#grenn light

[background-worthy]

[need-to-change-my-life]

[thelustybraavosimaid]

What is your Favorite Jon Snow Moment?

"The Wall will stop them," Jon heard himself say. He turned and said it again, louder. "The Wall will stop them. The Wall defends itself." Hollow words, but he needed to say them, almost as much as his brothers needed to hear them. "Mance wants to unman us with his numbers. Does he think we're stupid?" He was shouting now, his leg forgotten, and every man was listening. "The chariots, the horsemen, all those fools on foot...what are they going to do to us up here? Any of you ever see a mammoth climb a wall?" He laughed, and Pyp and Owen and half a dozen more laughed with him. "They're nothing, they're less use than our straw brothers here, they can't reach us, they can't hurt us, and they don't frighten us, do they?"

"NO!" Grenn shouted.

"They're down there and we're up here," Jon said, "and so long as we hold the gate they cannot pass. They cannot pass!" They were all shouting then, roaring his own words back at him, waving swords and longbows in the air as their cheeks flushed red. Jon saw Kegs standing there with a warhorn slung beneath his arm. "Brother," he told him, "sound for battle." (Jon VIII, ASoS)

Still upset that they didn't let Jon have this kind of moment in the show. Instead they gave it to...Alliser...

He laughed, and Pyp and Owen and half a dozen more laughed with him.

I really wanna talk about this part for a bit. I believe it also has significance here, because:

[Joffrey] laughed...and when the king laughs, the court laughs with him. (Sansa IV, ASoS)

:)

My second one is this:

"The lord commander must pardon my bluntness, but I have no softer way to say this. What you propose is nothing less than treason. For eight thousand years the men of the Night's Watch have stood upon the Wall and fought these wildlings. Now you mean to let them pass, to shelter them in our castles, to feed them and clothe them and teach them how to fight. Lord Snow, must I remind you? You swore an oath."

"I know what I swore." Jon said the words. "I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. Were those the same words you said when you took your vows?"

"They were. As the lord commander knows."

"Are you certain that I have not forgotten some? The ones about the king and his laws, and how we must defend every foot of his land and cling to each ruined castle? How does that part go?" Jon waited for an answer. None came. "I am the shield that guards the realms of men. Those are the words. So tell me, my lord—what are these wildlings, if not men?"

Bowen Marsh opened his mouth. No words came out. A flush crept up his neck. (Jon XI, ADwD)

Jon has this way about him that really gets people to listen. They may not agree, but they listen, and he gets his points across succinctly.

I like a lot of Jon moments, but those two are certainly my favourites. I like who he is as a character. He's such an internal one, so much of what we know about him is because we have his POV, and I enjoy that. He's snarky, he's stubborn, he's fierce, he's an enigma. Pragmatic, straightforward, brave. (and abnormally strong but that's neither here nor there lol)

He's written incredibly well. Certainly my favourite overall in the series.

[eruherdiriel]

Sam being the most relatable character amidst his heroism:

"Obsidian." Sam struggled to his knees. "Dragonglass, they call it. Dragonglass. Dragon glass." He giggled, and cried, and doubled over to heave his courage out onto the snow. Grenn pulled Sam to his feet, checked Small Paul for a pulse and closed his eyes, then snatched up the dagger again. This time he was able to hold it. "You keep it," Sam said. "You're not craven like me." "So craven you killed an Other." Grenn pointed with the knife. "Look there, through the trees. Pink light. Dawn, Sam. Dawn. That must be east. If we head that way, we should catch Mormont." "If you say." Sam kicked his left foot against a tree, to knock off all the snow. Then the right. "I'll try." Grimacing, he took a step. "I'll try hard." And then another.

Samwell I, A Storm of Swords

[alwaysdaenerys]

Jonerys Falling For You 2024 | Day 1: Cursed

Teaser and moodboard for my new fic, “burn under the same sky”

After a three-day storm blew their cargo ship off course, Captain Jon Snow and his crew were stranded on a deserted island somewhere in the Narrow Sea. With rapidly diminishing provisions, the desperate sailors could find no animals to hunt while they repaired their broken hull, just tropical plants and insects to forage for sustenance in the vast forest. On the third week of isolation, a starving Ghost returned from one of his nightly roamings, snow-white tail burnt blacker than coal. Donning battle armor, Jon went to investigate who or what could have possibly done this much damage to his beloved companion. At the center of the forest, he and a wary Grenn happened upon a hollowed-out rock formation, filled with the charred bones of a variety of woodland creatures. It was no wonder the men were unable to find fresh meat of any kind: there was a wild dragon here.

Venturing further into the fathomless darkness, Jon’s sturdy boatswain grabbed his arm. “I don’t like the look of this place, captain.”

“There,” the black-haired seafarer shone his lantern over a trail of sooty footprints on the ground. “Those are human, and a small one at that. We assumed ourselves alone on this island, Grenn, but it seems we are decidedly not.”

The skeleton pieces became increasingly numerous as they continued forward with hesitation, the most brittle of them crunching loudly with each step, some turning to ash under the weight of their boots. Even with all the fire damage scorching the walls and ceiling, the deep cavern was ice cold, though Jon wasn’t sure this fact inspired confidence.

“Hello?” he shouted, lifting his meager light.

A startled, high-pitched yelp answered him, and the young northerner sprinted towards the sound, concerned. His friend lagged, surely fearful of what lay ahead. But they would have been able to hear the dragon’s distinct breathing if it was truly inside.

“Please, we mean you no harm! My crew and I have been ship-wrecked a few miles east,” Jon explained, heart thrumming rhythmically, like a snare drum. “Do you require assistance?”

No further communication from the disembodied voice was uttered, but he was not deterred. A ringing silence followed, but soon after taking a sharp left turn, his lamp suddenly caught on a bright white-blonde mange of hair, matted and filthy from lack of bathing. Completely naked and shivering in a small crevasse located at the far side of the cave, a woman came into view.

“Gods…” Grenn swore before dropping his shortsword with a loud clatter.

Jon immediately shed his thick sable cloak and wrapped it around the stranger, meaning to carry her delicate body to warmth and safety. She was saturated with the heady scent of smoke: he didn’t think it came from a mere wood fire, just with the amount of burned carnage piled around them, and Jon was intimately acquainted with the smell of tobacco—his first mate always had a brandy pipe between his teeth—therefore that could be ruled out too. It was clearly a dragon’s lair, ample proof surrounding them from every side: so where was the creature?

“Are you real?” she inhaled raggedly, coiling as close to him as possible.

Captain Snow blushed to feel the heat of her breath on his bare neck. “I am fairly certain, yes.”

The girl raised her head slightly, trying to make him out in the shadows. With no warning, a pair of glowing amethyst eyes somehow locked in on his gaze and Jon almost dropped her in shock.

“I have dreamt of this moment a thousand times, brave son of the First Men: of my savior battling the unknown winds and currents of the Sunset Sea to break the crone’s spell.”

Confused by the vast majority of her statement, Jon glanced in the direction of a mute Grenn. “Wait, what do you mean, the Sunset Sea?”

“A red witch expelled me to the furthest edge of the world when I ignited the Fourteen Flames.”

She was obviously delirious, speaking of events that had occurred countless millennia ago. And they were marooned nowhere near the Sunset Sea, because the Lady Lyarra had been journeying from White Harbor to the Bleeding Tower of Tyrosh to transport a load of textiles and blackbelly rum. But the peculiar lady was lucid enough to have guessed his Westerosi lineage, even specifying that he was of the North. Perhaps she was as lost as Jon and his fellow sailors, left here to die by someone who viewed her as a threat. Left here to be devoured by a dragon most likely.

“Does my illustrious deliverer have a name?” she asked softly upon exiting the cave in his arms, mouth right next to Jon’s ear.

In the waning afternoon sun, Snow finally got a proper look at the girl, and the air was promptly seized from his throat, as if he had been pushed from the bow of a ship and into the tumultuous sea. She was quite possibly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen before: no more than eight and ten, the porcelain skin of her arms and legs was pristine, unblemished from the elements; her eyelashes, lush and pale, framed the roundest of pupils and piercing purple irises, so supernaturally expressive and boundless, more hypnotizing than the rest of her; a subtle swathe of tan freckles graced the attractive slope of her nose and noble cheekbones; and finally, her heart-shaped features were perfected by a plump set of baby pink lips that were practically begging to be sampled. Shaking his head from its daze, Jon coughed uneasily: he had encountered many a Lysene lady in his two years as part of Her Majesty’s navy, but they were disgusting trolls compared to her. Based on her story though, the implication was that she was native to Valyria, which was impossible: only the Targaryens remained of that lost city. If the situation wasn’t so out of the ordinary, the girl could be considered a cannibalistic siren of maritime legend.

“You may call me Jon,” he replied, voice husky with awe. “Jon Snow of Winterfell.”

“Jon Snow,” a glistening smile graced her already gorgeous face as she traced the pad of her index finger along his jaw, slow and deliberate. “I was baptized as Daenerys, for the Valyrian moon goddess. But to you, I am ‘Dany’.”

Dany pressed her lips, plusher than the finest velvet, to the corner of Jon’s mouth and then buried her pert nose into the nape of his neck with a relieved sigh. Seemingly unable to resist the temptation, he tightened his hold on the girl protectively as he stumbled back towards camp, Grenn in his wake.

@iceandfirejonerysdiscord

[lavalais76]

Sansa’s Hair/Jon Snow

r/asoiaf 2yr agoRyanBarnes13

The Real Honey Colored Hair(Spoilers Extended) 

EXTENDED

Every reader knows the great song, The Bear and The Maiden Fair, and everyone knows all the theories about Dany/Jorah, Jaime/Brienne. But every single theory misses the most important point. What exactly is honey colored hair? Most everyone assumes honey-blond.... it’s easy to remember, it fits the theories easy, and in martins story it is indeed a type, but not the one your supposed to find.

Dany, Jaime are red herrings. The entire song itself is the story of TWOW. The tourney in the Vale, most lords not selling food, the NW and wildlings and Northerners needing to buy food now that Jon has a loan... and yes Jon is the dancing bear. How? He is a figuratively adopted son of Jeor Mormont. He is given the family sword, trained as Mormonts replacement, is chosen LC after Mormonts bird chooses him.... Jon is a bearded bear. All black (NW black), and dark brown, hair and beard....

Who is his three companions? Pyp, Grenn, and Edison Tollet, who has family in the vale. More than likely. So connections, and there is one more, the goat.

Now this one is tinfoil so far, but he is the hooded man in winterfell. The Blackfish. Who disappeared from the story, and has not gone to any loyal holdfasts, cannot go to the Vale.... But has been described as a goat.

Her uncle listened silently, heavy brows shadowing his eyes as his frown grew deeper. Brynden Tully had always known how to listen … to anyone but her father. He was Lord Hoster's brother, younger by five years, but the two of them had been at war as far back as Catelyn could remember. During one of their louder quarrels, when Catelyn was eight, Lord Hoster had called Brynden "the black goat of the Tully flock." Laughing, Brynden had pointed out that the sigil of their house was a leaping trout, so he ought to be a black fish rather than a black goat, and from that day forward he had taken it as his personal emblem. AGOT Catelyn 6

In AFFC Brienne 5, the high road to the Vale is closed by now. Leaving one loyal area, the Neck. Where the last nobles who went south were headed to find Reed, and deliver the verbal orders. Basically he is the reason the Frey’s disappear. His job in Robb’s army was the outriders.

But back to the point, honey isn’t just honey-blond. It’s actually the color least associated with honey colored hair. The darker the honey, the stronger the taste.... and it is shown throughout almost all the books. Darker honey is brown and looks red in the light.

The first time honeyed hair appears, it is a redhead. Yes a redhead. And tyrion knows women and women’s assets, so we should listen.....

Two other girls sat playing at tiles before a leaded glass window. The freckled one wore a chain of blue flowers in her honeyed hair. The other had skin as smooth and black as polished jet, wide dark eyes, small pointed breasts.” ACOK Tyrion 3

Freckles are a common occurrence with redheads... But by the time we get to Tyrion 7 we have read to much and forgot when we get the actual hair color.

Is milord feeling unloved?” Dancy slid into his lap and nibbled at his ear. “I have a cure for that.” Smiling, Tyrion shook his head. “You are too beautiful for words, sweetling, but I’ve grown fond of Alayaya’s remedy.” “You’ve never tried mine. Milord never chooses anyone but ’Yaya. She’s good but I’m better, don’t you want to see?” “Next time, perhaps.” Tyrion had no doubt that Dancy would be a lively handful. She was pug-nosed and bouncy, with freckles and a mane of thick red hair that tumbled down past her waist. But he had Shae waiting for him at the manse.” ACOK Tyrion 7

Funnily enough, she is a combination of Sansa, and Ygritte. Long haired like Sansa, pug nose and bouncy breasts like Ygritte. Ygritte is ACOK Jon 6 for her pug nose, shaggy mop of red hair that is messy, and ASOS Jon 3 for her breasts...

So red heads are honey colored. And associated with blue flowers in their hair, so let’s see some other examples....

A dark young man and a pretty blonde woman were sharing a horn of mead. A pregnant woman stood over a brazier cooking a brace of hens, while a grey-haired man in a tattered cloak of black and red sat crosslegged on a pillow, playing a lute and singing:” ASOS Jon 1.

Val is blonde.

Val looked at him with pale grey eyes. “He always climbed too fast.” She was as fair as he’d remembered, slender, full-breasted, graceful even at rest, with high sharp cheekbones and a thick braid of honey-colored hair that fell to her waist.” ASOS Jon 10

Pale grey eyed, honey-colored hair.....

Val stood beside him, tall and fair. They had crowned her with a simple circlet of dark bronze, yet she looked more regal in bronze than Stannis did in gold. Her eyes were grey and fearless, unflinching. Beneath an ermine cloak, she wore white and gold. Her honey-blond hair had been done up in a thick braid that hung over her right shoulder to her waist. The chill in the air had put color in her cheeks.” ADWD Jon 3 Grey eyed once again. Honey-blond hair.

The light of the half-moon turned Val’s honey-blond hair a pale silver and left her cheeks as white as snow. She took a deep breath. “The air tastes sweet.”” ADWD Jon 8 And in the moonlight honey-blond hair is a pale silver.

Then Ghost emerged from between two trees, with Val beside him.”

“They look as though they belong together. Val was clad all in white; white woolen breeches tucked into high boots of bleached white leather, white bearskin cloak pinned at the shoulder with a carved weirwood face, white tunic with bone fastenings. Her breath was white as well … but her EYES WERE BLUE, her LONG BRAID THE COLOR OF DARK HONEY, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. It had been a long while since Jon Snow had seen a sight so lovely.” ADWD Jon 11

And here we go, eyes are BLUE, her long braid the color of DARK HONEY..... Jon is not seeing Val... it’s the same thing that happens when he sees Melisandre..... he sees who he lies to himself is Ygritte..... but when does Ygritte have LONG reddish brown hair? Jon knows one female with LONG REDDISH HAIR. Who currently has CHESTNUT HAIR. SANSA.... Martin makes a great distinction between honey in the hair, reddish, dark honey, brown and honey-blond. You are supposed to get sucked into honey-blond and miss the true honey.

But the answer lies with Jon 6, and Ghost himself brushing against Jon, Jon is receiving visions, or glimpses of the future while still conscious. Basically he has become one with ghost already. It first truly started when Jon takes the new recruits to the hearttree to swear their vows. He smells better, sees better....

In the shadow of the Wall, the direwolf brushed up against his fingers. For half a heartbeat the night came alive with a thousand smells, and Jon Snow heard the crackle of the crust breaking on a patch of old snow. Someone was behind him, he realized suddenly. Someone who smelled warm as a summer day. When he turned he saw Ygritte. She stood beneath the scorched stones of the Lord Commander’s Tower, cloaked in darkness and in memory. The light of the moon was in her hair, her red hair kissed by fire. When he saw that, Jon’s heart leapt into his mouth. “Ygritte,” he said. “Lord Snow.” The voice was Melisandre’s. Surprise made him recoil from her. “Lady Melisandre.” He took a step backwards. “I mistook you for someone else.” At night all robes are grey. Yet suddenly hers were red. He did not understand how he could have taken her for Ygritte. She was taller, thinner, older, though the moonlight washed years from her face. Mist rose from her nostrils, and from pale hands naked to the night. “You will freeze your fingers off,” Jon warned.” ADWD JON 6

Once again the night came alive, Jon’s senses are massively increased. He thinks Ygritte because men see what they expect to see. Same with Sansa and her unkiss, her dream thing of Payne coming up the tower stairs. Lady is dead yes, but notice how Martin describes her, Lady’s Shade. A proper noun. Not a common shade.

And as a bonus, in the TWOW Alayne 1 chapter, Harry described his new baby momma like this:

Saffron is very beautiful, tall and slim with big brown eyes and HAIR LIKE HONEY. Alayne raised her head,” more beautiful than me?”

Google Saffron.... it’s a red spice... RED. The most costly spice by weight in the world....

Now here’s Sansa described as her Alayne persona....

And at Winterfell, Sansa was a little girl with auburn hair. My daughter is a maiden tall and fair, and her hair is chestnut. Men see what they expect to see, Alayne.”” AFFC Alayne 1 It’s almost the exact same description. Auburn Sansa is the true honey haired wench. Who loves to dance.

And as we have been shown throughout every book, men do see what they expect to see... especially when one is glamoured..... And to show that really pale blond hair is not true honey,

He doesn’t like Ned. The squire seemed nice enough to Arya; maybe a little shy, but good-natured. She had always heard that Dornishmen were small and swarthy, with black hair and small black eyes, but Ned had big blue eyes, so dark that they looked almost purple. And his hair was a pale blond, more ash than honey.” ASOS Arya 8

[cotharach]

🎄 

Among all the people from the monastery, Sakura has always admired Flayn the most, due to her lovely attire, her gentle attitude and her carefree spirit -she actually found a kindred spirit in her, but she never had the courage to say it alod directly to her.

Finally finding the occassion to speak with her alone, she dashed towards her, not really noticing the dangling mistletoe looming above their heads.

"Miss Flayn!" she announced as she arrived, bowing her head gently as she addressed to her, "I… " she gasped for words, suddenly feeling the embarassment of not knowing what to say, "You are… very cute!" she almsot stumbled on her words, but she really did hope that the grenn-haired girl would understand her intentions.

mistletoe! (accepting)

"Oh! Do you truly mean that?"

Rarely does Flayn find herself in the graces of such a sincere young lady—one that would even stutter while complimenting her—but she enjoys it nevertheless. The smile is near instant when it shows up in her face, bright with all the light of a rippling sea.

"Thank you very much! I find you rather charming as well. May I know your name?" Of course it was courteous to volley back such kindness, but in this instance, the statement is entirely meant. The girl's short, pink hair reminds Flayn of a peach currant—sweet, girlish, and endearing to all!

By coincidence, green eyes catch the sprig of mistletoe that sways above their heads. Her expression lights up, and like clockwork, she brings out a pack of dried fish. She offers it to the cute lady with an arm outstretched.

"Ah, I almost hadn't noticed—! Please accept this gift. I have been distributing these to those I find beneath the mistletoe. I hope you enjoy fish!"

[storyofmychoices]

Her Legacy

[Mal Volari x Daenarya Blades 1 + Beyond] [Mal’s Orphanage] [Mal Volari x Daenarya Blades 2 AU]

Pairings: Mal Volari x Daenarya (F!MC) + OC children Book: Blades of Light and Shadow II, Chapter 2 Word Count: ~1,100 Rating: general (no warnings?) A/N: This is my HC for why Mal is smiling when we see him in Ch2.

Synopsis: She may be gone, but she could never be forgotten. She lives on in the stories he tells and the hope he inspires.

Mal sat perched on the rooftop of the orphanage he had opened, a place he had come to call home these last couple of months. Before him were five eager faces, eyes wide, filled with wonder. These were the first of what he hoped would be many kids he'd rescued from the harsh streets of White Tower. He longed to find them better homes, but for now, he'd happily share this one with them.

The gibbous moon hung high in the indigo sky, casting a soft, silvery glow upon the small group. The gentle breeze danced on the fringes of the blankets he had set out for them to rest upon.

As he looked at the children, Mal couldn't help but smile. Each of them had a story, a past filled with struggles, and yet, here, they were finally safe. For possibly the first time in their lives, they were cared for, they didn't have to wonder where their next meal would come from, and they weren't at the mercy of begging or stealing to survive. They had a place to belong, and so did he. 

"Alright, my little adventurers," Mal began, his voice tender and warm. His eyes twinkled with excitement as he leaned forward, ready to weave another enchanting tale. "Tonight, I'm going to tell you a very special story."

"More special than battling pirates?" Thalassa questioned impatiently. The young girl bounced in her spot in anticipation.

"More special and more important," Mal offered with a gentle nod.

"More important than beating the Shadow Court?" Lysander's eyes narrowed at Mal, not believing any story could be more exciting or important than that. After all, it was what he was most known for.

Mal's smile faltered as he nodded. "More important than that. Defeating the Shadow Court and the Dreadlord were important, but they almost didn't happen, or at least, I might have been there to help."

The children exchanged puzzled glances, their mouths falling open as they expressed their disbelief. 

"But you're the hero of White Tower!" Ovisa exclaimed, pressing her fists to her hip incredulously. 

"I am one of them, but I almost wasn't," he admitted. 

"How come?" The glow of the moonlight illuminated Thalassa's eyes as she begged for answers. 

"Every story has a beginning, and this one is my favorite of all," Mal leaned back, letting memories of how they met flood his senses. Her smile, her challenging gaze, her wit and wisdom—she was something special. If it wasn't for her, he wouldn't be the man before these children now. He drew in a deep breath of the cool night air and began weaving a tale of the night they met, the night his life changed for the better. "It all started in a small town called Riverbend."

"Riverbend," Ovisa's eyes widened. "That's where Daenarya's from."

"Indeed." His heart was heavy at the sound of her name, but he knew it was time to start the story from the best part.

The children gasped, their eyes shining with excitement as he wove a web of intrigue and excitement. He told them of Grenn and Constable Angus, who lost their lives to the minions of the Shadow Court, the treasures of the Temple of Ellara, the first shard, the Shadow Hound, and Duke Erthax. But most of all, he told of her bravery, of her resilience, and of her spirit that led them that night. She was a beacon of hope that made even the darkness tremble in her presence. She was something special. He would make sure she'd never be forgotten.

"Where is she now?" Ovisa questioned. 

He opened his mouth, but there were no words. It was a question he always avoided. He shook his head, focusing on his breathing as he calmed himself. She wouldn't want him to live with the weight of his grief. He studied the faces of the curious children, all waiting for the answer. Mal had told many stories over the several weeks they'd been together, but he never explained what happened to her or any of the others. He had failed them all, but, he wouldn't fail these children now. He considered giving her a fairytale ending, telling them she's safe, living out her days in luxury, but they didn't need a fairytale. They needed hope. They needed something to believe in. 

"She was taken," he admitted. His words were not much more than a whisper. The children drew closer, hanging on his every word. 

"Where?"

"The Shadow Realm." 

"Is she okay?" 

"Is she coming back?"

"Can we go find her?"

"I don't know." His head hung slightly lower as their questions overwhelmed him. He took a moment before continuing. "But I do know this: I've never met anyone as strong, courageous, and amazing as her. If anyone can find their way back to the light, it's Daenarya. So we must have hope. We can't allow the shadows of the past to steal that from us. I understand how challenging it can be to hold onto hope when life has given you so little reason to, but I hope I can show you that there is still goodness in this world and that each of you has a chance to discover your own hope. My hope comes from her, and I'll share it with you until you find something of your own to put your hope in."

Ovisa was the first to speak up, her voice filled with determination. "We'll hope for her too, Mr. Mal." She rested her head on his shoulder as she sat next to him.

Lysander nodded vigorously. "And we'll make our own hope, just like you said."

Thalassa nodded her agreement. "Maybe we can find her. Maybe that's our adventure."

Mal's lips twitched up at their growing optimism. They were so young, and life had been so cruel to them, but through it all, they still had goodness in them. He wondered what he could have been had someone come along and saved him when he was their age. But as he had told them, there was no use dwelling in the past. Despite his trials, they had brought him to her, and that is something he wouldn't trade for anything. 

As the children's eyelids grew heavy, silent yawns slipped from their lips. They exchanged soft, drowsy conversations about what the future might hold and what adventures awaited them. If Daenarya could save the realm, maybe one day they could too. Their story was just beginning.

Mal watched them closely, cherishing the moment for a few minutes longer before ushering them off to their beds. His lips curled into a smile that reached his eyes for the first time in a long time. He enjoyed seeing them like this, hoping for the possibility of what could be. They were proof that she was still there.

The last paragraph is what I imagine we are seeing when we check in with Mal and he's smiling. He is just in awe of the hope and goodness still in these children despite the hardships they've faced.

Thalassa and Lysander are new to this AU, Ovisa is featured in the first Orphanage story I wrote "One More" which is basically another version of this concept (Mal telling stories on the rooftop, but Daenarya is there, so the tone is very different). I decided to carry over Ovisa because while she does exist in my original universe/orphanage, I never actually finished her origin story, so I thought maybe I could do that here? Or maybe I'll do it in my other universe. We'll see.

Rayden and Lydo are not part of this universe yet, but they will be. I couldn't have Mal save them with out Daenarya. And I couldn't not have them in this universe, those are Mal and Daenarya's sons and they will always find each other, even if it takes a little longer.

[butterflies-dragons]

Struck by reality . . . .

Sansa could feel the Hound watching her. "Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?" He laughed. He had a laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit. "Small chance of that." He pulled her unresisting to her feet. "Come, you're not the only one needs sleep. I've drunk too much, and I may need to kill my brother tomorrow." He laughed again. Suddenly terrified, Sansa pushed at Septa Mordane's shoulder, hoping to wake her, but she only snored the louder. King Robert had stumbled off and half the benches were suddenly empty. The feast was over, and the beautiful dream had ended with it.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

"No." He could hear the defeat in her voice. "Sorry to be of trouble, m'lord. I only . . . they said the king keeps people safe, and I thought . . ." Despairing, she ran, Sam's cloak flapping behind her like great black wings. Jon watched her go, his joy in the morning's brittle beauty gone. Damn her, he thought resentfully, and damn Sam twice for sending her to me. What did he think I could do for her? We're here to fight wildlings, not save them. Other men were crawling from their shelters, yawning and stretching. The magic was already faded, icy brightness turning back to common dew in the light of the rising sun.

—A Clash of Kings - Jon III

The golden prince wasn't really gallant.

There was no true knight, just a brute sellsword bodyguard.

The king doesn't keep people safe.

It's hard to be a true knight constricted by so many empty vows.

Also, take note how that's the first chapter where Sansa is called a little bird, and how Gilly was wearing Sam's cloak, too big for her that looked like great black wings flapping when she ran.

Jon was thinking about Sansa's sense of wonder before meeting Gilly, and when the girl said her name he complimented it, like Sansa once taught him.

And good sweet Sam telling Gilly that the king keeps people safe sounds just like Sansa.

BONUS:

The Show gave Jon's lines about Sansa and the magic beyond the Wall to Sam Tarly, and they made it about Sam and Gilly:

GAME OF THRONES - SEASON 2 - EPISODE 5 - THE GHOST OF HARRENHAL

SAM: Beautiful, isn't it? Gilly would love it here.

DOLOROUS EDD (to GRENN): There's nothing more sickening than a man in love.

[siravalondulac]

vi. the smith

meet me in the dark, kiss me in the moonlight

asoiaf ff | jon snow x fem!oc

summary: jon walks around castle black and spots elle somewhere she should perhaps not be word count: 829 warnings: none

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After two days, the storm had finally passed and Jon wasn’t confined to the underground passageways anymore. And although he had never loved the sun as much as others might, he had to say he missed walking around the castle in its light.

Many of his brothers seemed to share this sentiment, as he had rarely seen so many men going after their work outside. Even Albett had joined them outside, though Jon supposed that was more due to coercion than his personal want.

“This thing is falling apart already,” Albett said as he kicked a wood panel into place. “I don’t understand why we should try and fix anything.”

The storm had done considerable damage to the wooden ramparts and stone walls of Castle Black, so Othell Yarwyck had recruited anyone who didn’t have a more important duty to help with the repairs. The recruits were the first to fall victim. Ghost, however, had taken off north of the Wall to hunt. Lucky dog.

“Well, he ain't wrong,” Grenn said from the upper floor. “I almost broke my neck the past week walking down the stairs. And that was no storm causing that.”

“That's no proof. You'd fall down the stairs of Highgarden if you ever set foot in the castle,” Pyp countered.

“I wouldn't want to go there anyways.”

Jon shook his head at the antics of his friends, even though he couldn't suppress a smile.

“You really should want to see Highgarden,” Sam chimed in. “It is no Hightower, but the architecture is truly noteworthy.”

Jon could already feel the insults on the other's tongues, so he quickly said, “No matter what, no castle will ever be as grand as Winterfell, I can assure you that.”

“'Course he'd say that,” Grenn said.

The group went quiet again. Jon went to move one of the boards at the end of the staircase in place. He looked around in confusion.

“Does anyone have any nails left?”

A resounding “No” came from everyone in the group.

“Fine. I'll go get some.”

He had quickly found what he needed in the armoury and was on his way back when he noticed several brothers standing at the foot of the Tower of Guards, looking upwards. Intrigued, he walked towards them.

Following their gaze, he noticed a woman sitting on the tower's roof.

“What is Elle doing up there?” he asked the man next to him. Jon had seen him before but couldn't remember his name.

“Fixing the roof,” the man answered. “She's the only one able to get up there.”

Jon's eyes wandered down and up the side of the tower. He spotted a few alcoves and jutted-out bricks, but nothing providing a true way to reach the top.

“How?”

The man shook his head. “Don't ask. You need to see it for yourself to believe, it's as if she can stick to the walls by herself.”

“We can be glad she ain't no wildling,” a blonde haired man spoke up. “Otherwise the Wall would have long fallen.”

Jon looked up again. Elle sat dangerously close to the edge, teetering on falling over. And yet she didn't seem to pay any mind to it.

“Instead of standing around uselessly down there one of you could finally pull up the box I know you already have,” Elle shouted from above.

“Get it yourself! Or are you such a weak and fragile little lady that you-”

The blonde man let out a high-pitched screech as a brick fell down right in front of his face. It landed with a loud thud on the wooden floor. The three men around him broke out in laughter.

“You missed,” one of them shouted.

“Better get me that box or I shall not next time.”

The man Jon had spoken to walked towards a rope hanging down from one of the windows. He grabbed it with both hands and started pulling, heaving a small chest upwards.

“You scream like a girl,” a man said, still laughing.

“Do not!”

Jon's gaze stayed on Elle, even as the men started bickering amongst themselves. She had noticed the rope moving. Putting down whatever tool she had been holding, she grabbed ahold of the edge and swung herself over it, as if she had done it a thousand times before. She climbed down the short distance to the window and took ahold of the chest as soon as she could reach it. She placed it on the window sill, took something out of it and quickly climbed back to the roof.

Jon's amazement must have been written clear on his face, because when the man had let the rope to the ground again and turned towards him he said, “Told you so.”

He didn't know how to respond, so he just nodded and walked towards the staircase he was supposed to be fixing right now.

And even though he tried, he knew the smile on his face was clear to see.

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[cannondisabledcharacters]

Today’s disabled character of the day is Eve Brown from Act Your Age, Eve Brown, who has attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder

Requested by Anon

[Image Description: Cover of the book Act Your Age, Eve Brown. It depicts a couple dancing with music lines and symbols trailing behind them in dark blue. The man on the right has blond, he is wearing dark blue pants, black shoes, glasses, and a button up light blue shirt. The woman on the left has long purple hair, she is wearing jeans, white shoes, and a grenn t-shirt. The background is a light blue.]

[myrsinemezzo]

Oooh I'm intrigued by I Feel You and High Fantasy Novel! 😂😂😂

Ah. I Feel You - the Helnik Six of Crows grad school AU I told myself I’d finish after one little short Haladriel fic and 8 months later it’s still in a drawer 😅😂

Summary: Matthias Helvar only has one semester left to go before graduation, and everything would be going his way if only he didn’t have to share a class with the loud and brash Nina Zenik. She’s the one person on the college campus he can’t stand, but fate and a sudden lack of housing force them together in the middle of the cold, cold winter. And then everything begins to change.

High Fantasy Novel is the first book I ever started writing and it shows 😬 I used a Magic: The Gathering card I pulled as a prompt which works really well for fantasy!

Mist began to gather in the corners of the dark chamber. The ruby jewel in her necklace glowed where it hung between her breasts, her dark-purple dress like the petals of an orchid enclosing her pale skin. Soon it was spattered with the ichor from the young man whose hair hung in loose, black curls around his deathly-white face. His lips parted in a silent scream, and it became apparent to Grenn’s horror that the boy was conscious for the ritual.

The pooling black gore stank like tar, and it began to stream towards a corner of the chamber. Where it gathered, something like a head made of the foul stuff began to rise out of the inky liquid followed by shoulders and arms, a torso and legs until a fully-formed thing that could loosely be described as a body stood at full height in the candle light.

“What would you have of me, witch?” It asked in a gurgling voice.

OMG THIS IS EMBARRASSING! But I love you for asking ❤️

[winterapocalypse]

Winter Apocalypse ch 1

The Mission

Jon had slept little, the frozen air beyond the barrier had made it impossible to rest for more than three hours. They had been on the road for four days now, he together with Grenn and Sam and all his brothers in black. It should have been a quick and easy mission, so Ser Alliser had said: 'go, find that damn horse and bring it back' but things had become complicated the moment the locating spell had produced no results whatsoever. Jon snorted, Sam trudging behind him to keep up. He and his friends had tried to convince their superior that a horse could eventually be let go over the Wall without too much trouble, but he had ranted and threatened them with a wand at his throat to go and retrieve him (Venom: always a pleasure Alliser…). Surely there had to be something going on, Jon was sure of that.

They reached a clearing, darkness now surrounding them.

"Alright, let's make camp for the night."

Jon jolted awake, a sinister noise came from the forest. He gripped his wand in one hand and his sword in the other. The amulet, a small white oval stone with lilac highlights that they had enchanted to find Alliser's precious horse began to glow with an intense white light. "Well," thought Jon, "the sooner we sort this out, the sooner we can get back to the castle."

Jon stepped softly out of the tent, hugging himself in his black cloak. He wore his Winter Hogwarts uniform, pitch black, but of course that wasn't enough for the frigid temperatures beyond the barrier. The black scarf, from the House of Watch, was still not enough to cover him sufficiently. The black woollen gloves, which Jon had now worn out, were now of little use. The air was frozen and static, and there was a deafening silence in the forest, apart from the owls hooting in the night and the now frozen snow beneath the soles of his boots, which were obviously black and worn.

Jon grabbed a torch, and was guided by the amulet that flickered in one direction through the trees. He spotted a figure in the darkness, crouching in front of something. He approached stealthily, but the creature noticed him. It was a hooded being, bent over the carcass of what Jon immediately realised was Alliser's coveted horse. The figure turned sharply towards him, rising with jaws dripping with blood. Jon gasped, ready to cast a protective spell, but a loud clatter of hooves broke the silence of the night.

Suddenly the figure was struck by what at first sight to Jon looked like a large horse.

The evil being fell to the ground to get up and flee with a hiss. Jon was stunned to look at his saviour: he was a horse, yes, but half a horse. He had the torso of a man, and powerful, black-haired equine legs. The centaur was unclothed, and Jon could peer at his muscular figure in all its wonder. The man wore a strange mask, the likes of which Jon had never even seen in theatrical performances at fairs - it was a mask clinging to the man-horse's face, with eyes that seemed to have wings around them and a cross full of frills on his forehead. Jon also noticed that his mighty muscles (NDA: yummy!! :-P) had tattoos on them, his pectorals adorned with two wings that reached to his shoulders, which were also decorated. On his stomach was a word that Jon didn't recognise - Mexican?

Jon could not - would not - look away from that majestic figure, imposing in his diminutive but massive and mighty stature. Yet everything about him was so harmonious, so right - even in its unnaturalness.

If his face had still had feeling in it on that freezing night in the frostiest part of the known world, he would probably have blushed.(NDA hehe Jon what are you thinking ewe) There was something about him, something that…

"What are you?" tried to ask Jon, in a flash of courage he didn't feel he had. The man - was he a man, at least? - did not answer. He shook his head, shaking off the snow that had rested white on his night-black mask. "I cannot tell you. It is a mysteryo."

The Nightwatchman nevertheless accepted that answer. His instinct, which never betrayed him, told him that he was a gentle creature. He could smell it in his strong, masculine and powerful scent, and in the fluid movements of his muscles, which made him a figure of immense strength, but also of protection.

Next Chapter

[libidomechanica]

Untitled # 10176

A sonnet sequence

               1

To do her husband may he lives upon them, bleeding on the pitiless, parauenture forwardez nouþe, þat noȝt bot wel waryst nauþer golde vpon ground commodiously was she! Mete and see what may ȝe wel, iwysse, bot ferly þat knit ar þerinne, and þat ȝe of speke raysoun. And weary heart he cheered in unquiet widowhood, a wife and of Death, and from afar. The fruit of our fashion and þe whene alce, and conversation. ’Er craggy mountains, and he ful hoge. For he ȝerned ȝelpyng to worthe, with pearls of art. And on my rose three descent, a noble mind and nettles in the scale.

               2

Of tears are sleep, seeing that made entirely by confiscation we are best fede þay were, heap earth’s affection from women were please, it is enough harbengers returned, and much grows younger everyone else. Mony ioylez for þat noble, lays vp þe corbeles fee þay kest in rymes of gravity, I’ve checked impulsive; I was a Cloud that the feast, and cachez þe better þat Gawayn, good is broken by iron, by the hands do say, thou can choose not thy strings are fraught with your promised race. And thoughts or thy captive Servius Tullius rose, leaving off him of Reserve.

               3

Let alle þe rabel in another,— not mine, each them. And while amid the care, the pricked by those who expected signs and trace, which birth doth lie, yet little ones moan; the more I hear smells, I see her. I have closed his thine! That thoughts hardly splendours, mystery of my door, the wife was time my should now look down upon a deceived, but yet none of the world so hushed Casket of my life my life. What a happy swain, the swell of the childhood of innocent. Between its dry String and thyme—had straggled out, a long descends the swan. Would, like Pygmalion, found the road. But who has wit in it.

               4

Such mystery of being the block could be time shall I pass, approaches, crying. Endeavour, to set its strings, and rent and wyȝt wakned bi woȝez, waxen torches light expire consumed with hymself, segge, I say yow neuer: syn ȝe be Wawen, wonder the flame which when-so mon lykez. These ladiez be fette to lyke hem therefore, which are we! I praise from that all around; one groan doth provide and lingered longe; at þe gargulun, and þe wort þat watz so mat he met, and grenne, bot þe lorde of hyȝe hil, in a glade of a softer. And when a child who saved your cort ryche. Full fillèd with the wrong.

               5

As Horace fat, or as Anacreon old; no poet’s pages. And yow god þoȝt, and moon’s and hardly seem worth al þe wonde þe lady bisyde. Takes it all keep, while gazing on her brydel, hit þe wede, with thee, where there only cruel hand, which droops upon your Foliage, and thy task, that window’s edge, and I as a noble dream’d two human being lacketh chaunge me þeder, and fre of his wast were. At life was the street, and I could never with the bloody, full of hor seruise quyle. For fear would be told me fast where comfort me. Our shutters are, or captain jewels set on fire. To do art wise, that will buy his side, who turns a streets, whereto thoughts: that for myȝtez so myry, as wyȝ þat wolde loke a light of his payttrure, þe chymnees þer charcole brenned. Though alter’d new; thy looks Anthea, when I kissed my bosom of theyr steads, ylike as the sea in the pitcher shaped.

               6

Wylde wayez in þis sted with chastned mind I straight to bind her eyes with thine? Amends! In thy shadowy world there the Canon of the early goddess was his mind; so great wind serves the fat pillows with a derf haspe; and þuȝt hit me þynk hit an oþer leude ful loþe be more than a treason to go with your promised good. The light in which served to men; irks care the same root I found what you in clothing have you? Dear heart, though on the mark of tears, and þat yow spede, and running Reed his blonk. Gone is so goud hert louied þe los weldez non so hyȝe, and for you, no lewd adulterate fruit might put the bed.

               7

But the soul’s sleepy at the window by the dark moor land, rapidly riding, she a-hunting it over. Or an underlip, you may remembrance of it, all-damning gold, and think on the mart’s or temple leave, and no sooner had past reason that in a starande ston stondande adoun and tyxt of her, and children—happier far could he speede him from thy revolt doth invent he robs thee virtue comes to þe meyny maden as mery as any mon elles, biknowe yow, knyȝt, Ȝe cach much speche, bot in his fyue fyngrez; and þe wale burde in wod so wlonk. And lest lur of my Soul.

               8

Than let a sister-plaintiff lose thee, gave eyes or merely suppliant and others will shine upon her leue, me worþed; a lowande and lyft hit schal telle of truest token of the under the glory I shall rehearse when þou myntes boute scaþe. Through her poor hut, stripp’d of its eyes. A country’s a thing men should go to praysen babes the third things which in the snow white should be. And to the church on the beldam, who sate together with pearls of a cup, the first, thus let us play about the long-legged you were born, the day, yet hiding royall bloud at his tayl, þat grene gome, God yow forȝelde.

               9

Rise; and the ground. Towards the bumble-bee. Here take the stubborne stroke here be more at a mortals all the cold duty now allows. An idle matter made for May: and comes not worn that mourne vpon folde, my gay, and marriage temples? When the key deftly in hor store; and vche grome at the prayse is better, by the close debate, covering through beneath a shaking of my heart his poets gave; and quen he seȝe Sir Gawayn, þat is farre: I though erst it reach’d there is a man! Out of beauty from thee; for virtues prove this told, the best of all kinds; the flowers to death! What window-ledge of our fashions end!

               10

Who for her husband’s fate, made many a Lambe, or a grandame hag adjudged the fat Oxe, that name, and, to slaked hor holde, and death cannot be written tries anyway, so brave, unable to profit and gay, living things, to yield with a mynt one, and I schulde no were, hit were through the ashes, what the Faith-preserving Intellectual breeze went out into the grief oppress’d at length, no fancy but renown of the lower panes. He lyftes vp homes, and patience taken, what an honour ends, and by the best, double-felde, and verse of golden day. The harmlesse follie of that pass’d the bed.

               11

Page wondering road! And cloistered in black. But since, seldom seen in blande, Ful ȝep in þat Nw Ȝere, an oþer, and peasant, undermines you and make the floor; and þay busken vp bilyue blonkkez ofte a traueres bi traunt of blwe þat burne to his cher full bright send flower grows old wife lay smiling by, sail and bask in the telegraph line swept smooth white and þe lyst þe grete wordez, keuer he syȝe soth moȝt no more? The uses of conteck and your ex-boyfriend must be to please; and the repulsion of You. For I mot nedez hit aboute; much solace set þay smeten into nothing but ice-gravel.

               12

They hear her bedde, kest vp þerinne; gret perile bitwene, and my sick Muse doth loath a lowly life, when the stage. The calm oblivious tender his dyntez sore ȝe may not be slayn wyth no memorial left. That acquiesce, and from sweet smile, that must sentence pass, things past, and eft at þe þenne, þat were too near your sale, þaȝ ȝe ȝourself may privilege your safe arriv’d. Could never guiltless may I speak to her mind sinks, yielding to the metal, though with grief lies onward, each doore, ere the joints of alle þe men in honde haldez, al þe gayne: or for you say a long legs of neon.

               13

Such chaffer, ȝif ȝe luf not þat long ygoe? The future day! She hardships of this week I have my Dead—what they had bene a great vehemence, more words can even think to seed, Hermes prior to counted chaste concession,—my humility Which cannot be well acquainted in me, and þe mirþe þay maked. Your sex is frail gestures ensure your honour brings. Will waste, þe world laid its hand, seek’st thought found again, across the bud and to þe chemné þay past. For pryde of þat brode paumez; for þat couþe awyse: tas yow layne, and sylueren þat þay wyth in oþer mony baner ful bryȝt wyn boþe.

               14

With loue so ill haue at your wylle, ne bere þe felaȝschip þat hit kepez. Composed, as he grows stormy gulf have found, an eastern hills, whence came into this first, happy men that is hurtling to seek it; this mark of tears, taught to bind her sayne, but true in love. The more on his sheepe. Which arise from strife, thy words, his paper pale cheeks the farther none can touch because my life shall known thereof. ’Er the sheep that from very heart giu’n me thou deny’st me is; it seemed to catch a falling too. Eight; I turned, and of þe grene chapayle vpon on strok, and I could get wherein costes of his honde.

               15

I returning from the blue slips on the good aduice: or pricked by the settez wyth wynter to be so fere he stiȝtlez stif innoghe, þat alle þe wo on lyue luf hir bityde; ȝif þay fonde a foo hym byfore made him now beside their steps can find Wordsworth’s human tenant of the shoe or slippery pranks before him on his knife carved uncouth, towards the door I saw the blue veins in my body this thik þrawen þyȝez, with compayny, til worþe as yow lakked a lyttel in a swoghe sylence þurȝ alle oþer watz much increase! A ȝere ȝerne and pray hym wonnen, þer such a thing airs. My worth!

               16

When come nearer the human hand dares stretched days and proud; and whom I love Amaryllis, with a hollow sky, and when he hade lerne, syn we haf fonged þat were a blank to be your bedde, þat stryke wyth worse, begets a base degenerate mind; I thought, and half yielding the sniffer. I was, in the throne. While time it takes the swan. Oft suffred you out token of þe chambre and I wolde lorde of þis cause a caytiue corage to stone her pale chere: loke, Gawan, for he ȝerne of her hands, or more myrþe myȝt to þe derk nyȝt. Body of a swyn settez hir softly by his solace by hemself speke raysoun.

               17

And kiss, she cries, Forsooth, wouldst rubies find: I by the swift hazard of curtesie? More worthy eyes may schapes hem needeth to chace: and alle his father godly gear, had reach’d therefore I must go, to my love all beautiful voice! As the bedded fish will send ye. On botounz of þe grene lace, þe leþer of sorts, takes its many a lesser children dear, was it not, to please the window’s edge, and little Female Babe is born in twain with tryed tasselez þerto his highe kynde carolez. This platez, piked ful wel þat lemed in Arþurez half, Gawayn gaynly is halden on clothes to bye, in days far-off, on the motion and women like of the ever-silent walls, while ours works, as confederates war, with become an offices? And in our prime; and syþen þay haue; þe lede a lorde, Now, sir, for soþe, ’ quoþ Gawayn lis and slepes Ful stille stollen country-girl betwixt.

               18

The stuffs, the bonie lad that it takes the flow of—was it yesterday call once yet! No voice is dumb—we stand up to wave. Holy leer to crave, being you caused. He dryues wyth droȝt þe dust for me byhouez nede’: and þuȝt hit hade a hatte, a myst-hakel huge. So as thou canst not Percie howe the red wild voices shouldst be happy in being together, and flap those years, do I remonstrate: folly wide their ease to bear—but who has that beats your Venus, whence we turn the ashen greyness. Once lost, can ne’r be found, and schewe. Of being learnt, in days far-off sound as if by some instinct the queen the thief.

               19

The dull sublunary loved the most frail gesture uerayly oure one; my lorde fyrst of wrongs, when in a mouth, like wind and rapes hym to Kryst with no malez within a dream. And chose to say, but some heart’s hearse when ȝe wyl lystened ful fayre—þaȝ I were worthier pen, yet what happens in the long-wish’d-for end, full to the long-wave light yet created him as some dark of the mind and neuenes hit on ground comming, marke how each other always keep off envy’s stinging, even now, close on my rose three times anger flowing wit, and, soon he fades, but doth, if th’ other give the forks.

               20

They began to be sycophants. Dew on the shepheards swayne you like a sudden guest, in hope or mine thou wilt see my wracke, and two pretty babes, and she is a mannequin in the weeds, and mercy non vses, for lofty elms, a thrush sang loud, and sware and would play it well, when sweetens our pain, I say, a blunt plain the throat, cling, strange, amusing but ice-gravel. But so exempt from side to behold, I grant, bone-dry white hills were the thunder are disappeares; O see what once our time devouring plac’d euer there haunts not answer, Maud my bliss, and pendant doth make a iolly shepherd’s home.

               21

To cut the common tale, by moving wave! And swear no fate for you are whatever is done his cher men: they can, and alle þe meyny of court þat hit hard in grass a long way to its opera’s straight to foreign lands to his meat, the woods decay and þay busken vp bilyue, and my heart, and inspired traine. All Work with Wisdom hath the miles away, dead broke. Woe was the water tastes rust in the with me! Traverse my indolent and gart hir to asay þe, and stylle and we ar in þis sted me steuen mon may hym kyssed; he welcum þis ilk swyn þay slypte, slentyng of my frendez.

               22

And casts a bum on the matrimonial seal, with chastned mind I straightway spent her side their virtues are cast of a kyngez kourt to karp yow wyth. Land was no tear- floods, nor in a sweet things are ours, nor had powers; but he was asked, saf þat þe segge semlyly fayre flocking fry, delight. For pleasure find; but then, have spent and meled of muchquat til mydmorn, to make you apt to this still, glistening buds of April, and trace, well known and all that she sings one! Bi a forȝ of a far-off, and brayden ful comly cortyn, and þe þryd as þro þoȝtes, how tenderness, we are thine. Their son.

               23

With joy he turn his strength doth shine on, and please, and set hym byfore þe hiȝ dece þat leȝ in his forsnes he a seruaunt, my soul, in its long as your trwe seruaunt to none but to dream among þe casten to salue; Ful erly he dressez þe flore, and syþen he commes to the miry lane she waves that fled, and other day. Much we love should not go, thought, a year ago, what a glade of Vertue, joyn’d by Truth, blown hitherward your gay gift—Oh when I left. Innumerable, leapt every pore without discrimination. Such worchip he wolde of hir worþily with alle þe men in honde.

               24

And þe asay summiting Everest. For solace set þay þer þay doun schowrez ful mony, for to ryse, from labor of creatures, and cachez þe bay, his burnez him broȝt forth þer þe fale erþe; ner slayn for slyȝt vpon slepe so slaked my thirst, or foul hypocrisy for truth and smutty jest, that the female chastity. Of plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze caressed, like a fireflies glow with thee. How vain a thing to here. Aye remove from strange sights more keenly tempting nakedness; my lord, and pinioned brought thee hent, and tyruen of his hed in oþer, as fortunes all.

               25

The stuff, what nymph soe’er thy perfumed altar- flame; and þe mirþe þay maden mony stif mon in þe best recall what warpings past, perfectly beauty to his desk merely drunkenness. Do I remonstrate: folly wide their native land. What I started then, our gloom-pleas’d more, the more I feel her goodnes taken, on his haþel aboute. It’s your awen bi fyn forwardez nouþe, þat vgly þer-vnder wande wapped about thirty thousand day, by nature be but of lonely the sex were paper-thin plates some machinist at his back, the coin of Pity as a tunnel. In summer all be my love.

               26

The good, and others will has truth atone! And an ax in his honde, for wonder not, that the border-tufts—daisy and walked, and breakes the fault? The vaunted by the fire is low, the Master work, yet slays me with al þe rous rennes of þat bradde to be looked at þe ladyez, quyle myd-ouer-vnder; mist muged on horses over suddenly she grew. Come o’er the world on fire. And wel hym semly ho made wyth bryddez vnblyþe vpon folde he before it melts. To trystors vewters ȝod, couples huntes of knyȝtes into the hearth was comfort of hendely prayse is better form with kisses once!

               27

The kiss thy prayer, and the motion slide. ’St to me; and þus he cries, shall dislike ye, then I desired. Her beams from Julia’s sight, that together with the listening by, one faithful dear child, that in the lips billing be, troth, leave their sad friend, enough, aboute, on snawe. Watz rayled on red ryche forth with polaynez piched þerto his highe kynde, preue for at need’st not euill that same groan and tyxt of her weight, the wind and in the bread on the worm is on her maids to catch the earth and to hymself, that is tame, and swell, each fish, which I escaped heart-honored Maid! Straw; had you believe in Heaven.

               28

But in a ker syde, ridez þurȝ mony meruayle, þat sate on the banks, close in midst of the break out of view and lo, it is nothing seems to drink, a spider in terror, and after þe segge, bi þi trawþe, queþer, leude, so lymp, lere of hymseluen. From those useless must it have waked; my tears to hear her bedde ȝede, recorded wyth fildore about her whose heart out at þe renoun of þorne, he would have not of peace, that is, as thou perceivest, when in bryȝt wyn boþe. For werre and with that she sprent ouer þe dede þat þe leuez, to hunt in þe grattest of grene. But still she might seaweed the world.

               29

Of hore okez ful ryue. Thou mought little birds that swelt; and siþen hor diner watz so joly of his wast were. One creature-travell our bedde, þe hyȝe table. No fate for you to sleepe, as soþe as ȝe reherce here þe leuez hym bryng hym lenge in yowre knyȝt wyth a worde, ’ quoþ þe meny, boþe þat þer watz diȝt. ’Er the shpheard would love at that, fair again I saw, I made her head, which elements shewed the best. Of Jealousie shall know: yet, hearing, he said or done and his world ends women what way they know my swain, though on thornes; so many? Grate and I, in truth, thy constant made to wandered þe hyde.

               30

Even so doth shine, of liuing deaths, dere wounded in folk at they dance, an eye so busy, the backward too. Your mind spills through the long alone the written tries anyway, so brave, how far can that unties there, iwysse, Sir Wowen now relaxed, its perfect— Reason that can she loved her as my own animal passions of thy galage once sticky glass of the act. So still renewing smart. And now, its string each others thou calles; and little near the danger flowers and cries, our murmured dawn conspiracies our telephone forsook, close over us, the kings of Old; nor apt to this way!

               31

—Thou lonely as a thousand Virgins honour strive this; and headlong fate, be happy day go in and tedious noise of seeds of bursting goes; with burnez to mount þer þe knyȝt I becom, and Greece, long since I see a better, the moon are above, and feast: such feasting day has run but to forsake the flocking fry, delight? And vche grome at the prayse is better hap, and gedered þe muryly wyth yow sum rewarde redyly, if I myȝt. Thy Counsel may wi’ the family of Christendome: but, for a woman colour and his men to the mouth opens touching skilfully, mysteriously her first cors comes to þe woȝe of tuly and ofte a traueres bi traunt of force theyr furre. That featly footing seems Beautiful, then faste, þe wyȝtest of the wind is world ends a bee circling their souls away, children, come at his labour, yet love I will resign; forgiven through the same!

               32

Body of my body. Bi þat þer stod, and grace. Touching-place and join with goud halden þerinne; gret perile bitwene hem, wyth vertuez ennourned into the richely rayled aywhere, and bosom heavenly wise; it had been burnez tellen our summer the passport is his inke, and women were please, to make, or you saw some sneaking either Hand—not by the tidal dark, and whom I sought please, whom for hire of Him. A heart of the shape of mine owne paines come back darker, and on that sheddeth in the grave when we hope, when we court arise, may I, poor soul, nor the woods in vain!

               33

That no pace else their rose on my breathing- while or two with laȝyng a lyt he laȝt of þe wyȝe wynne worschyp—þe wyȝez in his immortality consumed with gory blood with hast. And þe gode knawen, þer such though erst it reach’d the lovers, the after. Within second autumn a fever seized her horns the desire. Speaking purple round and rough to-day demay yow neuer; wel bisemez; and þerfore, I praye the flocke, thou want a great heart to take my end, to enlighten slow. This Present, and Loue, of those early spring of her wheel in your hand The end is it not able to prey.

               34

And the bloody earth, I like the Nighting sea, in distant land. If I hit lakked oþer, for such eeking you: I love you by some image see. Wind to blow the green-grown thatch. I passed did tame. I crave the soft and bryȝt grene, as one for þe mon fyndez, hit is happen throte. So am I as the sea. But why of two entities: myselfe the last, the wine of Princes pallace thou thyself as Spring appeared an idle dream of a red-rose tree. At þis tyme in the dust for love of our own jewels set on fire: which we are best boȝed together, and a yellow leaves will hear thy pearls of morn.

               35

If poverty descended; I have gassed the feast and a smile, the wanton maids were boun busked on her fit, as papiayez payntet watz forȝeten ȝede þe þis burne borne rennez þerof beres wyttenesse; syphen Brutus on mony hatz skyfted synne. One of the hour of thy sight, sooner than the starry skie. His grief looked down, down, down! Till, painting gorse that wall, by mist and purging fit returned he found when in the centre sit, yet, when the sight, slow saddening resting- place of al þe wele of þe hyȝe kyng yow ȝelde! And learn? Thee, that due of manerez me ese; bot to death. And wyth þe best.

               36

’Twas summer and their faye. In visions of sweet of bitter barbican þat burȝe he binds us: strong necessity: thus loaded with what warpings past they sette and strydez alofte, munt as his wedes: a strange wonderez. The harmlesse follies mote be found, and syþen I could to where lives a woman is he but a voice that he owes thee virtue and found a peacock proud flesh, as al were wyle I may safely charmed Amphion- oak she tripped to þe burne, bi þi trauayled, ’ quoþ þat oþer ful bryȝt—and þere hit onez is tachched hym surely and straight as make amends, tho’ even now, close on my breath.

               37

To think you have forgive me kind sea-caves! Her legs with payne. I schal telle truly, as I have but ears. ’: He gef hit hym þat al he schrof hym had doted, oþer a stubbe auþer þat raþeled is in her carez, þen, braynwod bothe, til þe sunne. The royal pair of ass’s ears: how he has done his honde þat þe best guards of Paradise, summon’d, and, to enlarge my workshop. The orator so farre mens heart nectar from thy darkness, nor shady grove, and sea’s rich gems, with her babe the things in a whyle, so as thou complaining have to se þe sellokest kyd knyȝtez he kest ladies in at þe garysoun ouer hir blake chyn with gret bobbaunce þat ȝe of space between its grey line there to tor for your iris tighter claim, because I wot þat lyf þat ȝe han demed too much of ease: the main account to the end is it the other side their gifts. For I have said or done as I sitte.

               38

To cheer us both: but lov’d in vain, no silver hooks. She never quit your minor grief is the know? Than ever human race, he romez vp to þe burn of love avails, since her come back thy holy feet visit our clay,—thou, their shoes. Ne þe syluerin sponez. And fingers numbers are such sweetmeats overmuch; I wallow string, except it’s hardly seem near. Than grandame apes in Indian Ganges’ side shouldst fain arrest: machinery just meant to give not mean falling state to turn. From which of its Fires. Margaret looked around, feed in the strain o’ the lake: and fro she passionate the sea.

               39

But chastely let yours from behind the view; else call him by consent before I summon up remember how soon our western winds and opens forth, quen þe donkande rurde he lent hem aȝayn, and alle same to soothed me; and, stoop, since tis sin, of Jealousie shall: then mine, no voice slow and denied not. They are his side; for virtue by descending branch. As frekez myȝt loke, þer-ryȝt. Nay, hende, þe hapnest vnder feelings bent, the countless gold sporez spend with plead that sell love did sing of her drurye þat day, that naïve light, moue not to be, thy looks out upon a velvet landscape a velvet scabbard!

               40

Of þat daye, to þe male dere. Should fall dream of a bastard kind? No ridges there undergrowth; then the eastern winds kiss that could this road she good counsels to reveal. Til hit watz wyth þe peple called teares poure out his Arrow hit; nay, but never the sapphire portals, while it mocks me, knowing how fashion and þe brode Bretayn watz bare of þe best. The touch of oþer dronken and kene men herde, þe chaungeable, pillow’d on the predictability of blossoms white, green, with sulphurous god rimmed clouds to ponder and his wedes: a strange conversion of Youth as serv’d to cheer us both: but long we have as short; and now, its strife. And vchone, and crowned with ȝarande for May: and some living this, they and thus the quiet to me, who have I sigh’d for alle men vpon day, daunsyng on nyȝtes, al watz broȝt to þe hyȝ and þe haþel, to complete the scents snatched wight. On to plaine: better change.

               41

And tear our breath skin feather’d Fowl, discharged. And then shall live on forlorn, askez erly hys armez, and brent to him, who had chance might dare repeat the house-clock struck one, and stifly strive to me, a sinful and more strong Hours indignant work’d their planning and thou sawest growing cold for he went; still to dwell: no doome should mount þer bare, þay dronken, daunsed ful weterly his leaves lay scattered cloþe þat rod hym bydez, and bellies layd: cuddie shall try my gain or loss the sun declining short, he better, for þe noumbles bi nome, as I tryst made On þe more wish’d, more blest eyes, lips a-glow!

               42

By your hand, for þe morne, and teache her truth and loked ful longe; he calde, and mynstralsye, with chalkquyte vayles, hir frount folden in thee Diggon, thilke same troade, but she forbad, but in degree; if better her sheepe out of mete and luflyly acorded couenaunde at kyngez kourt to karp yow wyth wynter hid; when þe forlondez, ouer at night, who this test—thy body were on þe naked lyppez, and made: our time devouring place. It winter in the beautiful in silence, then for though, aboute, small figure þat pyȝt in hir hert, bot ȝet I wot wel, weldez? Til þat he seem’d my spirits that part to be ruined walls to redeemed by thy peculiar nook of its worst, did I,—to the more she told in your hed helde no were, and someone lost in chapter nine of Pride and Prejudice, in which enclose me, suffering human life be a bleaunt of fore-bemoaned moan, which through the windshield.

               43

For them alle goud day, þe golde pured, no hwef goud on his way, this the throe! My Nanni would have right this slippery eye, out of myn egge, I haue pyped erst so long! The mystery of my smart; and think back within these actions all the way by now just from his toil, and stood and swell, and lyȝten on þe bonkkes ful ȝerne, and all its thoughts or the red dressed on þat hym swyþe, wyth mony baner ful much water, so felly þou spekez; þen scher þay dronken, daunsed ful ofte, swez his whyte tuschez; with his wyttes, swenges out its arms, and cut the settez wyth wynter wyndez aȝayn to fall.

               44

Wings, lend wings in a wood, and Gawayn, and leue quen yow hider, er þis. Whose manger makes Love you. Reason that is not then? To þe water ful tyt. With hounds along the fireflies glow with this moments after it, and, whether aiming at your passion with giserne glyfte hym broȝten, for he was dead and shakes her instrument; and ȝe ar a sleper vnslyȝe, þat mon much of spleen. Thought control; yet with misty vapuors, who puff your old baggage. And what to me, I schal hyȝ me hom aȝayn ful ȝerne of hem was loued mych; þe freke be so bold as ice, or cool as I; but if an humbler wit, or face!

               45

He calde hem þe rychest, flooding your brain is just soft splendorous, sinking in the lip, on cheeks thy lightning have to se þe sellokest kyng þat we seemeth to chaunge, and lustihead tho may wel wit no wonder of ledez in lone splendours, mystery of grene. Doctor says, No, it’s her husband; so love’s first love I will put it by? Rugh ronkled chekez þat seggez hym met, menged togeder þurȝ her dear, was it yesterday we heard the sweetest stile affords: while Ilion like morning of enterludez, to laȝe and then believe me, or the hummingbird sipping from his kind.

               46

So as the false, and at the Foxes that her head up in sackcloth too, or leather, for þe costes, lest I deuayed were: when he out rayked hir to asay þe, and hardly clothed, to cast to haue, when þou myntest, ne kest his side. Gone, whose manger makes the full tilt with Reason, barren of all my heart, I feel the spoke, she crier cite the ryme should our own neighbors had touches both joyous and we not so brighten much more, if it seem’d far bette. I can speake of þat plesez al oþer, for þere were dead; you still the sun, even in dire woe; just like the state, as tulk of tale most break it.

               47

Be named here an erande on ropez, red golde borne oure luflych lokkez and rode þurȝ þe forst to vex the last: one sunshine angel eyes! Of those fierce love stol’n from my husband send or save, i’m sure she fell on you, near and talez ende, and thy poet doth invent he robs thee to counsels to rub together casts to compassion drew cloud, sunset and dalten, and gay, at þis Nwe Ȝer, and mellow radiant eyes can scarce sustain a sigh somewhere it came; he granted. She smiling l’ envoy, as he is dead, and the bridegroom and kene men hade, ful softly by his solace by hemself lyked.

               48

’ Nay, hende, in fayth, bi oþer gome with a face, and gef hym god day: or Diggon, what she no more and þe ȝere, and I will gaze, from an humble shade where mountain from others shout in the sunshine aspyring with a pease, th’ indifferently to himseluen, and uncontested surfaces there ar ȝep mony: boþe at mes and slimy nest the best lawsez, braydez out a brute I might meet. To kiss; for ever open is his door, near petrified.—This is no need to scream. Break my heart he cheered, and thank me. Neuer; and forever will this life. Till my life doth Love increased, upon a pastoral slope as fast as spring. And groan’d her lids: again from out the worm is on honde, he hatz forred, and they nould be still in the shore, and ranne out, and wife. Then unconfines thee thrill of solid fire and gems and frekez hem tille, he hypped aȝayn bilyue, Alle þe mute had press?

               49

Jesus and so there was mine, and far below his feet to see. I halde hit were Hobbinol, God mought it much lesse gayne. To arrive with ful dernly vpon; and heard the secret plot revealed innocent face was she by the hyde the worlde wakned wele in þat wan watz vphalt, bot vnhap ne may hold me than their place; þe walle wyn weȝed to þe corsedest kyrk þat euer it hight, for þre at þe fyue syþez, hent heterly rechatande with a joy in which he brought a bedde buskez bolde, and brain aflame.—This is no my ain lassie, fair that is no need to feel all things in order all the sea. He tened quen þay hade played with my boys! Sir knightly damps did chill her once beat Praise be Thine! Is allay’d, to-morrow’s trick. That chance is fled, Two days before than my affects her. Of many an open grounde without short, and sipping flowers, and þou schal se in þat worst to vex the laughing love’s day.

               50

The day assigned, a hazard of curtesie? But thou grant mind, that season? Children come childhood of their gifts. They unbutton blouses. Not once I pass, approved. ’Er know, mong all my length, beneath a Double Burden. A hundred years should for Chastisement, and brode, more lykkerwys on to lyk watz þat semed, and ofte Ful hendly of his anious uyage. For had I done to the east, and as Argus eyed and when we could never have my Dead—what time forth and let as he rode, a damsel gay in russet robes ful quyte, and in the night in me understand the useless fragment of pure golde hwez.

               51

They don’t recalling through a cloud, forget. The sea in the bottom of the sea places they have left to eat brown between a bag of individual life, I shall I could ply after many heart, nor hast told, how the rurall vaine. Mars and Courage, Bat in hand. By thy poet doth both sea and wert o’erjoyed to plumb, so passed day will strew through field Mars left off begetting sun. ’Ve been set down—and ȝe ar myn em I am old and on hyȝe, and casts to compact, so wise and sorry I could to where away, come at himself. My lif þaȝ I forged young cherubs play for such a sort?

               52

The liquid air; behold, I grant the best like slaves, or none hears that faire soft, more sharp to me here than we would play it well which we are long sigh; for the autumn, winter, and her face was pale and luflyly acorde me with wine, and syþen mony hatz forȝeten ȝederly ȝolden hair. I hope next news from a branches sway, you to get married are. Just lie under a large tree. Spinning skulls, and Locks pickt, yet w’are met, if þay han mayn drynk, a ȝere ȝerned ȝelpyng to worch your old age. And Wordsworth’s healing power? The bell struck by thy Justice paines come with them to whom for his nurture.

               53

For if thy love, thy joy’s undimmed, thy cup’s heart his poets tell, blest, but Love in weakness of willow boughs, whose heart to this hert hit were two tall hedgerows of the ever-silent thou hast her, who indeed speak gently, she sat down but up! Here þat ar so cortaysly had hym dressed vp, er þe dede þat here you had better to other side of nations with dynt of peace, they creep from the balls,—was impressed, and tellen our summer dust burn to the music of the day, but then they’re gather youth returning crown. In his counsel may wi’ the face as þe hende; ȝif I þe telle. In daye.

[lunagb]

A Plague of Sleet and Rot (ASoIaF x The Walking Dead fanfic)

BOOK 2 - A Road of Snow and Grime

Chapter 10: Ghosts of a Dead and Distant World

Masterlist

Relationships: Daryl Dixon x Carol, Rick Grimes x Lori Grimes, Carl Grimes & Sophia, Jon x Andrea, Jon x Beth Greene

Summary: A month has passed since Jon Snow awakened on a highway outside of Atlanta and joined Rick Grimes and his fellow survivors. His memories of his death have returned and our alien world is beginning to make a bit of sense. Ever since the loss of the CDC, surviving in the apocalypse has been a daily struggle. The group is on thin ice. Supplies are dwindling. Hope is fading. The dead are walking. And their only chance for life may be a run-down farm, an old man and his daughters.

Chapter Summary: Jon heads out on an expedition to the McMillian farm to scavenge sheets of tin roofing, a material needed for the construction of their wall. All should go smoothly. That is, unless the dead have nothing to say about it.

Time Frame: Farm Arc - Original Variation

Featured Characters: Jon Snow, Ghost, Mormont's Raven, Rick Grimes, Carl Grimes, Lori Grimes, Daryl Dixon, Carol, Sophia, Dale, Glenn Rhee, Andrea, T-Dog, Edwin Jenner, Shane Walsh, Beth Greene, Maggie Greene, Hershel Greene, Randall Culver,

Warnings: gore, vivid descriptions of dead bodies, child mutilation, graphic violence, death, murder, active combat, descriptions of armed warfare

[Art above is a piece by Art.of.Azrael. You can support them here: https://linktr.ee/Art.of.Azrael ]

Any notes are appreciated!

The forest guzzled the summer sun. Bright, domineering light poured into the pit of a boundless evergreen void. It flanked the road on either side. Two solid walls of bark and leaves; of browns and greens. They loomed high. Their branches reached out above Jon’s head in an enteral struggle to reach each other across the asphalt. Branches, trunks, leaves and shrubs whizzed on by, melding into a single form. An illusion. Just like the figures beyond the tight-knit trunks. Familiar shadows of days gone by played among the evergreen void. The dead weren’t out there. Not here. They were illusions. Just illusions. Nothing more.

If one of them is out there, who would be best? Grenn mayhaps? His strength would be invaluable. But so would Samwell’s smarts. As would Pyp’s aim. And Dolorous Edd always knew who to brighten up a… No. Stop that. They aren’t bloody wares at a market to be haggled over, to be weighed and compared. They were men. Good men. Honest men. Brave men. They didn’t deserve to die. A second life, now that’s what they deserved. Whoever’s out there, may the gods show a bit of bloody mercy for once.

The wind had a certain, homely chill to it. Like an excitable child, it whispered in Jon’s ears, played with his hair and tugged on his cloak. In all this sun and shine, a little cold was welcome even if it was but a summer chill, and a southern one at that. Not that warmth was unwelcome. Andrea was warm. Her warmth seeped through her back into his chest, through her arse into his groin. The women of this land had a much higher tolerance for immodesty. A woman of Westeros, even a northern one, would have been insulted or embarrassed by the situation they were in. She would have been teased afterwards and whispers of her maidenhood would have spread about barracks and long tables for weeks to come. Well, not all women would feel such shame. Beyond the wall, he’d be the one being whispered of. It’d be his manhood that would be the subject of gossip around the fire. The jests and japes would be unending and most would come from the woman herself.

Ahead, the pickup truck led the way. Jon’s stomach sang Glenn’s praises. Thanks to him, Andrea had been forced to slow some. Behind, Sam followed on his motorcycle. He kept a safe distance. Perhaps he knew better than to get too close to Andrea. 

Their little procession made good time along the roads. They passed through fields and forests, long straight stretches and winding turns, unblemished paved roads and cracked, crumbling ones. How long until every road crumbles away? 

Jon caught her looking again.

Throughout the whole ride, their eyes kept meeting. Just a small glance here and there as their aimless gazes born of boredom crossed paths. Each time, Beth stiffened and looked off to nowhere in particular. She seemed quite relaxed for someone without a harness. She was bizarre. Why hate him? She knew he’d been right. The dead were dead. Not sick. Dead. And yet, her eyes dripped with poison each time they met his.

A man stood on the side of the road. 

Not a shadow. Not a trick of the mind. A real man. He whizzed by, fast as a bullet yet, Jon caught a glimpse of him. 

Fat and clad in black.

Jon squeezed Andrea’s waist. “Stop! Pull over!”

Andrea veered to the side of the road. A horrible screech pierced the air. White smoke erupted from the tyres. Gravel dust clogged the air. The wind died. The air stood still. Jon leapt from the bike and bolted down the road’s gravel shoulder. More screeching filled the air. The fat man clad in black turned to face them. He was the right height. The right shape. A black cloak draped past his shoulders. It had to be him. It was Samwell. The distance between them obscured the features but, it was the right face. Pale, round and black hair. Samwell began moving towards Jon along the road’s shoulder.

“Jon?!” Andrea called after him.

“The hell’re you up to, boy?!” Sam yelled.

As the distance closed, Jon slowed. Samwell’s eyes were yellow and green. Long strips of pale flesh dangled from his chubby cheeks. A growl grumbled in the back of his throat. The corpse staggered along the gravel, shuffling and tripping over his feet. His hands reached out, raking the air with cracked nails slick with grime. Jon stopped. The cloak wasn’t wool. It gleamed beneath the summer sun. Silk not wool. His skin was dark. Not pale. Dark. Not as dark as T-Dog’s but still, dark.

Sam appeared at his side, huffing and puffing. “What-” He fought for breath. “What the hell’re you doing?”

“Jon, what’s wrong?” Andrea appeared on his other side.

“It’s not him.”

“Not who?” She asked.

Gravel crunched beneath the corpse’s feet as he shambled closer. Faster crunching approached from behind.

“Did you know this guy, Jon?” Glenn asked.

“Not unless Mo travelled to fucking Westeros,” Sam said.

Andrea shot him a glare and grasped Jon’s arm. “Does he look like one of your friends?”

“Aye, from a distance.” A pit hollowed Jon’s stomach. He ought to be upset. A brother was lost out there somewhere, in need of help. He ought to be relieved. If the corpse had been Samwell, Samwell would be dead. At least I could have buried him. At least I could have said goodbye.

Rot’s sour stench burned the back of Jon’s throat. Sam heaved his sledgehammer over his head. Flesh became pulp and bone became splinters. Black and brown viscera sprayed and splattered. The fat corpse crumpled onto his side. Black blood oozed onto the gravel.

“Fucking Mo the Magician…” Sam muttered. “Had him do some tricks for James’s birthday when he was a tyke.”

“He performed at my 8th birthday party,” Beth said. She approached the corpse with slow, small steps.

“He any good?”

“No.”

“Still the same old Mohammad then.”

“He was a kind man,” Hershel said.

Sam smiled. “Yeah…” He pulled a knife from his belt, cut off the corpse’s shirt and lay it across his caved-in head.

“If he was all dressed up, does that mean he was performin’ when it all started?” Beth asked.

“Probably,” Sam said.

“You think the kids’re okay?”

Sam avoided Beth’s eyes. “Yeah… Yeah, they’re probably fine.”

“They’re not,” Jon said.

Beth flashed him a glare. “How would you know?”

“Because children are the first to die in times like these. Them and the sick and elderly.”

“So? That doesn’t mean these kids are dead. My daddy’s old and he’s still alive.”

“Why do you think it is Carl is the only child in our group?”

“We’re kids!”

“No, we’re not.”

“God, just have a little hope for once!”

“Oh, yes hope. It’s easy to hope, isn’t it? On your little farm, hidden from what’s real. Aye, I’ll simply pretend that the dead aren’t dead. Then they’ll just come wandering out of the woods right as rain, won’t they?”

Beth’s scowl flared and tears brimmed in her eyes. “Bein’ nasty ain’t gonna fix nothin’ neither!”

“Alright, enough,” Hershel snapped. “Both of you, separate. Now.”

“We’re wasting time.” Jon twisted out of Andrea’s grip and made his way back to the motorcycle.

The stench of the corpse stalked him. It loitered as he waited for the others. Jon slipped his brother’s dagger out from beneath his belt. It caught the sun’s glare as a dazzling gleam. He ran his finger along the flat of the blade, over the subtle bumps and diverts left behind by a blacksmith’s hammer. On The Wall, the cold would bind bare flesh to the metal as if it were covered in sticky resin. Even when the sun shone. 

The metal warmed his fingertip.

I shouldn’t have said those things. What’s the harm in a bit of hope?

Andrea sat down in front of him. Her back faced him. “Don’t be an ass, Jon.” She put her helmet on. “I get you're upset but don’t be an ass.”

“I’m not upset. I was wrong to say what I said, but I’m not upset.”

“Then you’ve got no excuse.”

Jon put the dagger away.

“She’s out here, Jon. Same as you and me, risking her life for others. And guess what? She’s lost people too. We all have. If she finds comfort in hoping for the best, then let her be.”

“Aye… I know.”

The pickup truck and Sam’s motorcycle roared to life and sped off down the road. Andrea remained parked.

“We need to follow them,” Jon said.

Andrea turned around to look at him. “Tell me you’ve got your head in the game.”

“I do.”

“Do you? If we find something out there like that again, are you gonna freak out on me? Are you gonna keep seeing ghosts? If you are, tell me and I’ll take you back right now.”

Jon bristled. “No. I can control myself. I’m not a child.”

Andrea stared long and hard at him. “I’m trusting you, Jon.”

“You should.”

Andrea nodded and turned back around. As she began tying up her bandanna around her mouth, a latent question simmered in the back of his mind.

“That bad dream you had last night? What was it about?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Was it about a sky of eyes and a sea of black blood?”

“What?” Andrea turned around. “What kind of fucked up dreams are you having?”

“Well, was it?”

“No.”

“How do you know if you don’t remember?”

Andrea sighed. “Because it was about Amy and my dad, okay?”

“Oh. I- I’m, uh, sorry.”

“It’s fine. It was about their deaths. I saw them, like I was there as it happened all over again. I saw Amy get pulled over the hood of that car and swallowed up by the horde. I heard her screams and smelt the blood in the air. And I saw my dad… get stabbed and Amy… Amy screaming over his corpse, pushing her hands on his chest and the blood seeping between her fingers.”

“Death dreams… I’ve had those too. They’re horrible.”

“Yeah…”

“Your father, he… he died during all this?”

“During all this. At the start. The… the dumbass. A little while before Amy and I met these guys, we were looking for food on the outskirts of Atlanta. We came across this guy. He was covered in blood, shaking like a leaf and begging for help. My dad tried to help him and the asshole put a knife through his heart. The wide eyes, the begging, the shaking, all stopped after he pulled out that knife. He snatched up all our food and ran off. He just left us there. No sorry. No nothing. Didn’t even look back as he ran off, the little bitch.”

Jon’s scars ached. “An awful way to die.”

“Yeah… Well, he’s better off for it. My Dad. Amy too. It’d have killed them eventually. They weren’t cut out for a survivor’s life.”

“Aye, I suppose.”

“Alright asshole, you owe me now. How’d your dad die?”

“Nothing as spectacular as yours. I found out about his death from a letter. A king cut off his head for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“I’d call that pretty spectacular. My dad got stabbed by some random dipshit. Yours got killed by a king.”

“A boy king and a shit one at that.”

Andrea shrugged. “Still, a king’s a king.”

Jon chuckled. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

Andrea twisted the motorcycle’s handle and the engine gave a mighty roar. Vibrations coursed through Jon. He threw his around her waist. The wind whipped his face. A spray of gravel erupted behind him. The world turned to blurs once again.

***

A smog of rotten stench hung over the McMillian farm. Corpses clumped around the farmhouse, wandered between the rows of green tents, and stumbled through the fields. In all, Jon counted about thirty of forty. More than manageable.

As Andrea sped after Sam down a thin, dirt road through the fields, Jon took in the sight. Tents huddled around an aged farmhouse. All green. Jeeps, bikes and cars accompanied the tents. All green. Matching uniforms and armour covered the corpses. All green. An army. A tank sat out in the field, idle, like a slumbering beast of steel. Some other odd vehicle was out in the fields too. Like a windmill, it sported four blades that stemmed from a central point. They rested atop a rounded cab. Like a sled, it sat upon skids. Like a dragonfly, it sported a long tail. Another smaller set of four blades sprouted from the end of the tail. A powerful army.

Hershel stuck his head out of the pickup truck’s window and waved for them to pull over. They came to a screeching halt on the side of the road in a grass field. Glenn rushed to meet them, trailed by Beth and Hershel. Sam threw his helmet to the ground as he dismounted.

“God fucking dammit!” He kicked the helmet.

“Calm down!” Andrea snapped.

“Calm down?! Look at ‘em all! We’re fucked on time as it is!”

Glenn arrived. “We got lucky last time. The dead were bound to become a factor eventually.”

Sam faced the farm. He ran his fingers through his hair and took several deep breaths.

“There are two fronts to consider,” Jon said. “The fields and the farmhouse. Most of the dead are around the farmhouse but, as we deal with them the field corpses will swarm us.”

“We’ll focus our numbers on those around the farmhouse,” Glenn said. “One of us can take the pickup and run down the field walkers.”

“Daddy should,” Beth said.

“Me?” Hershel said.

Beth pointed at his hand. “You ain’t no use in a fight no more.”

Glenn nodded. “While Hershel clears the fields, we’ll position either bike on opposite ends of the farm.”

“Split their forces,” Jon said.

“Exactly. You and Sam can-”

“Oh my God! Guys, look!” Beth shouted. She pointed at the farm. “In the upstairs window!”

A bed sheet banner hung out an upstairs window. Written across it in childish scrawl were four words.

Help Stuck Baby Inside

“We gotta help ‘em!” Beth said.

“They’re likely dead already,” Jon said.

“Or it’s a trap,” Sam added.

“Either way, we can’t do anything until the dead are, uh, more dead,” Glenn said. “We’ll make three groups. Andrea, Sam, place your bikes on opposite sides of the house. Rev those engines as loud as you can. Jon, Beth and I will make the third group and make as much noise as we can. We’ll split their forces in three. After that, we sweep the house.”

“And if those people are alive, we’ll help them?” Andrea asked.

“Of course, we will,” Beth said. “There’s a baby. How’s it even a question?”

“We’ll help them if they’re alive and friendly,” Glenn said.

“Let’s move out,” Jon said.

As one, they rushed back to their vehicles. Jon followed Beth and leapt into the bed of the pickup truck. Dirt and dust smogged the air. Engines roared. They were thrown to the bed’s floor by an invisible hand. Rotten eyes and dismembered faces converged on their approach. Aimless shambling froze. Dull groaning and droning snuffed. The mass of corpses around the house shambled to meet them. Shrill, screeching wails filled the air.

The pickup truck screeched to a halt a fair distance from the house. Beth leapt from the bed. Jon tossed her, her weapon. A knife fastened to the end of a pole by a thick layer of duct tape. He drew Longclaw and leapt after her as Glenn bolted from the driver’s cab wielding a machete. He pointed it at the porch and the back of the house.

“Sam, there! Andrea, there!”

Sam and Andrea screamed on by either side of the pickup truck. Rooster tails of dirt, dust and shredded grass followed them. The horde’s steady approach faltered. The corpses turned on each other, throwing themselves into one another as they tried to follow three opposing targets.

Glenn slapped the pickup truck’s roof. “Go! Go! Go!”

The pickup truck roared and sped off into the fields. Hershel set his sights on a pair of walkers shambling towards the house and ran them down. Black blood sprayed into the air. A black streak smeared across the grass. The truck veered to the right and set its sights on another shambling corpse. All around the farm, out in the fields, corpses converged on the farmhouse. Most from quite far away.

Deafening revving roared.

“Make some noise! Wave your arms!” Glenn waved his machete in the air. “OVER HERE!”

“HERE!” Jon made himself as big as possible and waved Longclaw about like a madman.

“WE’RE OVER HERE!” Beth waved her spear above her head.

Jon drew deep, squeezing every ounce of noise from his lungs and then some. His lungs burned. Glenn’s and Beth’s shouts and screams rang in his ears. But they were infantile compared to the roar of two engines. The horde split in two. A dozen or so walkers shambled towards Andrea. Even more towards Sam. Four shuffled towards Jon.

“Fuck!” Glenn poised his machete to strike.

Beth readied her spear. “What do we do?”

“Kill the dead and split up!” Jon dropped Longclaw into a steady, two-handed long point guard. “You two help Sam! I’ll help Andrea! Quickly, now! Charge!”

Glenn and Beth’s cries intermixed with the revving of engines as they charged the dead. Jon raised Longclaw above his head, twisted and robbed two corpses of their heads with a sweeping slash. Fountains of black blood spurted from their necks as they collapsed in a heap. The heads snapped their jaws as they stared at Jon with bulging eyes. Glenn brought his machete down on a corpse’s head with both hands. Black blood covered his hands. As the corpse collapsed, he wrenched his blade free of her skull. Beth planted her feet and thrust her spear through a corpse’s mouth. The blade burst out the back of his neck. Black blood sprayed out of the wound. It oozed out of the mouth, dribbling down the spear’s shaft. The walker's eyes bulged. He gargled a wailing cry and struggled against the spear, skewering himself further and further. Beth screamed and yanked on the spear. The knife caught in the wound. She scrambled backwards, dragging the wailing corpse with her. It reached for her, raking the air with cracked, blood-crusted nails.

Jon and Glenn descended on her, weapons poised.

“I’ve got it!” Jon yelled.

Glenn backed off and Jon brought Longclaw down on the back of the corpse’s head with all his might. The blade ate through flesh, bone and the shaft of Beth’s spear. The corpse crumpled to the grass and dragged what remained of Beth’s spear from her hands.

She stared at it, eyes wide. Her rot-soaked hands trembled. “What do I do? It’s broken.”

“Leave it.” Jon whipped out Needle and shoved it into her shaking hands. “You know how it works, aye?”

She gripped the pistol and gave a small nod.

“Come on, Beth. Sam needs our help,” Glenn said.

“R- Right!”

Beth and Glenn raced off together towards Sam. A pack of walkers closed in on the giant man as he swept his sledgehammer back and forth, caving in the temples of the dead. While Sam attacked, Andrea retreated. She ran backwards, facing the encroaching horde. A knife tumbled blade over hilt into a corpse’s face. It fell and in an instant, the horde trampled it, swallowing it whole. Jon raced around the horde’s flank, drawing the attention of several pairs of yellow eyes.

I could draw them away. Divide their forces. No, strength in numbers.

Jon joined Andrea’s side, hacking down a corpse on her flank. “Forget the knives! Use your gun!”

Andrea drove her last knife through a corpse’s forehead. “Fuck that, we’ve gotta make these rounds count!” She yanked her knife free. The corpse collapsed only to have its spot filled by another.

Jon robbed two corpses of their heads. “This is what we’re saving them for!”

Needle’s shots rang out, exploding above the deafening wail of the dead.

Andrea stabbed a corpse in the eye. It tripped as it died, stealing her knife from her grip. “Argh, fuck it! Fine!” She whipped out her gun.

Corpses on the flanks began to circle in on them.

“Back up! They’re closing in!” Jon yelled.

Together, they turned and ran a dozen paces.

“Turn!”

They turned and Andrea took aim. Thunder clapped from the barrel of her pistol, shredding Jon’s ears. The back of rotting heads burst with black, bloody rot, spraying the faces of those who shambled behind them. Eight rounds were fired. Five corpses fell. Two remained. A man clad in a green uniform and a woman clad in green armour shambled towards them.

“I’ve got it,” Jon said. “Save your ammo.”

“Be careful.”

Jon smiled at her. “No promises.”

Andrea smirked. “Fuck off.”

Jon met the two remaining corpses with a sweeping, overhead swing. Longclaw caught the neck of the unarmoured corpse and ate through it like butter. The second corpse’s helmet stopped Longclaw in its tracks. The blade splintered the helmet but the head remained intact. As the corpse wailed and reached for him, Jon yanked Longclaw free. He kicked the walker in the chest, knocking her off her feet. Longclaw pierced between her eyes. She lay still, staring at the sun. A name tag over her breast read Lt Winchester. Jon tried to forget that as he turned his sights on Sam’s horde.

Corpses littered the grass, forming a trail towards the others. Glenn and Beth looked on as Sam delivered a blow to the final corpse of their horde. He swung his sledgehammer over his head. The hammer’s head crashed down on the corpse’s skull. It caved. Blood and brains oozed through the cracks as it toppled over onto its back.

“You bit? Scratched?” Andrea asked.

“No. You?” Jon asked.

“All good.” Andrea looked out into the fields. “Fucking hell… GLENN!” Andrea pointed past Glenn.

The pickup truck wasn’t moving. Its wheels spun, kicking up a spray of rot, grass and dirt. Two corpses hammered on the windows with rotting fists.

Glenn turned around. At once, he shouted, “SAM AND I WILL GET HIM UNSTUCK! YOU THREE SWEEP THE HOUSE!”

“GOT IT!”

“AYE!”

Glenn and Sam mounted the motorcycle and sped off out into the fields. Beth met Jon and Andrea before the house’s porch.

“What do we do?” Beth asked.

“We move as a single unit. You two keep at my back. I’ve got armour. I can block the corpses if need be.”

Beth and Andrea nodded.

“We’ll head straight upstairs?” Beth asked.

“No.”

“What? But the baby-”

“Has survived this long. If indeed it has. It can wait a few extra minutes.”

“We gotta make sure walkers don’t sneak up on us,” Andrea said.

Beth gummed her lips. “Fine.”

“How many rounds have you got?”

“Ten,” Andrea said.

“I’m out,” Beth said.

Jon held out his hand and she returned Needle. He whipped out his dagger. “Take this. You’ll guard the rear.”

Beth took the dagger and took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Jon slipped his brother’s lost dagger into his dagger scabbard. They hurried up the stairs of the front porch. The steps creaked and wobbled underfoot. A dead corpse lay sprawled out on the stairs. A pool of dried, red blood covered the boards beneath his head. The front door had been left open ajar. Small, uniform holes littered it. The stench, sour and rotten, seeped out from inside the house. Jon opened the door and wrapped Longclaw against the door frame. Three, sharp hits. Bang. Bang. Bang. He retreated back to Beth and Andrea. They waited half a dozen heartbeats. No response; dead or alive. 

“Slowly, now,” Jon said.

He crept through the doorway, Longclaw poised to thrust. Light made itself scarce inside, barred entry by shuttered windows. The doorway led into a small lobby, which led into a long hall. The hall’s door lay on the ground, its hinges torn from the walls. More small, uniform holes covered the walls. Splatters of blood accompanied the holes. Rot soaked into the carpet. Each creak and squelch underfoot rang as loud as gunshots amidst the silence. Flies swarmed around two dead corpses. Maggots festered in tiny, pinpoint wounds on their foreheads and gaping wounds on the back of their heads. They had no wounds on their stomachs. Nothing had torn into them. Their guns lay beside them within arms reach. Jon stepped over them, eyes trained on the dark. No movement. No sound.

“Did these people kill each other?” Beth whispered.

“Looks like it,” Andrea said.

“Why would they do that? They had so much here.”

“Don’t search for reason. You’re not likely to find it,” Jon said.

They came across the first door of the hall. Jon shouldered it open and took a step back. Light streamed through a blood-caked window. A corpse sat hunched over beneath the window. Bullet wounds covered her chest. Her head was fine.

“Lurker,” he whispered.

Andrea readied her pistol. Beth raised her knife. They nodded. Jon slapped Longclaw against the floorboards. No response. A variant? Or hard of hearing? Jon stomped his foot. The corpse’s eyes flickered open. A hissing screech passed through her lips as she struggled to her feet. Jon checked his blind spots. Empty. He charged and thrust Longclaw. The valyrian blade pierced between her eyes. The screech caught in her throat. Black blood cascaded down her face. She slumped again. Her yellow, rotting eyes stared at Jon, glassy and unblinking.

“Dead?” Andrea asked.

Jon flicked Longclaw. “Dead.”

Jon rejoined them in the hall. Thump. Thump. Thump. Beyond the darkness at the end of the hall, heavy thumps shook the floorboards.

“The hell?” Andrea hissed.

“Form up. Let it come to us.” Jon stepped in front of Andrea and readied Longclaw.

“What if it ain’t a walker?” Beth asked. “We should say something.”

“No. We’ll find out.”

“She’s right, Jon. What if they have a gun?” Andrea said.

Jon clicked his tongue. “We mean no harm! We’re here to help!”

A deep, gravelly growl answered any doubts. Beyond the shadows of the hall, a towering form began to emerge. Tall and broad of shoulder, it towered a head and half over Jon.

“Move back to the end of the hall. Give us space,” Jon said.

“Be careful.”

Andrea and Beth moved to the back of the hall. Jon moved back too, putting space between him and the light pouring through the open doorway. He dropped Longclaw down to his side. He’s tall. Better to thrust through the chin rather than open myself up by swinging overhead. 

Grenn’s corpse stepped into the light. 

A neck as thick as an auroch’s. It’s not him. He’s wearing green. Grenn stopped and stared at Jon. A broad flat face that only a mother could love. He wears no sword or dagger. It’s not him. A tremble plagued Jon’s hand. Fool, it isn’t him. It can’t be. It’s not. But he had his eyes. Those squinted, dull eyes so often full of bewilderment.

“Jon, kill it! What are you doing?!” Andrea shouted.

Grenn’s eyes snapped to Andrea. He broke out into a sprint. With a sweep of his long, thick arm, Grenn swatted Jon aside. The arm caught him in the rib. Jon slammed against the wall and fell to the floor. An invisible blade stabbed him between the ribs.

For the Watch.

The white winds howled. A giant raged. Men screamed.

The air raced from Jon’s lungs, stealing his strength with it. Andrea raised her gun. Thunder cracked. Grenn’s shoulder exploded. Andrea shoved Beth out of the way. Grenn barrelled into Andrea. The floor shook. Pinned beneath Grenn’s hulking mass, Andrea’s legs kicked and her hands pushed against his face. Jon fought to stand. He fought to raise Longclaw. But his fingers were stiff and clumsy. 

For the Watch.

The white winds howled. A giant raged. Men screamed.

Andrea’s scream and Grenn’s growl mixed together into a single, awful sound. Beth’s joined them. She lunged forward and plunged Jon’s dagger into the back of Grenn’s skull. Grenn collapsed and Andrea threw him off.

“Andrea!” Jon croaked. He reached for her.

“Are you okay?” She shouted.

Black blood coated her face in a vile mask of rot. The whites of her stood in great contrast. The invisible blade stabbed Jon’s side as he tried to stand. My ribs…

A round face. A red face. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“Are you bit?! Are you bit?!” He yelled.

“No! Why can’t you stand?! What’s wrong?!”

Beth sobbed and screamed. “What the hell was that?! It ran!”

“I think…” The corpse didn’t have Grenn’s face. “I think my ribs are broken.” The nose was all wrong. The jaw was too narrow. It wasn’t him. She almost died and it wasn’t him.

Beth’s tear-stained face appeared in front of his. “Let me see.” She reached for his side.

A round face. A red face. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“NO!”

Beth yelped and scrambled away.

“F- Forget me. Check her for scratches. Check her for bites.”

Beth gave a quick, skittish nod and scampered back over to Andrea. She scrubbed the blood from her face as Andrea tried to fend her off.

“I’m fine. He didn’t get me. Help Jon.”

“No, dammit,” Beth snapped. “Let me check!”

Jon and Andrea fell into silence as Beth looked Andrea’s face over. When she lifted Andrea’s shirt, Jon looked away. His eyes found themselves looking at the corpse again. His face is wrong. He’s wearing green. He has no sword or dagger. What was I thinking? Trembles worried his hands. Every breath felt short. She almost died. I almost killed her. Tears brimmed in his eyes. He scrubbed the cursed things away. He wouldn’t cry. He wasn’t a boy. A man. He was a man. Ten and seven. That’s a man grown. Lord Commanders don’t cry.

A thousand whispers beggared him. “Lords Commanders shouldn’t be murdered by their own brothers, yet here you are Lord Snow.”

Jon grit his teeth and forced his legs to stand. Searing heat scorched his chest. He staggered over to Andrea and, forgetting his courtesy knelt beside Beth as she inspected Andrea’s chest.

“Is she scratched?” He managed.

“I’m fine,” Andrea said.

Beth shook her head slowly. “I can’t find anything.” She put Andrea’s bra back in place and lowered the shirt.

Andrea’s shoulders sagged as she let out a sigh. “Fuck…” She gave the corpse a quick glance. Despite the black grime, her face looked ghostly pale.

Jon stammered. “I’m sorry, I- I don’t know what-”

Andrea waved him off. “Fuck off. It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine…”

“Did you swallow any blood?” Beth asked.

“No.”

“What about-”

“No. I shut my eyes.” She raised both hands. Her voice wavered. “Give me some fucking space.”

Before either Jon or Beth could move, Andrea lurched to the side and spewed all over the hall’s fallen door. On hands and knees, she made a horrible, guttural cry as spewed again and again and again. After three bouts, she sobbed, spat and stood. “We’re not done.” She staggered past Jon and Beth, gripping her pistol tight.

Beth shot to her feet. “Wait!”

Jon struggled to his. He paused. Outside, footsteps thundered up the stairs. The lobby door flew open. Blinding sunlight filled the hall. Sam burst inside, sledgehammer at the ready.

“The hell’s going on? We heard shots!” He shouted, craning his neck to look down the hall.

Glenn and Hershel rushed in after him.

“Beth?!” Hershel shouted.

“It’s been dealt with…” Jon said.

“I’m okay, Daddy!”

“Thank the Lord…”

Andrea turned around. “Jon broke his ribs. Take him outside.”

Sam lowered his hammer. “How the hell’d you manage that?”

“I’m fine.”

“He’s not,” Beth said. “Daddy, can you see to him?”

“Course. Come on, son.” Hershel offered him his maimed hand.

“No, I’m fine. I’m needed here.”

“Jon, if you’re ribs are broken you can’t swing your sword,” Glenn said.

“I can,” Jon snapped. Pain coursed through his chest.

It must have shown for, Sam patted him on the back. “Go on, tough guy. We’ve got it from here.” He strode over to Andrea’s side.

“I’m fine,” Jon said.

“Beth, you too sweetheart,” Hershel said. “Come where it’s safe.”

“I can’t, Daddy. The baby. Whoever’s up there might need my help.”

“I’m fine.” Jon found his voice came out small.

A pained look crossed Hershel’s face as he nodded.

“We’ll look after her,” Glenn said.

“Alright… be safe.” Hershel grabbed Jon’s hand.

Jon found himself being led out the door. His legs moved on their own. “I’m fine…”

“Sure, son. You’re fine.” Summer’s sun warmed the air. “Sit down here.” Death’s stench soured the air.

Jon’s arse planted itself on the porch’s steps, right beside the dead soldier. Hershel sat on the opposite side of the corpse and began removing Jon’s layers.

“Let’s take a look at you.” Hershel placed his cloak, mail and shirt in a pile on the porch behind them.

Sun kissed Jon’s chest, warming it even further. Fire danced on his skin and magma pooled in the tapestry of scars across his front, on his side and on his back. Hershel pressed on his side and the invisible blade returned. An invisible blade. A blade. A blade.

For the Watch.

A round face. A red face. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Piercing cold snuffed warmth.

“STOP! NO!” Jon shoved Bowen Marsh away from him.

Hershel’s side hit the step. He lay there for a moment just staring at Jon, wide-eyed, mouth agape. Jon’s shame had never reached such heights.

He held his head in his shaking hands. “I’m losing it… I’m fucking losing it… I’m seeing bloody ghosts.” Pins and needles pricked his fingers.

Hershel got up and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re still here, where it’s safe. Not there. Here.”

Jon nodded. He stripped his hand of its glove and felt his chest. Warm. Not cold. Warm. Shadows danced in the woods beyond the farm. Jon ignored them.

“They’re broken, my ribs.”

“Can I find out how many?”

Jon nodded. Hershel touched his ribs one by one. As the invisible blade stabbed again and again, the shadows kicked up a frenzy. Jon ignored them and felt his warm chest as he gave Hershel a nod for each stab.

“Three. Could be worse.” Hershel handed Jon his cloak.

Jon shrugged into it. Soft cloth hugged his arms and swaddled his torso. The shadows died and the pins and needles faded. His scars hurt.

“My scars hurt.”

“Your chest?”

“Aye.”

“Just your chest?”

“Aye.”

“Not here?” Hershel touched him above the heart.

“No.”

“You short of breath?”

“Not anymore.”

Hershel nodded. “Muscle pain, most likely. Nothing to worry about. All that sword swingin’ probably.”

“I’m sorry I pushed you. I thought- I saw- He was- … I’m a fool.”

“You saw who did that?” Hershel touched the scar above his heart.

He stabbed me in the belly. Not the heart. “I saw nothing. He wasn’t there. None of them are. I’ll never see them again.”

Hershel gazed upon Jon with a sad look. His eyes searched his. After a moment, they broke away and he began unbuttoning his shirt. He lifted his undershirt and revealed a patch of ruined flesh on his belly.

“A going away present from Vietnam. She’s got a sister on the back, thank the Lord. Would have killed me otherwise.” Hershel smiled. “Kinda funny ain’t it? I mean, who saves the medic?”

Jon smiled despite himself. “Who did it?”

“A boy. A little younger than you. The Vietcong held no qualms about using children. They took what they could get, I suppose.”

“And you see him?”

“Oh, he hasn’t visited me for quite some time now. Around the time Beth was born, now that I think about it.”

Jon opened and closed his scarred, sword hand. “He may have tried to kill you but, it’s different. It was war.”

“It was.”

“He was your enemy and you were his.”

“Technically.”

“The men who… who stabbed me were supposed to be my brothers.”

“And when their time comes, they’ll be judged for it. Rest assured.”

“You really believe that?”

“I do.”

“And you believe me?”

“That’s right.”

“Don’t they contradict one another?”

“Maybe, but the… the bible said the dead would rise.” Hershel looked around at the carnage that surrounded them. “I don’t know if it meant like this. That’s the beauty of it. We can’t know. Not until it’s over. Maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s not. It don’t concern me. While I live, death ain’t here and when death does arrive, I won’t be here. Same with heaven. Same with God. So, I may as well keep on believin', huh? What’s the point in stoppin’?”

Buzzing flies filled a lingering silence. They swarmed around the corpses in thick, black clouds.

“Will my ghosts ever stop visiting?” Jon asked.

“One day, son.”

“Which day? How will I know when it comes?”

Hershel smiled. “You won’t know until the day arrives. But when it does, you’ll know. It’ll lift off you. Like takin’ off a big ol’ backpack.”

A scream pierced the air. High and shrill. A girl’s scream. Hershel shot to his feet and rushed inside the house.

“Beth?!” he bellowed.

Jon hurried after him, pain be damned. They found Beth at the end of the hall, on her hands and knees at the bottom of a staircase. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Vomit splattered against the carpet. Sobs and retches mixed into an awful, guttural cry. Glenn knelt beside her, holding her hair and rubbing her back. He stared past her with wide, glassy eyes. Trembling plagued his hands.

Her teary eyes found them as they rushed down the hall. “D- Daddyyyyyyy!” she wailed.

Hershel dropped to his knees beside her and swaddled her in his arms. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Beth buried her face into his chest, responding with only muffled wails.

Hershel stroked her back. “Glenn? Son, talk to me. What happened?”

Glenn blinked at him. “It, uh- he…” He looked over his shoulder, up the stairs.

A great splintering crash shook the house. The sound a shield might make upon buckling. “Son of bitch! You goddamn motherfucker!” Another crash shook the house. It came from upstairs. “Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!”

“Sam!” Jon called out.

Silence answered. Stomping footsteps approached the staircase. Sam appeared at the top from around a corner. Blood dripped from his knuckles.

Jon began to climb the stairs. Each step stabbed him in the side. “What is it, Sam? Is anyone hurt?”

“Fuck yes, somebody’s fucking hurt!”

“Is it Andrea? Is she okay?”

“What?” he snapped. “N- No. It’s- that bastard he fucking- ARGHHHH!” Sam punched a hole straight through the wall.

Jon reached the top of the stairs and placed his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Go outside. Clear your head.”

“I can’t.” Sam’s breathing hastened. “I- I- I- gotta bury ‘em. They deserve that much. Not him though. Not that spineless, pixie-dicked bitch! I won’t do it! Never! Fucking never!”

“Sam!” Jon summoned the voice of a Lord Commander. “Calm yourself, now!”

Sam looked about to kill him. Then about to cry. In the end, he did neither and, wandered down the stairs. He sat beside Glenn on the bottom step and held his head in his hands.

Jon found Andrea at the end of the upstairs hall, standing in a doorway without a door. Scratches covered every inch of the door frame. A corpse with mangled legs and broken fingernails lay in a pool of black blood to its right.

“You shouldn’t see this,” she said barely above a whisper.

“I don’t think I’ve got a choice now, aye?”

Andrea looked back at him with tears in her eyes. They carved valleys in her mask of blood and grime. She bowed her head and stepped aside. The whole house stunk of death but even so, it couldn’t hope to compare to the wave of putrid stench that washed over Jon.

A man lay slumped over a crib with a hole in the side of his head. His brains painted the wall beside him. No gun lay at his feet. His body blocked his hands. Jon crept towards the body. Throughout his time admits war and strife, Jon had seen a hundred gruesome sights. Yet still, he baulked at what he found in the crib. A crimson crust covered the babe’s front, from the gash across her neck to the bottom of her tiny rib cage. Thick, white maggots squirmed in her open throat. She looked up at him with a squall frozen upon her face. A knife lay in the fingers of the man. Blood covered the blade.

Jon stared. It didn’t make sense. A knife? But the brains are on the wall. How? Who had-

The answer sat slumped in a corner, on the other side of the room. A boy. No older than Carl. A pistol lay on the blood-soaked carpet just beyond his blood-soaked hand. He had a hole beneath his chin and in the top of his head. Blood and brains painted the ceiling. He started at Jon with bright blue eyes, not blinking, never blinking.

Andrea touched Jon’s shoulder. “Sam wants to bury them.”

“Aye. We should.”

“Have we got time?”

“We’ll take them back with us.”

“Even him?”

“No. Never.”

The first step was the hardest. But after it was taken, the rest rushed to be next and before he knew it, Jon was crouching before the boy. He put an end to the staring, concealing those bright blue eyes from the world for the final time. Jon lay him down. His brother’s lost dagger cut through the blood-soaked fabric of his shirt in one clean, slice. He covered the boy’s head and face with the shirt.

“Have you got your bandanna still?” Jon asked.

“Yeah.” Andrea pulled it from her pocket.

“Do you mind?” Jon gestured to the crib.

Andrea shook her head and held the bandanna out to him. “I- I can’t-”

“It’s okay.” Jon eased the bandanna from her grip.

He cleared the coward’s corpse out of the way. It crashed to the floor. The bandanna obscured the babe’s frozen squall and open neck. Blood soaked through the bandanna’s white pattern. Jon took off his cloak and lay it over the crib. The blood and pain of days gone by hid behind the black cloth of a dead, distant world.

***

No one acknowledged the stench as they stripped the roof. It hung over them, an invisible, sour smog. Nothing smelt worse. Not shit. Not piss. Not vomit. Not even blood. The smell of rotting flesh held no equals, though still, no one acknowledged it.

Not Sam as he removed the bolts from the sheets of tin with a tool known as a drill; a device that looked like a gun but served only to install or remove screws and bolts. Not Beth as she collected the bolts into a plastic container. Not Glenn nor Andrea as they handed the unbolted sheets to the ground. Not Hershel as he helped Jon stack the sheets into a pile. Jon had smelt rot’s stench more times than he could count. And the current stench was nowhere near as bad as the stench in Atlanta. Still, Jon could not ignore it. It nagged at him, prodding him each time as his mind began to wander. Not even his pain could distract him.

“You don’t gotta do this, son. Rest. Before you make it worse.” Hershel squatted with Jon. The tin roofing’s crinkled cut allowed each sheet to perfectly slot into one another.

“I’ll rest when we return.”

Jon and Hershel stood.

“Will you?”

“Aye.”

They approached the side of the house. Andrea and Glenn lowered a sheet over the side.

“You better,” Andrea said.

“It’s not just a little bruise, man. Take it seriously,” Glenn said.

Jon grit his teeth and resisted the urge to snap at him. “I will.” He and Hershel took the sheet from them.

As they carried the sheet over to the pile, Jon studied the helicopter out in the fields. Windmills have similar blades but Jon had never seen one of those take flight.

They dropped the sheet onto the others. “Explain it to me again, the helicopter.”

Hershel wiped his brow with his maimed hand. “When the blades spin, they push air towards the ground. The force of pushin’ all that air down creates lift that pushes the helicopter into the air.”

“It pushes up and down at the same time?”

“Well, uh yeah.”

“How?”

Hershel rubbed the back of his head and looked at the helicopter.

Sam laughed. “Give up, doc. He ain’t gonna get it. It’s like tryin’ to explain physics to a rock.”

“Shut up,” Andrea snapped.

Sam chuckled. His drill whirred a piercing scream. Jon and Hershel approached the house again. However, the so-called helicopter functioned it would be an invaluable asset. If Aegon the Conqueror had taught Westeros anything, it was that flight trumped all. That and fire. Surely, there had to be some kind of science in this world to replicate dragon fire.

“Who invented the helicopter?” Jon asked as he and Hershel accepted another sheet of roofing.

“Leonardo da Vinci, I think,” Hershel said.

“Does he have texts on his invention? Could we find them in one of your libraries?”

“Probably,” Glenn said.

“Not in any local libraries,” Andrea said. “Maybe a state library… shit… we lost the fucking internet… It’s all gone, right? I mean, there’s no way any of the servers are still running.”

They all stopped and stared at her as if all coming to the same revelation.

“Should I even bother asking?” Jon asked.

Hershel patted his shoulder. “Maybe another time.”

“You know, da Vinci didn’t invent the helicopter,” Sam said.

“Yeah, he did,” Glenn said.

“No, he didn’t. He just made a thing that could fall real slow. Igor Sikorsky invented the first real helicopter in like, 1939.”

“Really? They’re that recent?” Glenn asked.

“Yeah, man. Flight’s only like a hundred years old.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Andrea asked.

“You never read a book?”

“Didn’t know you could read.”

“Oh, would you look at that? She’s got jokes. Fancy that.”

“Can you fly it?” Jon asked.

“What?” Sam laughed. “Fuck no. I just studied their design at college, is all. That thing out there may as well be a heap of scrap metal. Same goes for the tank. They ain’t your every day, mom and pops Sudan. You can’t just hop in one and ride away. This other shit, though?” Sam pointed at all the abandoned jeeps and bikes scattered around the farmhouse. “This we can use.”

“Not with the amount of gas we have left,” Beth said.

Sam shrugged. “We’ll just make more.”

“You know how?” Glenn perked up.

“Nope, but it’s gotta be possible right? That scientist friend of yours is pretty smart. I’m sure he can figure it out. Hell, maybe he knows how to fly a copter or drive a tank.”

Glenn deflated. “We’ll ask him. Let’s get back to work. We’re burning daylight.”

Sam grinned. “Yes, boss.” His drill let out a screeching wail.

As Jon and Hershel carried the sheet to the pile, Jon caught a glimpse of them again. They didn’t look human, covered by his cloak, in the back of the pickup truck. Just two small lumps. Not two dead children. Just two lumps. The lumps would go in the ground and then they’d just be two wooden crosses, at the base of a hill in the shadow of a barn.

“Don’t stare, son,” Hershel said. “Look too long and you’ll lose yourself.”

Jon tore his eyes away. “Aye. You’re right. I’ve seen it happen to others far too many times.”

Hershel nodded.

“HELP!” A shout came from the woods. Shadows danced beyond the trunks and shrubs.

Everyone froze. Everyone stared. The shadow grew larger. The shrubbery ruffled. A man erupted onto the fields. A hulking mass of a man with dark skin and desperate eyes. In his arms, he cradled a girl. Blood gushed from the stump of her missing hand.

“PLEASE! PLEASE, HAVE MERCY PLEASE!” Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Behind him a boy with fair skin emerged, wielding an axe covered in blood. “P-Please! We’re not dangerous! She’s hurt!”

Hershel raced across the fields.

“Hershel!” Glenn shouted. His next words faded into nothing.

There was a ghost behind the boy.

“We gotta...”

An older man.

“Quit yappin’ and fuckin’…”

A man clad in black. A cloak. A black cloak. Made of wool and cloth. A round face. A red face. Like a pomegranate.

The white winds howled. A giant raged. Men screamed. And the white winds howled.

Can’t they see the giant has been cut? They have no idea. His strength. Men will die. A horn, I need a horn. Wick has a knife. Put it away. It’ll scare him, it’ll- he cut me… why? There’s blood on the side of my neck. I’m bleeding. Why did he cut me? 

For the Watch.

I caught his arm. He’s backing away. His eyes are speaking. “No, not me, it wasn’t me.” But it was. It was you. Men are screaming. I need Longclaw. My fingers are so stiff and clumsy. It won’t come loose. Come loose! I need you!

A round face. A red face. Tears are streaming down his cheeks.

For the Watch.

He punched me in the belly. His hand left behind a dagger. Why is there a dagger? Where did that come from? Why is it inside my belly?

They were running. All of them. His friends. The strangers. Across the fields. They were running to meet each other. The man was screaming. His daughter didn’t have a hand. The boy was crying. Hershel was helping them but still, the boy was crying. The tears were smudging his glasses. The ghost stayed where it was. Silent and still. It stared at him.

Longclaw left its scabbard without a fight this time. They were screaming at him now. Why? What’s wrong? The boy was in front of him now, between him and the ghost, arms wide, eyes wider. The boy was yelling at him. He didn’t look very old. A few years younger, mayhaps. He needed to move. He was in the way. If he didn’t he would die.

Arms wrapped around Jon’s chest. Big arms. The ground abandoned his feet. A chest pressed against his back. Longclaw cut the air.

“God dammit, kid! Fucking stop!” Sam’s voice erupted in his ears.

There were too many voices. They were all screaming so loud. Together, they made each other indiscernible. Only one cut above the others.

“What are you doing?!” Cried the boy with glasses. “Leave him alone! He’s our friend!”

Sam’s arms squeezed him in a crushing vice. “Drop the sword, Jon!”

“Let go of me,” he heard himself say.

“No.”

“I have to kill him.”

“Fuck off!”

“It’s okay.” Bowen Marsh stared at him with a pair of dead eyes. “Let him go. It’s less than I deserve.”

[awolfnamedluna]

grenn light!