how thick-skulled dwarves could be. Bilbo hopped up in his sack, turning to the trolls.

“Uh, I meant with the, uh, with, uh, with the seasoning.” There we go - stalling tactics.

“What about the seasoning?” The trolls’ interest was piqued, especially the one only one who seemed to have any sort of taste buds.

“Well have you smelled them? You’re going to need something stronger than sage before you plate this lot up.” He definitely wasn’t wrong, and I chuckled at the thought. The dwarves, on the other hand, didn’t find it quite as funny.

“What do you know about cooking dwarf?”

“Shut up and let the, uh, flurgaburburrahobbit talk.”

“Uh, the.. the secret to cooking dwarf is, um--” Uh oh. He was freezing up under the scrutiny. Admittedly, for one unaccustomed to such demands, he was doing a decent job. But a decent job could still get us all killed.

“Yes? Come on.”

“It’s, uh”

“Tell us the secret.” The trolls were impatient, and we were running out of time.

“Ye-yes, I’m telling you, the secret is…” Come on, Bilbo, you can do it! “... to skin them first!” Apparently not. That was definitely not the life-saving stalling tactic I’d been hoping for.

“Tom, get me the filleting knife,” the troll said, holding out a hand, as the dwarves breathed out threatenings in Bilbo’s direction. I was too shocked to say anything immediately, and by the time I could more action was unfolding. I probably would have laughed at how nervous he was… if I wasn’t so directly involved in the situation.

“What a load of rubbish! I’ve eaten plenty with their skins on. Scuff them, I say, boots and all.”

“He’s right! Nothing wrong with a bit of raw dwarf!” One of the monsters grabbed Bombur’s sack, lifting it towards his mouth. “Nice and crunchy.”

“Not-- not that one, he--he’s infected!” This idea actually had some potential.

“You what?”

“Yeah, he’s got worms in his… tubes.” That seemed to do the trick - the troll tossed Bombur back onto the pile, and I could practically see the light bulb go off in Bilbo’s head. Unfortunately, this meant that the already limited oxygen in my lungs got forced out abruptly, leaving me gasping for breath for a moment. Breathing hurt, but I couldn’t tell if something was wrong or if it was just the result of the weight piled on top of me.

“In-in fact they all have. They’re infested with parasites. It’s a terrible business - I wouldn’t risk it. I really wouldn’t,” Bilbo said, gaining confidence as he went on.

“Parasites? Did he say parasites?”

“We don’t have parasites! You have parasites!”

“What are you talking about, laddie?”

The dwarves were quite vocal about how much they absolutely did not have parasites. In any other situation it would have been laughing, but here it could prove fatal.

“He’s right!” I shouted over the grumpy dwarves, forcing myself not to gasp at the pain in my chest. “They’ve got a massive infestation. I’ve been traveling with them for a year now - I should know!”

“And you don’t?” The troll raised an eyebrow

“I’m a girl! It’s a well known fact that girls don’t get parasites!”

Thorin seemed to get the message and shot me a look before kicking the others in the pile.

That seemed to jolt them into an understanding, which thankfully diverted the trolls’ attention from the fact that it would indeed make me edible, which I had realized too late.

“I’ve got parasites as big as my arm!”

Mine are the biggest parasites! I’ve got huge parasites!” Ever the competitive one, Kili’s parasites just had to be the biggest. There was no way I was going to let him forget it.

“We’re riddled!”

“Yes, I’m riddled!”

“Yes, we are! Badly!” I was never going to let any of them live this exact moment down.

“What would you have us do, then? Let ‘em all go?” This troll came to stand before Bilbo, and his tone indicated that he was catching on. That couldn’t be a good sign.

“Well…”

“You think I don’t know what you’re up to?” The troll emphasized his point by poking the poor hobbit. “This little ferret is taking us for fools!”

“Ferret?”

“Fools?” Both hobbit and troll sounded indignant at the other troll’s insult. All of a sudden, Gandalf stepped out onto a large rock and relief flooded through my system.

“The dawn will take you all!” The whole company seemed to take a breath in relief at the wizard’s appearance.

“Who’s that?” one of the trolls asked.

“No idea.”

“Can we eat ‘im too?”

In an instant that seemed to freeze in time, Gandalf lifted up the staff before slamming it down onto the ground, causing the rock to split in two. Light flooded the clearing and the trolls tried to shield their eyes as slowly their skin seemed to turn to drying clay. With a final growl, they hardened in place, frozen forever as stone statues.

Cheers went up from the grinning dwarves and I laughed giddily. Even Thorin cracked a smile. We were safe now.

“Oh, get your foot out of my back!” Dwalin grumbled loudly.

Bilbo and Gandalf got the first of the dwarves’ scratchy burlap prisons untied, and the dwarves moved to help the others. Once the pile was cleared from off the top of me, Kili bent to cut open the sack while Fili did the same for his uncle.  Several set to getting the dwarves off the spit after putting out the fire from below them.

“Are you alright?” Thorin was at my side as soon as we were both free, scanning me for injuries as he poked and prodded my abdomen. I wasn’t about to tell him I had messed up my ribs - he was too concerned for me already

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” I insisted, but when he hit one of my ribs, I couldn’t keep from flinching. “Ahhhh. I think I might have bruised a rib or two when Bombur landed on us.”

“Oin!” he called out, worry coloring his tone.

“Thorin, I’ll be fine,” I tried to reassure him. “Really, there’s nothing he can do for a bruised rib.”

“What is it you need, laddie?” Oin approached.

“It’s Y/N’s ribs - she thinks she bruised them when the troll dropped Bombur back onto the pile.” Thorin’s hand was still on my arm, warm and steady.

“I’m sorry to say it, but there’s naught to be done for a rib injury, Thorin.” Oin gestured helplessly. “I can get ya something for the pain when we get a camp set up, lassie.” With another shrug, he turned back to where the other dwarves were.

“Told you so,” I said, breathing as shallowly as possible as I wrapped an arm protectively around myself. “Seriously though, I’ll be alright. It’s nothing a little time won’t fix. Though I think a few more days off firewood collecting duty wouldn’t go amiss.” Thorin chuckled, and I laughed a little before flinching at the pain it caused. This was definitely not going to be a comfortable few days on the road.

“I think we can find a way to ensure that.” His hand still rested on my arm, and the other came up to brush a piece of hair away from my face. He was so close, and I wished desperately that he would just lean a little closer… Whoa, kiddo… Hold your horses, there. I knew full well nothing would ever come of my feelings for Thorin, especially since I wasn’t even from Middle Earth. Gandalf thumping one of the trolls’ foreheads with a satisfied look on his face brought us abruptly out of… whatever that was. “I must speak to Gandalf. Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

“I’ll be fine, worrywart.” I sent him off with a wave and a reassuring smile. He nodded once and turned to Gandalf. Once his concerned gaze left me, I sank down onto a convenient log, holding my ribs in a vain attempt to keep them from moving.

“Y/N? What happened?” A concerned Fili quickly made an appearance at my side, with Kili not far behind him. I tried to wave them off, not keen to have more people worrying and fussing over me. A grumpy, overprotective, sweet king was more than enough. By the valar, I’m hopeless, I thought, rolling my eyes at my mental description of Thorin.

“It’s nothing time won’t heal. I’m fine. Go worry about Bilbo.”

“Are you sure?” Kili’s wide-eyed puppy dog look would’ve had anyone else melting.

“Yes!” I snapped. It wouldn’t work on me today. They held up their hands in meek surrender, backing off to go find the hobbit. I’d have to apologize later.

“You lot, on your feet. We’re going looking for the troll’s cave.” There was grumbling at the order, there always was when the company had to get up, but they rose nonetheless.

“Up you get.” Thorin extended a hand to me when he was within reach, his voice gentler than it had been a moment ago.

“Do I have to?” I tried Kili’s tactic of puppy-dog eyes, not wanting to move just yet.

“We have to keep moving, my azaghâl (warrior).” Apparently I wasn’t as adept at it as Kili was. “I wish I could give you more than that.”

“Fine,” I sighed dramatically. “Help me up, then.” With a mischievous grin, he lifted me carefully in his arms and started walking back toward our horses.

“Put me down, you ridiculous dwarf!” I smacked him playfully on the shoulder. “My legs are still perfectly functional.”

“You didn’t really think I’d be so cruel as to make you walk all the way to your horse after making you get up, did you?”

“I know better than to expect anything from the Heir of Durin. Anything but trouble, that is,” I teased affectionately, feeling the rumble of his laughter in his chest.

“If you hadn’t gone and injured yourself, I’d be seriously considering dropping you right now.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“I suppose I’ll let you off with a warning this time. After all, what would Dis say?” He set me down next to Obsidian just long enough to pick me up by my waist and lift me onto the horse’s back. “Can you manage to stay on him on your own?”

“I’ll be fine, Thorin,” I reassured him. “Let’s just find that troll cave so I can sleep.” With a nod, he turned to lead company, the rest of which had remained on foot.

I just can’t leave you alone for ten minutes, can I? Obsidian’s gaze seemed to ask me as the dark-haired dwarf looked over his shoulder at my repeatedly. He’s worried about you.

“Hush, Dian. He worries about everyone in the company.”

Not like how he worries about you.

“Oh please, he’s a king. Thorin could never think of a commoner like that, let alone me.”

Obsidian flicked his ears in disagreement, but dropped the subject.

It wasn’t long before the cave was found. Reeking like nothing else I’d ever smelled certainly helped lead us to it.

“‘Stay out here.’ ‘Don’t get off the horse.’” I mimicked, complete with obnoxious expressions. “Ugh. Dwarves.”

You’re the one who likes him. Obsidian rattled his mane at me.

“Oh, be quiet. It doesn’t matter anyways.”

I would have much rather been exploring the troll hoard than stuck outside doing nothing as Thorin had insisted. On the other hand, I was grateful for the fresh air. Even from out here, I could smell a little of what the inside must’ve smelled like, and it wasn’t pleasant.

“We’re makin’ a long term deposit,” Gloin explained himself to Dwalin, who was making a face at their digging.

“Let’s get out of this foul place. Come on, let’s go!” Thorin’s commanding voice rang out, but the dwarves kept burying their treasure. “ Bofur! Gloin! Nori!” Reluctantly, they stood, kicking a last spray of dirt before they obeyed Thorin.

The king himself came towards me, a new sword and bow in hand.

“Find anything interesting?”

“An elvish sword and an elvish bow caught my eye. I wondered if you might like to have the bow?” He extended the bow to me to examine. I took it, awed by the fine workmanship.

“Thorin, this is incredible! Thank you.” I reached out a hand to rest on his shoulder in gratitude. He smiled at my enthusiasm, lifting his hand to cover mine. I would’ve hugged him if he wouldn’t have had a fit the moment I tried to get off the horse.

“I’m glad you like it.” His fingers intertwined with mine. “I hope it serves you well.” A sudden commotion of wildlife in the trees had us tensing up.

“Thorin? What do you think that is?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, dropping my hand to draw his sword before alerting the company. “Something’s coming!”

“Gandalf!”

“Stay together! Hurry now! Arm yourselves,” Gandalf rallied the dwarves, jogging together into the trees. I laid an arrow on my new bowstring, ready for whatever would come.

A sled drawn by rabbits came crashing through the trees toward us. The scruffy, brown-clad figure pulled them to a stop by us.

“Thieves! Fire! Murder!” He shouted. That was never something reassuring to hear from someone you didn’t know.

“Radagast! Radagast the Brown!” Gandalf warmly greeted the new person. Since Gandalf relaxed, the rest of us relaxed too, content to trust Gandalf. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you, Gandalf. Something’s wrong. Something’s terribly wrong.”

“Yes?” That didn’t sound like good news at all.

Radagast opened his mouth, making as if to speak, only he didn’t. His mouth closed again, before repeating several times, as though he’d forgotten what he was about to say.

“Oh, just give me a minute. Um… Oh, I had a thought, and now I’ve lost it. It was… it was right there - on the tip of my tongue!” He curled his tongue, making an odd face as Gandalf’s brows drew together. “Oh, it’s not a thought at all - it’s a silly old…” He paused briefly as the grey wizard pulled a bug out of his mouth. “Stick insect!” Radagast finished.

That was definitely not the “impressive wizard” image that Gandalf seemed to carefully cultivate, and I could tell that the dwarves were more than confused by it. I think Gandalf could tell, for he led Radagast a little ways away so that they could discuss their “wizard business” in private.

“Am I allowed down now?”

“I’ve a feeling something is coming. I would feel better if you stayed up there for now.”

“Thorin, you realize that I can defend myself, right?” I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Of course you can, I taught you myself.”

“Then why don’t you trust me to do it?” I’m sure my eyes betrayed something of what I felt, and his eyes softened immediately.

“I do, Y/N. I do trust you.” He set one of his hands on my knee, as if urging me to understand something. “I just… I can’t risk losing you.”

“You won’t lose me, Melhekhul! (my king) I simply wish to be more helpful than I can be here.”

“Normally, I would agree with you, but you’re injured right now, and I have a bad feeling that something is on its way. Something dangerous.” This memory of the movie was coming back to me, and he was right - wargs were coming.

“I suppose you have a point.” I dropped my eyes from his gaze. After all, he was right, and it was obvious that he was being careful because he cared and not to try to annoy me.

A howl split the air, a little ways in the distance, making my hair stand on end. Obsidian’s ears flicked back and forth as he pranced around uneasily.

“Was that a wolf? Are there -- are there wolves out there?” Bilbo looked up suddenly, clearly on edge.

“Wolves? No, that is not a wolf.” Bofur answered him

“Thorin, look out!” I shouted when I saw a warg appear above us. It leapt down, but Thorin quickly struck it with Orcrist, killing it instantly. While his sword was still stuck in the warg’s corpse, another one showed its ugly head on the other side. Kili got off a shot at it, and it fell close to Thorin, but it wasn’t dead yet. I took a shot at it, my arrow piercing directly through its eye and into its brain at the same moment that Dwalin hit it hard with an axe.

“Warg-Scouts! Which means an Orc pack is not far behind.” Thorin said urgently as he freed his sword.

“Orc pack?”

“Don’t worry, Bilbo, we’ll protect you,” I assured him, hoping to be able to make good on that.

“Who did you tell about your quest, beyond your kin?”

“No one,” Thorin answered the wizard’s query.

“Who did you tell?” I could see where Gandalf’s urgency came from - somebody was after us, and somehow they had to have learned of our quest.

“No one, I swear,” Thorin insisted. “What in Durin’s name is going on?”

“You’re being hunted.” At those words, Thorin moved closer to me, as though attempting to stand between me and the danger we could not see.

“We have to get out of here.”

“We can’t! We have no ponies; they bolted.” If I were a horse, I definitely would’ve bolted as well. I was lucky that Obsidian hadn’t, though the pony was a brave one. His muscles were taut, his ears pinned flat, but he hadn’t run.

“I’ll draw them off,” Radagast offered.

“These are Gundabad Wargs, they will outrun you,” Gandalf pointed it out as though it were obvious.

“These are Rhosgobel Rabbits. I’d like to see them try.” The Brown Wizard smirked, taking it for a challenge.

“I’ll help draw them off.” I nudged Obsidian forward a couple of steps.

“No, I forbid it.”

“Thorin, I could be helpful. If you insist that I stay on Obsidian, then at least let me help.”

“Did you not hear Gandalf? These are Gundabad Wargs.”

“So what? Not even a Gundabad Warg can outrun a pony. And I’ve got a bow and plenty of arrows.” He was hesitating - my logic was wearing down his opposition, if only because the number of options was limited.

“Alright. But don’t take unnecessary risks, do you understand me?”

“Thorin, I’ll be fine. Now let’s go before they find us.”

Muahahaha... Gotta love cliffhangers, right? Hope you enjoyed!

Part Six 

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Jon

Are you well, Snow?" Lord Mormont asked, scowling. "Well," his raven squawked. "Well." "I am, my lord," Jon lied . . . loudly, as if that could make it true. "And you?" Mormont frowned. "A dead man tried to kill me. How well could I be?" He scratched under his chin. His shaggy grey beard had been singed in the fire, and he'd hacked it off. The pale stubble of his new whiskers made him look old, disreputable, and grumpy. "You do not look well. How is your hand?" "Healing." Jon flexed his bandaged fingers to show him. He had burned himself more badly than he knew throwing the flaming drapes, and his right hand was swathed in silk halfway to the elbow. At the time he'd felt nothing; the agony had come after. His cracked red skin oozed fluid, and fearsome blood blisters rose between his fingers, big as roaches. "The maester says I'll have scars, but otherwise the hand should be as good as it was before." "A scarred hand is nothing. On the Wall, you'll be wearing gloves often as not." "As you say, my lord." It was not the thought of scars that troubled Jon; it was the rest of it. Maester Aemon had given him milk of the poppy, yet even so, the pain had been hideous. At first it had felt as if his hand were still aflame, burning day and night. Only plunging it into basins of snow and shaved ice gave any relief at all. Jon thanked the gods that no one but Ghost saw him writhing on his bed, whimpering from the pain. And when at last he did sleep, he dreamt, and that was even worse. In the dream, the corpse he fought had blue eyes, black hands, and his father's face, but he dared not tell Mormont that. "Dywen and Hake returned last night," the Old Bear said. "They found no sign of your uncle, no more than the others did." "I know." Jon had dragged himself to the common hall to sup with his friends, and the failure of the rangers' search had been all the men had been talking of. "You know," Mormont grumbled. "How is it that everyone knows everything around here?" He did not seem to expect an answer. "It would seem there were only the two of . . . of those creatures, whatever they were, I will not call them men. And thank the gods for that. Any more and . . . well, that doesn't bear thinking of. There will be more, though. I can feel it in these old bones of mine, and Maester Aemon agrees. The cold winds are rising. Summer is at an end, and a winter is coming such as this world has never seen." Winter is coming. The Stark words had never sounded so grim or ominous to Jon as they did now. "My lord," he asked hesitantly, "it's said there was a bird last night . . . " "There was. What of it?" "I had hoped for some word of my father." "Father," taunted the old raven, bobbing its head as it walked across Mormont's shoulders. "Father." The Lord Commander reached up to pinch its beak shut, but the raven hopped up on his head, fluttered its wings, and flew across the chamber to light above a window. "Grief and noise," Mormont grumbled. "That's all they're good for, ravens. Why I put up with that pestilential bird . . . if there was news of Lord Eddard, don't you think I would have sent for you? Bastard or no, you're still his blood. The message concerned Ser Barristan Selmy. It seems he's been removed from the Kingsguard. They gave his place to that black dog Clegane, and now Selmy's wanted for treason. The fools sent some watchmen to seize him, but he slew two of them and escaped." Mormont snorted, leaving no doubt of his view of men who'd send gold cloaks against a knight as renowed as Barristan the Bold. "We have white shadows in the woods and unquiet dead stalking our halls, and a boy sits the Iron Throne," he said in disgust. The raven laughed shrilly. "Boy, boy, boy, boy." Ser Barristan had been the Old Bear's best hope, Jon remembered; if he had fallen, what chance was there that Mormont's letter would be heeded? He curled his hand into a fist. Pain shot through his burned fingers. "What of my sisters?" "The message made no mention of Lord Eddard or the girls." He gave an irritated shrug. "Perhaps they never got my letter. Aemon sent two copies, with his best birds, but who can say? More like, Pycelle did not deign to reply. It would not be the first time, nor the last. I fear we count for less than nothing in King's Landing. They tell us what they want us to know, and that's little enough." And you tell me what you want me to know, and that's less, Jon thought resentfully. His brother Robb had called the banners and ridden south to war, yet no word of that had been breathed to him . . . save by Samwell Tarly, who'd read the letter to Maester Aemon and whispered its contents to Jon that night in secret, all the time saying how he shouldn't. Doubtless they thought his brother's war was none of his concern. It troubled him more than he could say. Robb was marching and he was not. No matter how often Jon told himself that his place was here now, with his new brothers on the Wall, he still felt craven. "Corn," the raven was crying. "Corn, corn." "Oh, be quiet," the Old Bear told it. "Snow, how soon does Maester Aemon say you'll have use of that hand back?" "Soon," Jon replied. "Good." On the table between them, Lord Mormont laid a large sword in a black metal scabbard banded with silver. "Here. You'll be ready for this, then." The raven flapped down and landed on the table, strutting toward the sword, head cocked curiously. Jon hesitated. He had no inkling what this meant. "My lord?" "The fire melted the silver off the pommel and burnt the crossguard and grip. Well, dry leather and old wood, what could you expect? The blade, now . . . you'd need a fire a hundred times as hot to harm the blade." Mormont shoved the scabbard across the rough oak planks. "I had the rest made anew. Take it." "Take it," echoed his raven, preening. "Take it, take it." Awkwardly, Jon took the sword in hand. His left hand; his bandaged right was still too raw and clumsy. Carefully he pulled it from its scabbard and raised it level with his eyes. The pommel was a hunk of pale stone weighted with lead to balance the long blade. It had been carved into the likeness of a snarling wolf's head, with chips of garnet set into the eyes. The grip was virgin leather, soft and black, as yet unstained by sweat or blood. The blade itself was a good half foot longer than those Jon was used to, tapered to thrust as well as slash, with three fullers deeply incised in the metal. Where Ice was a true two-handed greatsword, this was a hand-and-a-halfer, sometimes named a "bastard sword." Yet the wolf sword actually seemed lighter than the blades he had wielded before. When Jon turned it sideways, he could see the ripples in the dark steel where the metal had been folded back on itself again and again. "This is Valyrian steel, my lord," he said wonderingly. His father had let him handle Ice often enough; he knew the look, the feel. "It is," the Old Bear told him. "It was my father's sword, and his father's before him. The Mormonts have carried it for five centuries. I wielded it in my day and passed it on to my son when I took the black." He is giving me his son's sword. Jon could scarcely believe it. The blade was exquisitely balanced. The edges glimmered faintly as they kissed the light. "Your son—" "My son brought dishonor to House Mormont, but at least he had the grace to leave the sword behind when he fled. My sister returned it to my keeping, but the very sight of it reminded me of Jorah's shame, so I put it aside and thought no more of it until we found it in the ashes of my bedchamber. The original pommel was a bear's head, silver, yet so worn its features were all but indistinguishable. For you, I thought a white wolf more apt. One of our builders is a fair stonecarver." When Jon had been Bran's age, he had dreamed of doing great deeds, as boys always did. The details of his feats changed with every dreaming, but quite often he imagined saving his father's life. Afterward Lord Eddard would declare that Jon had proved himself a true Stark, and place Ice in his hand. Even then he had known it was only a child's folly; no bastard could ever hope to wield a father's sword. Even the memory shamed him. What kind of man stole his own brother's birthright? I have no right to this, he thought, no more than to Ice. He twitched his burned fingers, feeling a throb of pain deep under the skin. "My lord, you honor me, but—" "Spare me your but's, boy," Lord Mormont interrupted. "I would not be sitting here were it not for you and that beast of yours. You fought bravely . . . and more to the point, you thought quickly. Fire! Yes, damn it. We ought to have known. We ought to have remembered. The Long Night has come before. Oh, eight thousand years is a good while, to be sure . . . yet if the Night's Watch does not remember, who will?" "Who will," chimed the talkative raven. "Who will." Truly, the gods had heard Jon's prayer that night; the fire had caught in the dead man's clothing and consumed him as if his flesh were candle wax and his bones old dry wood. Jon had only to close his eyes to see the thing staggering across the solar, crashing against the furniture and flailing at the flames. It was the face that haunted him most; surrounded by a nimbus of fire, hair blazing like straw, the dead flesh melting away and sloughing off its skull to reveal the gleam of bone beneath. Whatever demonic force moved Othor had been driven out by the flames; the twisted thing they had found in the ashes had been no more than cooked meat and charred bone. Yet in his nightmare he faced it again . . . and this time the burning corpse wore Lord Eddard's features. It was his father's skin that burst and blackened, his father's eyes that ran liquid down his cheeks like jellied tears. Jon did not understand why that should be or what it might mean, but it frightened him more than he could say. "A sword's small payment for a life," Mormont concluded. "Take it, I'll hear no more of it, is that understood?" "Yes, my lord." The soft leather gave beneath Jon's fingers, as if the sword were molding itself to his grip already. He knew he should be honored, and he was, and yet . . . He is not my father. The thought leapt unbidden to Jon's mind. Lord Eddard Stark is my father. I will not forget him, no matter how many swords they give me. Yet he could scarcely tell Lord Mormont that it was another man's sword he dreamt of . . . "I want no courtesies either," Mormont said, "so thank me no thanks. Honor the steel with deeds, not words." Jon nodded. "Does it have a name, my lord?" "It did, once. Longclaw, it was called." "Claw," the raven cried. "Claw." "Longclaw is an apt name." Jon tried a practice cut. He was clumsy and uncomfortable with his left hand, yet even so the steel seemed to flow through the air, as if it had a will of its own. "Wolves have claws, as much as bears." The Old Bear seemed pleased by that. "I suppose they do. You'll want to wear that over the shoulder, I imagine. It's too long for the hip, at least until you've put on a few inches. And you'll need to work at your two-handed strikes as well. Ser Endrew can show you some moves, when your burns have healed." "Ser Endrew?" Jon did not know the name. "Ser Endrew Tarth, a good man. He's on his way from the ShadowTower to assume the duties of master-at-arms. Ser Alliser Thorne left yestermorn for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea." Jon lowered the sword. "Why?" he said, stupidly. Mormont snorted. "Because I sent him, why do you think? He's bringing the hand your Ghost tore off the end of Jafer Flowers's wrist. I have commanded him to take ship to King's Landing and lay it before this boy king. That should get young Joffrey's attention, I'd think . . . and Ser Alliser's a knight, highborn, anointed, with old friends at court, altogether harder to ignore than a glorified crow." "Crow." Jon thought the raven sounded faintly indignant. "As well," the Lord Commander continued, ignoring the bird's protest, "it puts a thousand leagues twixt him and you without it seeming a rebuke." He jabbed a finger up at Jon's face. "And don't think this means I approve of that nonsense in the common hall. Valor makes up for a fair amount of folly, but you're not a boy anymore, however many years you've seen. That's a man's sword you have there, and it will take a man to wield her. I'll expect you to act the part, henceforth." "Yes, my lord." Jon slid the sword back into the silver-banded scabbard. If not the blade he would have chosen, it was nonetheless a noble gift, and freeing him from Alliser Thorne's malignance was nobler still. The Old Bear scratched at his chin. "I had forgotten how much a new beard itches," he said. "Well, no help for that. Is that hand of yours healed enough to resume your duties?" "Yes, my lord." "Good. The night will be cold, I'll want hot spice wine. Find me a flagon of red, not too sour, and don't skimp on the spices. And tell Hobb that if he sends me boiled mutton again I'm like to boil him. That last haunch was grey. Even the bird wouldn't touch it." He stroked the raven's head with his thumb, and the bird made a contented quorking sound. "Away with you. I've work to do." The guards smiled at him from their niches as he wound his way down the turret stair, carrying the sword in his good hand. "Sweet steel," one man said. "You earned that, Snow," another told him. Jon made himself smile back at them, but his heart was not in it. He knew he should be pleased, yet he did not feel it. His hand ached, and the taste of anger was in his mouth, though he could not have said who he was angry with or why. A half dozen of his friends were lurking outside when he left the King's Tower, where Lord Commander Mormont now made his residence. They'd hung a target on the granary doors, so they could seem to be honing their skills as archers, but he knew lurkers when he saw them. No sooner did he emerge than Pyp called out, "Well, come about, let's have a look." "At what?" Jon said. Toad sidled close. "Your rosy butt cheeks, what else?" "The sword," Grenn stated. "We want to see the sword." Jon raked them with an accusing look. "You knew." Pyp grinned. "We're not all as dumb as Grenn." "You are so," insisted Grenn. "You're dumber." Halder gave an apologetic shrug. "I helped Pate carve the stone for the pommel," the builder said, "and your friend Sam bought the garnets in Mole's Town." "We knew even before that, though," Grenn said. "Rudge has been helping Donal Noye in the forge. He was there when the Old Bear brought him the burnt blade." "The sword!" Matt insisted. The others took up the chant. "The sword, the sword, the sword." Jon unsheathed Longclaw and showed it to them, turning it this way and that so they could admire it. The bastard blade glittered in the pale sunlight, dark and deadly. "Valyrian steel," he declared solemnly, trying to sound as pleased and proud as he ought to have felt. "I heard of a man who had a razor made of Valyrian steel," declared Toad. "He cut his head off trying to shave." Pyp grinned. "The Night's Watch is thousands of years old," he said, "but I'll wager Lord Snow's the first brother ever honored for burning down the Lord Commander's Tower." The others laughed, and even Jon had to smile. The fire he'd started had not, in truth, burned down that formidable stone tower, but it had done a fair job of gutting the interior of the top two floors, where the Old Bear had his chambers. No one seemed to mind that very much, since it had also destroyed Othor's murderous corpse. The other wight, the one-handed thing that had once been a ranger named Jafer Flowers, had also been destroyed, cut near to pieces by a dozen swords . . . but not before it had slain Ser Jaremy Rykker and four other men. Ser Jaremy had finished the job of hacking its head off, yet had died all the same when the headless corpse pulled his own dagger from its sheath and buried it in his bowels. Strength and courage did not avail much against foemen who would not fall because they were already dead; even arms and armor offered small protection. That grim thought soured Jon's fragile mood. "I need to see Hobb about the Old Bear's supper," he announced brusquely, sliding Longclaw back into its scabbard. His friends meant well, but they did not understand. It was not their fault, truly; they had not had to face Othor, they had not seen the pale glow of those dead blue eyes, had not felt the cold of those dead black fingers. Nor did they know of the fighting in the riverlands. How could they hope to comprehend? He turned away from them abruptly and strode off, sullen. Pyp called after him, but Jon paid him no mind. They had moved him back to his old cell in tumbledown Hardin's Tower after the fire, and it was there he returned. Ghost was curled up asleep beside the door, but he lifted his head at the sound of Jon's boots. The direwolf's red eyes were darker than garnets and wiser than men. Jon knelt, scratched his ear, and showed him the pommel of the sword. "Look. It's you." Ghost sniffed at his carved stone likeness and tried a lick. Jon smiled. "You're the one deserves an honor," he told the wolf . . . and suddenly he found himself remembering how he'd found him, that day in the late summer snow. They had been riding off with the other pups, but Jon had heard a noise and turned back, and there he was, white fur almost invisible against the drifts. He was all alone, he thought, apart from the others in the litter. He was different, so they drove him out. "Jon?" He looked up. Samwell Tarly stood rocking nervously on his heels. His cheeks were red, and he was wrapped in a heavy fur cloak that made him look ready for hibernation. "Sam." Jon stood. "What is it? Do you want to see the sword?" If the others had known, no doubt Sam did too. The fat boy shook his head. "I was heir to my father's blade once," he said mournfully. "Heartsbane. Lord Randyll let me hold it a few times, but it always scared me. It was Valyrian steel, beautiful but so sharp I was afraid I'd hurt one of my sisters. Dickon will have it now." He wiped sweaty hands on his cloak. "I ah . . . Maester Aemon wants to see you." It was not time for his bandages to be changed. Jon frowned suspiciously. "Why?" he demanded. Sam looked miserable. That was answer enough. "You told him, didn't you?" Jon said angrily. "You told him that you told me." "I . . . he . . . Jon, I didn't want to . . . he asked . . . I mean I think he knew, he sees things no one else sees . . . " "He's blind," Jon pointed out forcefully, disgusted. "I can find the way myself." He left Sam standing there, openmouthed and quivering. He found Maester Aemon up in the rookery, feeding the ravens. Clydas was with him, carrying a bucket of chopped meat as they shuffled from cage to cage. "Sam said you wanted me?" The maester nodded. "I did indeed. Clydas, give Jon the bucket. Perhaps he will be kind enough to assist me." The hunched, pink-eyed brother handed Jon the bucket and scurried down the ladder. "Toss the meat into the cages," Aemon instructed him. "The birds will do the rest. " Jon shifted the bucket to his right hand and thrust his left down into the bloody bits. The ravens began to scream noisily and fly at the bars, beating at the metal with night-black wings. The meat had been chopped into pieces no larger than a finger joint. He filled his fist and tossed the raw red morsels into the cage, and the squawking and squabbling grew hotter. Feathers flew as two of the larger birds fought over a choice piece. Quickly Jon grabbed a second handful and threw it in after the first. "Lord Mormont's raven likes fruit and corn." "He is a rare bird," the maester said. "Most ravens will eat grain, but they prefer flesh. It makes them strong, and I fear they relish the taste of blood. In that they are like men . . . and like men, not all ravens are alike." Jon had nothing to say to that. He threw meat, wondering why he'd been summoned. No doubt the old man would tell him, in his own good time. Maester Aemon was not a man to be hurried. "Doves and pigeons can also be trained to carry messages," the maester went on, "though the raven is a stronger flyer, larger, bolder, far more clever, better able to defend itself against hawks . . . yet ravens are black, and they eat the dead, so some godly men abhor them. Baelor the Blessed tried to replace all the ravens with doves, did you know?" The maester turned his white eyes on Jon, smiling. "The Night's Watch prefers ravens." Jon's fingers were in the bucket, blood up to the wrist. "Dywen says the wildlings call us crows," he said uncertainty. "The crow is the raven's poor cousin. They are both beggars in black, hated and misunderstood." Jon wished he understood what they were talking about, and why. What did he care about ravens and doves? If the old man had something to say to him, why couldn't he just say it? "Jon, did you ever wonder why the men of the Night's Watch take no wives and father no children?" Maester Aemon asked. Jon shrugged. "No." He scattered more meat. The fingers of his left hand were slimy with blood, and his right throbbed from the weight of the bucket. "So they will not love," the old man answered, "for love is the bane of honor, the death of duty." That did not sound right to Jon, yet he said nothing. The maester was a hundred years old, and a high officer of the Night's Watch; it was not his place to contradict him. The old man seemed to sense his doubts. "Tell me, Jon, if the day should ever come when your lord father must needs choose between honor on the one hand and those he loves on the other, what would he do?" Jon hesitated. He wanted to say that Lord Eddard would never dishonor himself, not even for love, yet inside a small sly voice whispered, He fathered a bastard, where was the honor in that? And your mother, what of his duty to her, he will not even say her name. "He would do whatever was right," he said . . . ringingly, to make up for his hesitation. "No matter what." "Then Lord Eddard is a man in ten thousand. Most of us are not so strong. What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms . . . or the memory of a brother's smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy. "The men who formed the Night's Watch knew that only their courage shielded the realm from the darkness to the north. They knew they must have no pided loyalties to weaken their resolve. So they vowed they would have no wives nor children. "Yet brothers they had, and sisters. Mothers who gave them birth, fathers who gave them names. They came from a hundred quarrelsome kingdoms, and they knew times may change, but men do not. So they pledged as well that the Night's Watch would take no part in the battles of the realms it guarded. "They kept their pledge. When Aegon slew Black Harren and claimed his kingdom, Harren's brother was Lord Commander on the Wall, with ten thousand swords to hand. He did not march. In the days when the Seven Kingdoms were seven kingdoms, not a generation passed that three or four of them were not at war. The Watch took no part. When the Andals crossed the narrow sea and swept away the kingdoms of the First Men, the sons of the fallen kings held true to their vows and remained at their posts. So it has always been, for years beyond counting. Such is the price of honor. "A craven can be as brave as any man, when there is nothing to fear. And we all do our duty, when there is no cost to it. How easy it seems then, to walk the path of honor. Yet soon or late in every man's life comes a day when it is not easy, a day when he must choose." Some of the ravens were still eating, long stringy bits of meat dangling from their beaks. The rest seemed to be watching him. Jon could feel the weight of all those tiny black eyes. "And this is my day . . . is that what you're saying?" Maester Aemon turned his head and looked at him with those dead white eyes. It was as if he were seeing right into his heart. Jon felt naked and exposed. He took the bucket in both hands and flung the rest of the slops through the bars. Strings of meat and blood flew everywhere, scattering the ravens. They took to the air, shrieking wildly. The quicker birds snatched morsels on the wing and gulped them down greedily. Jon let the empty bucket clang to the floor. The old man laid a withered, spotted hand on his shoulder. "It hurts, boy," he said softly. "Oh, yes. Choosing . . . it has always hurt. And always will. I know." "You don't know," Jon said bitterly. "No one knows. Even if I am his bastard, he's still my father . . . " Maester Aemon sighed. "Have you heard nothing I've told you, Jon? Do you think you are the first?" He shook his ancient head, a gesture weary beyond words. "Three times the gods saw fit to test my vows. Once when I was a boy, once in the fullness of my manhood, and once when I had grown old. By then my strength was fled, my eyes grown dim, yet that last choice was as cruel as the first. My ravens would bring the news from the south, words darker than their wings, the ruin of my House, the death of my kin, disgrace and desolation. What could I have done, old, blind, frail? I was helpless as a suckling babe, yet still it grieved me to sit forgotten as they cut down my brother's poor grandson, and his son, and even the little children . . . " Jon was shocked to see the shine of tears in the old man's eyes. "Who are you?" he asked quietly, almost in dread. A toothless smile quivered on the ancient lips. "Only a maester of the Citadel, bound in service to Castle Black and the Night's Watch. In my order, we put aside our house names when we take our vows and don the collar." The old man touched the maester's chain that hung loosely around his thin, fleshless neck. "My father was Maekar, the First of his Name, and my brother Aegon reigned after him in my stead. My grandfather named me for Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, who was his uncle, or his father, depending on which tale you believe. Aemon, he called me . . . " "Aemon . . . Targaryen?" Jon could scarcely believe it. "Once," the old man said. "Once. So you see, Jon, I do know . . . and knowing, I will not tell you stay or go. You must make that choice yourself, and live with it all the rest of your days. As I have." His voice fell to a whisper. "As I have . . . "