The Crowkiller.
Finally, after all the waiting, the day had come. Well, the night had come. Crowkiller thought as he stood on the edge of the encampment, watching as the moonlight reflected off the snowy landscape. The Stark forces and their soldiers were trapped in Queenscrown by an unexpected summer snowstorm, their spirits as frozen as the landscape around them. The wildling leader felt a thrill of anticipation coursing through his veins. This was the moment he had been waiting for.
The plan had been simple yet brutal. His scouts had ambushed the Stark scouts, catching them off guard. But even then, it became evident that these were not ordinary men. The skirmish had cost him eleven men to take down just five Stark scouts. They were faster and more aware than anyone he had ever faced. A grin spread across his face as he considered this. If the scouts were this good, how much better must a Stark be? He could already imagine the envy of his fellow wildlings when he returned as the Starkslayer.
As his men descended upon the Stark encampment, chaos erupted. The night was filled with the sounds of clashing steel, the cries of the wounded, and the harsh commands of captains trying to rally their men. Crowkiller observed from behind, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. His men were falling to the ferocity of the Stark soldiers; it was costing the wildlings many lives, but he cares not as he has a thousand lives to spare against the Stark's two hundred.
In the midst of the fray, he spotted a man clad in armor bearing the emblem of a snarling direwolf. The Stark was cutting through his brothers like a scythe through wheat. Crowkiller's eyes narrowed as he watched the Stark fight. Suddenly, The Crow attempted to stab the Stark from behind. Fury surged through Crowkiller's veins. This was his kill, his glory. But his anger turned to surprise when the Stark dodged the attack with a fluid grace and turned, swinging his sword in a deadly arc. The crow was skilled, managing to skip backward just in time, but not before the Stark's sword slashed through his nose, leaving a bloody gash.
Crowkiller cackled with glee, his excitement mounting. He moved forward, pushing through the throng of fighters. His men were overwhelming the soldiers in front of the Stark and the crow, creating a clear path to his prey.
"Damn you to the seven hells and curse the old gods! How are you fighting and moving when you and your men should be under the effects of the poison?" The Crow shouted, his voice a mix of frustration and curiosity. "It shouldn't kill you, but it should weaken you. Yet your army fights as if untouched!"
The Stark heir, breathing heavily yet standing resolute, smirked at the Night's Watch Men. "Wouldn't you like to know, betrayer?" His voice dripped with disdain. "First, you betrayed the oath you swore to the king, and now you've betrayed the oath to the Night's Watch by colluding with this scum. It is time to pay the price."
"Well, it will not be today," Crowkiller retorted, his eyes gleaming with malevolence. "I need him alive for now, Stark. Crowkiller has become an old name. Killing you will make me rise in the army of the King Beyond the Wall."
The Stark's eyes widened at the mention of the King Beyond the Wall. But his surprise quickly turned to fury. "What are you waiting for, winter? Let's dance," the Stark snarled, raising his sword and charging forward.
Crowkiller tried to parry the attack, but the Stark was faster than anyone he had ever faced. Without the advantage of ambush or arrows, Crowkiller found himself outmatched. The Stark's strikes were precise and relentless, each blow driving the wildling leader back. Crowkiller realized too late that he had underestimated his opponent. The last thing he thought before the sword neared his neck was he should have waited more for the Stark to tire or injured and regretting the fact that some other fucker would become The Starkslayer.
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Daemon Snow
79AC
I felt the cold, Northern air kiss my cheeks as I stood in the sparring yard, facing my uncle Bennard Stark. The sun was high, casting long shadows over the packed dirt and the wooden training dummies that lined the perimeter. My heart pounded in my chest, not from fear, but from the thrill of the challenge that lay before me. Uncle Bennard was renowned as the greatest fighter in the North, perhaps even all of Westeros, and today, for the first time, I would face him in a duel.
Uncle Rickon had often sung praises of my skills, boasting to anyone who would listen that I would one day become the greatest warrior the North had ever seen. It was his constant prodding and encouragement that had led to this moment. Uncle Bennard had nothing to his name except his marriage to the Karstarks and the reputation as a great warrior. It made him angry when Uncle Rickon praised me so much and after he left to fight the wildlings, when soldiers started whispering during training, Uncle Bennard snapped and called me to a spar. I had spent the last two years honing my agility and flexibility, preparing for the day I would stand across from Uncle Bennard, who had never shown me anything but scorn.
The sparring yard was filled with onlookers – guards, servants, and my friends, all eager to witness the spectacle. Uncle Bennard's cold blue eyes met mine, and for a moment, the world around us faded away. He moved first, a blur of steel aimed at my stomach. I dodged the slash, moving with the fluid grace I had seen in the old tales of Braavosi water dancers, pulling a move straight out of the stories of the great warriors of old. We clashed in a furious meeting of swords, and after only a few minutes, I understood why Bennard held his title—not because of his Stark name, but because of his unmatched skill. I have observed Uncle for years and my talent steal has picked up enough, others believed I was a natural prodigy. Yet, even now, I found myself depending on my inhuman speed and reflexes to defend myself because of the skill gap. My talent steal was working overtime to increase my proficiency in Swordfighting due to the actual serious practice with a master Swordsman. Rest of the people I spar with always hold back and I didn't have to use my enhanced speed that much with them.
I could see anger rise in my uncle's eyes as he struggled to beat me as easily as he expected and the spar continued on. My speed only increased, and I decided to lay a trap, knowing his anger at me would cloud his judgment. I stumbled as I stepped back, and his sword swung toward my neck. Even with a sparring sword, the force behind it would leave a mark. But I was ready. Since he had never warmed to me or contained his scorn, I decided to defeat him soundly.
As the sword neared my neck, I pulled a Nero from Matrix and bend backwards. As I stood with my body bend at knees and entire upper body parallel to the earth I saw the sword going above me. My left hand touched the earth, pushing upwards and I used my leg muscles to jump forward. Even before my uncle's sword finished the slash or uncle could reverse his slash, my explosive speed allowed me to appear inside his reach. During the jump my left hand drew a knife from my hip, while dropped the sword from my right hand. My speed was too much for him; as he couldn't even stop the momentum of the previous swing at my neck, my knife was at his throat while right hand pushed his sword hand further to his left making him stumble. The onlookers stared at me as if I were an Other—no one had ever seen such moves in the sparring yard.
"Aha, Uncle Bennard," I said, breathing hard but steady. "It seems you underestimate me so much that I could do this."
I spoke loudly, offering him a way to save face. Even he understood the gesture, though the barely restrained fury in his eyes was unmistakable.
The applause that followed was thunderous, a chorus of cheers and clapping that filled the yard. But the celebration was short-lived.
Before anything of note could happen, we were interrupted by Brandon my sworn sword.
"My Lords " he said, bowing slightly. "Both of your presence is requested by Lord Stark."
It was unusual for my grandfather to summon us together. Usually, he would meet with us individually, dispensing his wisdom and guidance. I glanced at Uncle Bennard, seeking some clue as to what this might be about, but he merely shook his head and frowned.
"Perhaps it's news of Uncle Rickon from the Wall," I said hopefully. Uncle Rickon's absence weighed heavily on me as I couldn't keep an eye on him as my own 3 eagles are not quite ready to survive near The Wall. He had been more than a mentor; he was a friend and confidant. "Maybe he will return early so that I don't have to teach Cregan anymore. It is quite tiresome to teach someone."
Uncle Bennard gave a noncommittal grunt, as he threw the wooden sword to the nearest soldier. We followed Brandon through the corridors of Winterfell, the ancient stones echoing with our footsteps.
We entered the Solar, where my grandfather, Lord Stark, sat upon his seat. His face was a mask of stern resolve, but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes that I had never seen before.
"Father," Uncle Bennard said, bowing his head. "You summoned us?"
Grandfather nodded, his gaze heavy upon us. "I have received grave news," he began, his voice steady but filled with a weight that seemed to press upon all of us. "Rickon is dead."
The words hit me like a blow to the chest. The world tilted, and for a moment, I could hardly breathe. Uncle Rickon, one of my greatest support after my grandfather, was dead—along with my own plans. Anger at the stupid loss of a competent man nearly made me shout at my grandfather, who had banned me from going with my uncle. Surely, if I had been there, he would have survived. I looked to Uncle Bennard—the traitor who would one day contest Cregan's claim. His face had gone pale, his fists clenched at his sides. I could see anger and sadness warring within him. Seeing that, I wondered why I felt no sadness for the loss of my uncle, who had loved me and treated me fairly.
"How?" Uncle Bennard asked, his voice a harsh whisper.
Grandfather's eyes were filled with pain. "He died at Queenscrown during a night raid by the wildlings," he said. "The incursion was far greater in number than we had been led to believe. The reports spoke of scattered bands, no more than four hundred in total. But there were a thousand of them. Rickon and his men fought bravely, but they were outnumbered and ambushed in the night during a harsh summer snowstorm. The wildlings, who know even harsher climates, were not affected as our men were."
Uncle Bennard couldn't reply and a silence enveloped the solar.
There was a knock that broke the silence and My aunt Giliane Stark entered the Solar after gaining permission. She smiled at me, and I tried to smile back, but couldn't. She frowned, seeing my face. After she became friendly with me, our kinship deepened, especially after Cregan was born and began to talk. The tales I told him and his growing affection for me influenced her, and I could say she genuinely cared for me. I felt sympathy, knowing she would lose her smile immediately.
I listened as Grandfather explained what had happened. I heard the disbelief and the sounds of crying. I went near Aunt Giliane and tried to take her hands in mine to console her, but Uncle Bennard beat me to it.
"I will escort my sister-in-law to my wife, so they can mourn together, Father," Uncle Bennard said, bowing, his face showing suppressed sorrow.
"Grandfather, what is to be done now? Are you going to call the banners?" I asked tiredly, carefully keeping any trace of "I told you so" out of my voice.
He scrutinized me, searching for something, and I noticed he looked far older than he had the day before. The loss of a second child had affected him deeply.
"Not now, Daemon," he replied. "Today is for mourning. I must break this news to my heir, Cregan. Come with me; he may find it easier to handle with you there."
I nodded in understanding.
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Next Day
Uncle Bennard said "I will go to the Wall, I will take Rickon's place and the Stark men and command the Umber, Karstark and Mormont men you have summoned to the wall."
"No," Grandfather said, shaking his head. "You are needed here, Bennard. We will send a contingent of our best men, and I, as Lord Stark, will lead them. The Gift will be secured."
I looked at my grandfather, feeling a surge of resolve. "I will also come with you." I said.
There was a stunned silence, followed by a murmur of disapproval. Grandfather's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. "No, you are too young. You are needed here, to continue your training and to prepare for the responsibilities that will one day be yours. Moreover, Cregan needs you now."
"But I am ready," I insisted. "I have trained hard, and I have the skills. Let me honor Uncle Rickon by continuing his work and killing every single wildling."
Grandfather's gaze softened, but he remained firm. "You have a brave heart," he said. "But your place is here, with your family. There will be other ways for you to honor Rickon's memory."
I felt a wave of frustration but knew better than to argue further. Grandfather's word was law, and I would have to find another way to go with the 1500 men army.
"Father, he is young, but I am not. Why should I not be gone, while you stay here and rule. My brother is dead and my sword seek vengeance. I am the best sword in the north even if someone believes otherwise." Uncle Bennard said angrily.
Grandfather's eyes flashed with pain. "Because I cannot bear the loss of you too," he said, his voice heavy with emotion.
"I cannot see another of my sons die while I live. I will not suffer through it. I am the Warden of the North. It is my duty to protect it. I will scour even beyond the Wall, to the lands of always winter if need be, but I will kill every last one of them. This is my final order, and you both will follow it." My grandfather snapped with fury.
My uncle looked cowed for a moment, but he stood angrily.
"If it so Lord Stark, then I will follow your orders as a loyal son should." He bowed and left.
Seeing the storm in my grandfather's eyes, I left as well, swallowing my frustration without further argument.
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I stood with Cregan in the Godswood, alongside my grandfather.
"Grandfather, why must you go as well? Please, don't go," Cregan whimpered, sadness evident on his face.
"I must do this, Cregan. You are the heir now, and when you are Lord of Winterfell, you will understand. Our lives are not the most important thing here. I will come back, Cregan, after avenging your father. Daemon will teach you the secrets of House Stark and train you in his abilities. Uncle Bennard will guide you on how to be a Lord Stark and manage Winterfell and the North."
Cregan nodded, trying not to cry, though his understanding was tinged with sorrow.
I looked at him, feeling pity for the loss he suffered at such a young age. The complete lack of sadness in myself made me panic—I wasn't a psychopath or a sociopath in my old life. I had felt sadness at the passing of my relatives, but now there was nothing. Only bitterness and an empty feeling as my plans were ruined. I shook my head, trying to clear these thoughts.
"Daemon," my grandfather said, looking at me. "You know what to teach him, how to train his magical abilities. There's no need to awaken his greenseer abilities since we already have one. Be there for him."
"Of course, Grandfather. Be careful and stay safe," I said as he hugged me.
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Near Moles Town
Weeks later
Benjen Stark
Ever since his son was killed in an ambush by wildlings, he had been filled with anger. Anger was something he could control, letting it simmer in the background until he could unleash it upon the murderers. But the sadness—that was something else entirely. Outliving two of his children had left a gaping wound in his heart. Only the duties of leading this army allowed him to momentarily forget the pain. That was why he didn't want either Bennard or Daemon with him. He couldn't bear it if anything happened to them.
As they set up camp for the night, he oversaw the preparations, watching as the soldiers followed orders from the overseers. He had been proud of his son and the 200 soldiers who fought alongside him. Their families had been rewarded generously, for even when ambushed by 1,000 wildlings in the dead of night, they had killed 500 of them. He would find out how the Night's Watch had failed so catastrophically with the information, and he would make sure they suffered for it along with the wildlings who killed his heir. His 1,500-man army had been joined by 500 soldiers each from the Umbers and Karstarks, along with 250 Mormonts. The lords themselves led the armies, eager for revenge against the wildlings and fighting directly under him. He had already sent a letter informing The King of his heir's death and mustering small force to deal with the Wildlings.
His thoughts were interrupted by a scuffle behind him, and he turned to see Lady Mormont dragging her eldest daughter, Lyra Mormont. At first, he thought it was none of his concern, until he noticed that her right hand was gripping the arm of his grandson, Daemon Snow, who was supposed to be safely at Winterfell. Daemon looked outraged by Lady Mormont's treatment, clearly holding back from retaliating, or stopping the dragging altogether. As the realization of Daemon's presence here sank in, he felt a wave of hopelessness and rage building within him.
"For the sake of the Old Gods, woman, don't drag me like a criminal. You just had to ask, and I would have come with you," Daemon snapped.
"Silence. Let Lord Stark deal with you and my girl," Lady Mormont snapped back.
For a moment, Benjen thought Lady Mormont had caught Daemon and her daughter in a compromising position, but upon careful observation, he saw no indication of anything inappropriate.
"Lord Stark," Lady Mormont bowed to him. He nodded in acknowledgment. "I must apologize for my daughter's actions. She helped your grandson infiltrate the army and become a part of it. I don't know the details of how or when, but I caught them and brought them to you. I will, of course, defer the punishment for my daughter to you, as she assisted him in defying your orders."
Benjen closed his eyes and sighed in exhaustion before donning the mask of Lord Stark. He avoided looking at Daemon, knowing that seeing his grandson's face might weaken his resolve.
"Aethan!" he shouted for his aide and foster son, who was with him in the army. Aethan, who was directing soldiers as they set up his tent, looked surprised at the angry call but quickly composed himself and walked over.
"Grandfather, Aethan had nothing to do with me being here. I didn't inform him of my plans because I knew you would have ordered him to notify you if anything like this happened," Daemon said with a hint of smugness.
Benjen heard Daemon's words and ignored them, focusing on the approaching Aethan. When Aethan saw Daemon, he looked genuinely surprised, confirming Daemon's truthfulness.
Aethan, seeing Benjen's furious expression and the guilty look on Daemon's face, immediately bowed. "Lord Stark, you must believe me, I had no part in whatever Daemon has done now."
Benjen, despite his anger, nearly laughed as memories of similar situations at Winterfell flashed through his mind. He sighed wistfully, the fleeting happiness abruptly ending as his thoughts lingered on his son's laughter during those better times.
He finally turned to look at Daemon. His grandson's hair was hidden by a helmet, and he was dressed as usual, without any armor. He was dirty, the only sign of his harsh journey. Though Benjen and his soldiers were weary and tired, Daemon seemed as energetic as ever, his eyes filled with determination and a cold indifference that hid any other emotions or worry about being sent back to Winterfell.
And Benjen understood.
He realized that if he didn't allow Daemon to be part of this army, he would lose him entirely. Whatever love Daemon had for him would be forgotten, and Daemon would do what he wanted anyway. He understood that of all his orders till now was followed only because they aligned with Daemon's goals. From the time Daemon was four and the R'hllor incident, He always knew he couldn't tame Daemon and mold him to an obedient son in the usual fashion of nobility, but he thought he would have enough time till he come of age at 16 until he has to worry about such disobedience.
"Lord Stark," the voice of Lord Umber shook him from his thoughts. Benjen noticed that his angry shouting had attracted the attention of both lords and many soldiers. The Umber and Karstark men seemed to enjoy the break from the monotony of marching, but he could see that the Stark men were happier. The Stark household guards seemed energized, as if their worry about the coming battles had vanished just by Daemon's presence. Benjen understood—they were relieved to have the God-blessed boy with them, someone who could heal any injuries, and they would be furious if he sent Daemon back.
"Lord Umber, Lord Karstark, there is nothing to worry about. Go and settle your men. The rest of you, return to your duties," Lord Stark ordered.
As the others dispersed, Benjen turned to Lady Mormont. "Lady Mormont, take your daughter with you. I will decide on any punishment after speaking with my errant grandson."
Benjen turned to Daemon and placed a hand on his shoulder, leading him to his newly erected tent. Aethan followed them inside, while the guards moved far enough away to avoid overhearing anything.
"Daemon, when and how did you arrive here? Did you actually steal a horse from Winterfell to reach us? Where is Brandon, your sworn sword? Is he here?" Benjen asked.
"I arrived after you left Last Hearth, grandfather. I am no thief and have no need for a horse. I ran here ofcourse. Why waste a perfect opportunity to train my sprinting speed and stamina. It took me seven days of running to catch up to you, and I asked Lyra for help to blend in and a small place in her tent for sleeping as I am quite fed up with sleeping in the open while my Eagles guard me. I left
Brandon in Winterfell and I ordered Brandon to guard Cregan as he would guard me," Daemon replied.
"Impressive," Benjen said, genuinely surprised. "Your stamina and speed are quite extraordinary and it is very good that you didn't steal a horse from my stables."
Daemon shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I had time. I could have been faster if needed, but I was carrying these added weights." He revealed weighted metal guards on his hands, legs, upper body and a metal neck guard by moving his baggy clothes aside. They looked like vambraces and greaves, but Benjen knew no sane warrior would wear such thick and heavy protection if they wanted to move quickly.
Benjen was astonished at the sight. He had never been able to make Daemon stop wearing added weights in his daily life. It was incredible to see Daemon even swimming with them.
"I see that you won't follow my command to return, so you will be allowed to join as my page, but only if you lose the weights for the rest of the time. A battlefield is no place for training, and you should be free of burdens. Your punishment starts now: you will be on latrine duty every day we camp, and you will sleep with the lower-ranked Stark soldiers in the open, with no amenities of the lords available to you. And you can start now by cleaning this," Benjen finished, untying his sword from his back and throwing Ice at Daemon's face with surprising speed.
Daemon tried to protest the punishment order immediately and only his reflexes allowed him to catch Ice before he broke his nose.
Benjen's face was still a mask of cold rage while Dameon grumbled as he started to unsheathe Ice to clean it by cloth.
Benjen watched as he heard the whispers by Daemon all the while Aethan laughed from the side who started smirking when the punishement started.
"Ic… Valyrian steel… stupid… making me… old…" Daemon mumbled, putting the sword down on the ground to fetch cleaning materials from a corner of the tent.
Suddenly, Benjen moved quickly, grabbed the sword, and slashed vertically across Daemon's back. Daemon yelled in surprise, rolled forward, and landed on his back, staring at his attacker. Benjen made another swift move and slashed again, the tip of Ice slicing through the vambraces on Daemon's arms. Though Daemon moved back faster than expected, the length of Ice still made contact possible as per his wish.
"What the fuck?" Daemon yelled, somersaulting backward with a hand stand and splitting his legs making it parallel to the ground to avoid Benjen's next slash aimed at his greaves.
Benjen stopped knowing that he will not make contact again as Daemon has overcome the surprise nature of his attack and adjusted to length advantage of Ice.
Daemon sat back and panted.
Daemon sat back, panting. "What the hell, grandfather? Why are you trying to kill me?" Daemon snapped.
"Kill you? Never," Benjen replied with smug satisfaction. "You were moving too slow in following my first order to leave the weights behind, so I thought I'd help you remove them." He pointed the sword tip toward the broken pieces of metal scattered around the tent as Daemon had trying dodge from his attacks.
Benjen saw Daemon realizing as he gaped at the broken metal and touched his back looking for any wounds and finding none. He looked at his hand and he saw a small scratch and blood leaking but it was already half healed.
Benjen laughed heartily seeing the usually over-confident grandson opening and closing his mouth several times as he tried to find words.
"You just had to say it! And I would have dropped it immediately. For the Old God's sake, you could have killed me! It was Valyrian steel—you could have wounded me deeply!" Daemon yelled in outrage.
"Oh, shut it, Daemon. If I had harmed you, there's nothing to worry about—you always say you'll heal by tomorrow morning. You know Ice is an extension of my hand, and any worthy warrior wielding Valyrian steel, who know their secrets, has that advantage if they really know how to use it, which I have taught you. Ice is not any ordinary sword, it is an extension of my hand and It will only cut where I want." Benjen said, still grinning like a madman.
"I have nothing to say," Daemon muttered. He quickly unlocked the greaves and threw them into the corner of the tent, not wanting his mad grandfather to dismember his legs.
Benjen only laughed at that. "the piece looking similar to The Neck Guard too." He said.
Benjen saw Daemon tensing.
"I will not do that, Grandfather. This is not for training, this is actually a neck guard."
Benjen was really surprised hearing that and looked puzzled.
"A Complete Beheading is not something I could heal from Grandfather. I am not a fool who doesn't protect his vulnerability. Any sword except Valyrian Steel will be stopped by this and even if somehow pierce it and hit my flesh, it will only be a wound I could heal from." Daemon said.
"I understand," Benjen said, "Now, get to cleaning."
Benjen started laughing again as he left the tent, leaving Daemon to clean the sword.
"Curse him," Daemon whispered. He sighed in disappointment, realizing he would have to follow the punishments for now. Though he had planned to delegate or bribe the first Stark man he saw to do his latrine duty for him, Daemon decided not to risk seeing what madness his grandfather would attempt if he actually didn't do it.
"Well, Daemon, I'd say that's one way to make sure you follow orders." Aethan said with a smug grin, "and how was the road?"
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The Wall
Daemon Snow
As I approached the Wall, despite trying to be nonchalant, a sense of awe gripped me, taking my breath away. I had seen it before through the eyes of my birds and while my mind drifting beyond the bounds of my body as I tapped into the powers of the greenseer. Those visions had given me glimpses of the Wall—its immense height, its unyielding presence stretching across the northern horizon, a barrier between the known world and the savage wilds beyond. But nothing, not even the experience of seeing the wall in a TV screen, or even the bird's eye view from warging, could have prepared me for the sheer awe at the enormity of the wall I could feel as I gazed up and saw the wall piercing the sky from the courtyard of Castle Black.
The Wall was a wonder of this world, a testament to the might and paranoia of The Builder regarding the one Other who could have survived at that time. Rising over seven hundred feet into the sky, its sheer scale was overwhelming. My eyes traced the line of the Wall, stretching east and west as far as the eye could see, vanishing into the misty distance. The surface, smooth from a distance, was rough and jagged up close, a mass of ice that seemed to drink in the light of the sun and reflect it back with a cold, blue radiance. As we entered the Courtyard, I actually felt cold for the first time in this life. My own adaptations and Stark blood had given me sufficient Cold resistance that I could always wear the lowest amount of woollen clothes. I never felt the bone chilling cold as described in the books but as I stood under the Wall I could feel the chill slowly crawling through my body and taking hold of my bones.
Up close, the Wall was more than just an enormous barrier. It was ancient, built by hands long dead, its history etched into every icy crevice and shadowed niche. I could see where the ice had shifted and settled over the centuries, where repairs had been made with great blocks of frozen water, adding to the Wall's uneven texture. Each section told a story, whispered tales of battles fought, wildlings repelled, and men who had stood watch here for lifetimes beyond counting. It was a living thing, this Wall—ancient and enduring, a force of nature as much as a creation of man. I knew there was no way the Wall could have stood for eight thousand years without magic. Grandfather had taught me that it was the Stark in Winterfell who controlled the Wall's magical defence. As long as there was a Stark in Winterfell, the Wall would stand.
Even now, with my novice magic sensing, I could feel a strong bond between the Lord Commander and the Wall, as well as between Lord Stark and the Wall. Each brother of the Night's Watch had a connection to it; their oaths powered the magic holding the physical Wall, while the magical defence was controlled by the Stark in Winterfell. Even with my diluted Stark blood, I could feel a small connection to this monstrosity. I had no way to compare the Wall's current power to the ancient times, as I couldn't use magic sensing in my visions. I wondered if the custom of sacrifices under the Weirwood should be restarted, knowing that even those had been used to power the Wall.
My eyes wandered to Castle Black, nestled at the base of the Wall The castle was a stark contrast to the Wall itself. Where the Wall was grand and awe-inspiring, Castle Black was utilitarian, built for function rather than beauty. Its wooden palisades and stone towers were weathered by the relentless northern climate, but they still stood strong, a testament to the resilience of the Night's Watch. The castle was a sprawling, mismatched collection of buildings, each one telling a story of necessity and survival. The armory, the smithy, the stables—each had its place.
I sighed in relief as I saw guest rights being exchanged and we entered Castle Black. I was finally sure I could skive off from the punishment, as Grandfather would be busy with meetings and planning. I had been using my birds to find the remaining wildlings as we marched to Castle Black. The Gift was acres of forested land, neglected and overgrown, perfect for wildlings who knew how to hide. I suspected they had their wargs, for no matter what I did, I couldn't locate the remaining bands of them—only scattered individuals, and no matter what, we couldn't hunt them down one by one. The surprising snow and storms also made it harder for my birds to fly and observe. The result was just scattered groups of men here and there. I had already reported this to Grandfather, and he grew weary of the upcoming campaign.
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Meeting
I was tasked by my grandfather to observe and learn as he held the meeting between Lord Commander Ryswell, Lords Umber, Karstark, and Lady Mormont, a maester and other senior rangers. Grandfather's fury simmered beneath the surface as he looked upon the Ranger who led the nights watchmen at Queenscrown, a man I had mentally dubbed Ser Noseless, for he had lost his nose in the same wildling attack.
"I will have the truth, First Ranger," Grandfather demanded, his voice cold and low, yet it cut through the room like a blade. "How did you and only five of your men manage to escape a thousand wildlings while my son perished?"
Ser Noseless straightened, his face as pale as the snow outside. "Lord Stark," he began, "it was Rickon Stark's bravery and skill that allowed us to escape. He alone held back twenty men while I and my five managed to flee on horseback, so we could inform you and Castle Black about the new King-Beyond-the-Wall. The Crowkiller led the attack, shouting at the top of his lungs about this new king and his seven thousand warriors."
I studied Ser Noseless, picturing my uncle standing his ground, fighting valiantly to the end. He had always been a man of honor, a fool who believed in such things. It seemed Grandfather shared that sentiment. I wanted to question how they hadn't known there were a thousand wildlings south of the Wall, but understanding the vastness of the Gift and the New Gift, it wasn't so hard to believe. The wildlings needed only patience and determination to accumulate numbers on this side. If they had wargs, like in the canon timeline, it would be all the easier.
"I see," Grandfather replied, his tone sharp. "The wildlings grow bolder, declaring themselves kings when they don't even have half the tribes united under them. They will regret it. How many are still in the Gift, Lord Commander Ryswell?"
"There are at least five hundred from the group that fought Rickon Stark near Queenscrown." Ryswell answered. "We've received reports of another band near Nightfort itself, who somehow climbed the wall there even with all the patrolling near the Nightfort, numbering about five hundred as well. I was going to command my lead Ranger to take our one thousand men and hunt them down when your raven arrived, informing us your army was at Last Hearth. I will follow your lead, Lord Stark."
The rangers in the room, who seemed ready to protest, fell silent under the harsh glares of the Northmen. It was then that I noticed something peculiar—the three rangers present, including Ser Noseless, were clearly men from the South. Their appearance, their mannerisms—they were not like the typical Northmen. Except for Ser Noseless who was young their hair was grayed, their faces old, lacking the wildness and gruffness of the men of the North. I wondered when they had arrived at this hellish place and why.
Grandfather, ever the calculating lord, raised his hand to silence the room. "Our information was once wrong, and it would be foolish to base our plans on it again and split our forces. The enemy is in our land, and they dared to harm a Stark. I will have my share of blood to quench my thirst for vengeance, and it starts with the army near the Nightfort. I will hunt down every single one of them. The wildlings who took part in the slaughter of my men will fear the day my army reaches them."
Lord Commander Ryswell, looking chastened by the rebuke, lifted his head and said, "I will, of course, support you, Lord Stark. The Ranger who was saved by Rickon will accompany you with a thousand of our men to join your hunt. Let him repay the sacrifice of Rickon and brave Northmen, by hunting down the killers or perishing while doing it."
Grandfather seemed ready to reject the offer, but after a moment's thought, he nodded. "Aye, they may join, as it is your duty to hunt down wildlings."
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We were riding down the Wall toward the Nightfort when my birds finally reached the wildling band there. Camps spread out before me, and I immediately realized that the estimate of 500 was far too low. By my count, there were at least 2,000 wildlings gathered there.
It was the third day since we had left the Wall when my birds discovered this truth. Realizing the gravity of the situation, I hurried to inform Grandfather, but he was constantly surrounded by other lords and rangers. Only that night, when we made camp, did I get the chance to speak with him alone.
Grandfather was furious at the intelligence failure.
"Daemon, are you sure of the number?" he asked, his voice taut with restrained anger.
"I am, Grandfather," I replied, meeting his gaze. "All my warged birds are there, and I counted the wildlings. There are at least 2,000 men and women, all warriors, though not well-equipped. They're armed with rusted swords, maces, and pilfered weapons."
Grandfather's expression darkened. "I will inform the rest of the commanders tomorrow that we must prepare to battle 2,000 men, not 500."
"Is that wise, Grandfather?" I asked, hesitation in my voice. "The Night's Watch has failed twice now. Perhaps there's a betrayer among them. Once is an accident, twice is coincidence, but a third time will be enemy action. Should we trust them again? Shall I keep an eye on the Night's Watchmen?"
For a moment, Grandfather looked horrified at the thought of such betrayal within the Watch. He was silent as he thought through and planned how to tackle this new possible threat.
"Even if that's true, Daemon, there are thousand Nights watch men in our army. Who would you keep your eyes on? The eyes you turn away from our known enemy in the open may allow them to flank our position through the forest. Informing my lords and the rangers is not a problem now that we know the wildlings' true numbers before the battle. You said that the wildlings aren't hiding the bulk of their army and we will see the truth of the matter anyway, when we reach there tomorrow evening. By the time of battle we will plan for the increased numbers, so there's no purpose in misleading us like this from the start. It is only a failure of the people to do their jobs properly and not maliciously done so."
"It's not that they're not hiding, Grandfather; there's simply no place to hide there," I replied, understanding his reasoning. "Anyway, I will follow your lead."
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Next day night.
The camp was set, and one or two cups of wine along with extra meat were served, as for many, this would be their last meal. Surprisingly, the wine came from the Night's Watch stock. I kept one eye on the wildlings through my warged birds, as Grandfather had tasked me with monitoring any movement through the forest that might suggest an attempt to flank us during tomorrow's battle. To my surprise, there was no such movement.
Both armies were positioned on opposite sides of a vast field, and we could see the lights of their torches flickering in the distance. Both leaders knew there would be no parley; tomorrow, there would be battle. 500 of the rangers, familiar with the land, were used as scouts since we left Castle Black, patrolling our flanks for any ambush from the 500 men reported near Queenscrown or any other wildlings. The Northmen guarded the camp on three sides, with the Wall protecting the fourth.
600 men were rotated every hour to stand guard facing the wildlings fearing sudden attack from them ever since we arrived here in the evening before sunset.
The Northmen and rangers were in high spirits, confident in their numbers against the poorly armed savages. Mocking jeers echoed through the camp as they questioned which fool had planned the wildlings' defence. I scanned the camps and forest near the wildlings through my warged animals, searching for any hidden animals like bears, mammoth or shadocats or even giants that could turn the tide, but found none. It puzzled me. Was it simply their lack of knowledge in counting that kept the wildlings from scattering into the Gift as they usually did when they know we were coming? Perhaps they didn't realize just how outnumbered they were.
It was halfway to the hour of the bat after dinner and wine when Ser Noseless, Lords Karstark, Umber, my grandfather, Lady Mormont, and I were sitting around the fire with Aethan and Lyra, sharing war stories. That's when a horn sounded from the wildlings' side along with rapid movements and noise by jeering and taunts.
I had lost concentration on my birds while listening and eating.
"Daemon," Grandfather called, as they all stood up, preparing to face whatever was coming.
I slipped into my birds and saw the wildlings ready with their substandard weapons, shaking with excitement at the prospect of impending violence.
I opened my eyes to find everyone looking at me.
"Grandfather, the wildlings are ready to attack us. They're shaking with excitement, and they'll attack us tonight. It seems they're waiting for something."
Grandfather frowned, hearing that. "They have no advantage in attacking at night."
"Let them attack; we are ready," Lord Umber yelled with jubilation. "But how do you know?"
"He's a bloody warg!" Ser Noseless shouted in panic. "A sorcerer, a demon!" he continued, his voice rising in fear.
I scoffed at his outburst.
"Shut your trap, you southern incompetent cunt," Lord Umber roared, infuriated by the insult directed at a Stark by a coward who had abandoned Heir Stark.
"Lords, prepare your men for battle," Grandfather ordered. "The wildlings think we'll be easy pickings after our march, but they'll be slaughtered regardless. Prepare!"
"Stark! Stark! Stark!" Umber yelled and the captains who had arrived to check for orders shouted as they left to make ready. Just then, another yelling and sounds of battle were echoed from the forest opposite the Wall.
I, along with Aethan, Grandfather, and Ser Noseless, looked toward the sound as wildlings started charging out of the forest, engaging with the inner guards made by northmen. Fortunately, we were at the centre of the camp, far from the forest, with many soldiers between us and the enemy.
The surprise attack by the wildlings was a success as almost of half of the guards were distracted by the sounds of preparation from the wildling camp.
A group of 20 Night's Watch men came running toward us, calling for the Ranger Ser Noseless, who was their leader for this venture. I scoffed at their panic; these incompetent fools couldn't act without their leader's command, even with the enemy at the doorstep.
All the while, Lord Stark was commanding orders, directing soldiers to where they were most needed. The 2,000 wildlings began their charge toward our front lines, and men rushed to reinforce the shield wall, turning it into a deathbed for any of the poorly armed wildlings who reached there, after charging towards them haphazardly in the moonlight. The gap between the camps allowed some preparation, but there was no time for archers to get there and be ready to loose arrows to the approaching army.
Cries of pain and the sharp scent of blood began to permeate the camp as the battle intensified. After the surprise was over, for every one of our men that fell, two wildlings were cut down on the sides not facing the main wildling army. Somehow, the wildlings had outmanoeuvred the patrolling Night's Watchmen, reaching the camp's borders en masse. This unexpected surge allowed them to overpower the fewer guards stationed there before being stalled by the swift arrival of reinforcements.
My concentration was focused on the battle and my birds view of it when suddenly, my hand moved instinctively to my back, stopping a knife aimed at my spine. My palm resisted the surprisingly sharp edge at first, but as I struggled to prevent the blade from piercing my spine, blood began to flow from my hand ,dripping down the knife to the earth as I had to increase my own strength to stop the push from reaching my spine. Due to my hand having resistance to the edge of blade from all my cutting of palms to give my blood it took continued use of force for my palm to be pierced by the sharp edge. I turned towards him all the while holding the knife while Ser Noseless struggled to push the knife in.
"What are you looking at, you fuckers?" Ser Noseless screamed at his 20 subordinates, who were staring in shock at him as he tried to stab me from behind. "Kill this bastard first! He's a fucking warg who alerted the Northmen to the wildlings' preparation and whatever else he may have seen!"
"Ah!!!!" Suddenly Ser Noseless yelled in pain. I saw his eyes widening in surprise and raising his hand looking at the severed edge near the elbow where the Valyrian Steel has cut cleanly through even the bone all the while I was sprayed by the blood from the elbow as I had turned towards him.
I had felt my own grandfather arriving from sidelines with sword raised to defend me. Even with my enhanced perception I couldn't see Ice moving and severing Ser Noseless's hand at the elbow.
I pried the knife from the dismembered hand and tossed the hand away, rage building within me at the betrayal. I looked at Ser Noseless who was rolling around his back all the while pressing a cloth to the elbow while yelling in pain. I realized that this motherfucker had likely betrayed my uncle too. It seems Starks are most likely to die by betrayal.
Before our guards or the lords could intervene, 10 of Noseless's men raised hidden crossbows and fired at me. Before I could dodge, I felt a sudden movement and push from my side, and I fell sideways as the sound of arrows hitting flesh filled the air.
Horror engulfed me as I prayed to the Old Gods that it wasn't Grandfather, but when I turned to look, my worst fears were confirmed.
"Nooooooo!" I yelled as I saw my grandfather falling backward, seven arrows embedded in various parts of his body. One had even nicked his neck, severing an artery and causing blood to pour out.
My hand moved on its own as the knife of Ser Noseless embedded itself to hilt inside the left eye of the leading Crossbowmen making others freeze for moments in shock of swift retribution.
Before the other 9 men could reload, the guards and lords fell upon them, swiftly cutting them down.
I immediately kneeled beside my grandfather, shaking him gently. His eyes were wide with shock, and I could see he wouldn't survive under normal circumstances. Looking around, I saw Lords Umber, Karstark, Lady Mormont, and Aethan standing a meter away, giving me a moment alone with him in his final moments.
I placed my bleeding hand over my grandfather's mouth, but only a few drops of blood fell inside as the wound in my hand had already clotted. Desperate, I reached for Ice, intending to make a larger cut. I picked it up, gripping the edge of the blade, and prepared to slice my palm when strong hands suddenly grasped both the sword and my right hand.
"No..." Grandfather coughed, his voice weak but firm. "No, Daemon," he repeated, coughing again and spitting blood. His voice was barely a whisper, heard only by me. "If you do that now, everyone will know your abilities, and it won't save me. Daemon... one of the arrows has pierced my lung. Even your blood can't heal me this time. Save your strength for the battle."
"No, you won't die today. We have too many plans. I can do this," I snapped, overpowering his hold.
"Aethan!" my grandfather called out with sudden strength. "Hold Daemon. Stop him."
Aethan moved quickly, gripping my arms with surprising strength. "As you command, Lord Stark," he said.
I snarled, ready to break his hands if necessary, when a sharp slap struck my face.
"I said no, Daemon," Grandfather insisted, the exertion making him cough blood again. His bloody hand cupped my cheek, forcing me to bow so he could see my face. His blood smeared on my skin, but the indifference I had developed toward blood, from sharing it, kept me from feeling nauseous.
"Daemon," he continued, "my grandson... no, my son. I'm sorry you have to see this, to go through this. I've always loved you as if you were my own, and you almost made me forget I lost my dear daughter. You are the best of her, and I'm glad I could protect you, unlike my son and daughter. Don't pretend you don't care for others. Do you really want to spend centuries alone, becoming a loveless monster?"
I was stunned by his deathbed confession, numb as my plans crumbled before my eyes. The easy life I had envisioned till atleast 120 AC was over. A man who treated me as his own son was dying, and even with my abilities, I couldn't save him. I would have survived such huge wounds, but my grandfather couldn't.
He coughed again, blood splattering from his lips.
"Dameon, Here, give it only to Cregan and teach him about the Stark duties, protect him Daemon." Father whimpered while taking my hand putting it on the edge of Ice. My hand brushed against the sharpness of the blade, and blood flowed from both our wounds onto the steel.
I grasped the sword and nodded in acceptance.
"Promise me, Daemon... promise me," he urged, coughing once more.
"I promise, Grandfather... no, Father," I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
A smile of true peace crossed his face, one I had never seen before. "I love you, Dae..." His voice faltered, and his hand slipped from mine, falling lifelessly to the ground.
For a few heartbeats, nothing happened. Then, reality sank in.
"NOOOOO…" I yelled again as I almost cracked my throat by the volume and Ice fell on the ground as my strength left me making me sit on my ass in the snow.
Aethan and the other lords shouted something, but their words were meaningless to me. The sounds of battle echoed around us, yet all of it felt distant, irrelevant. I knew I would outlive them all, destined to be alone for centuries, and now I had lost one of the pillars I had relied on so heavily in this life. A man who loved me as a son, and yet, all I could think about was the loss of his protection and how my plans were unravelling, not the loss of the man himself. I cursed myself in that moment for my selfishness, even as I knew it was necessary. Rage enveloped me again, now directed inward—for my failure to save him and for the traitors who caused this.
"AHHH!" I screamed, slamming my right hand into the ground in pure fury. Ice lay beside me, faintly glowing. I struck the ground again, and after the third hit, I froze as something caught my eye. There, on the Valyrian steel, was a single, clear drop of water. The fires around us reflected through it, casting rainbow colors. I knew it shouldn't be there. It was then I realized that my eyes were watering. Swiping a hand across my face, I found teardrops on my palm.
"Tears?" I murmured in absolute shock.
For a moment, my rage vanished, replaced by bewilderment. It returned swiftly, more intense than before.
"Why am I so affected by him calling me son?" I yelled to the heavens. "Why am I feeling this? Why am I feeling so much rage at his death when I have the next Lord Stark in my pockets?" The question echoed in the silence of my mind.
"I'm not supposed to care. I accepted the fact that my life as a caring family man was over long ago, and yet I care. What does this mean? Why am I feeling like this? I know they will die someday, and I will outlive them all. I accepted that, but why now? Why am I crying, but still unable to feel sorrow when I see my grandfather—no, my father—lying dead? What is happening to me?" My voice snarled against the cacophony of the battle and cries.
The answer came from one of the few people I realized I actually cared for, not just for their talent or position.
"Even with all the words you like to say, Daemon, he loved you, and you loved him. You're crying because you loved him enough that your control over your emotions has shattered. The indifferent mask you always had for others from the first moment I saw you had finally shattered. You do love others, like all humans in this cursed world, even though you pretend not to. Even the greatest monsters love something in this world. He knew that from the beginning and understood it, Daemon," Aethan said softly from my side.
I accepted that I loved people in this life too, and I cursed myself that he had to die for me to realize that. I sat there on the bloodied ground and cried my heart out, not caring for anything else.
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Omniscient POV
Aethan Reed knew Daemon was devastated, but feelings had to be set aside. He watched as Daemon sat beside Lord Stark's body, still crying. His face cycled from sorrow to hateful rage, a stark contrast that mirrored the twisted faces of the weirwood trees. The tears on Daemon's blood-streaked face mixed with the crimson, eerily resembling the red sap of the ancient trees.
Lord Umber, consumed by fury, had just killed another Night's Watchman who attacked them. The soldiers who had reached their position fought off the attackers, but the northern men were now fighting on both sides, the initial surprise assault by the rangers having claimed the lives of many of their own. Umber, seething, moved towards Daemon, intending to pull him away, but Aethan stopped him with a firm hand.
"No, Lord Umber. He might attack you, not recognizing friend from foe in his state."
"Reed, you have to get Snow out of here. The situation is spiralling out of control. The damned rangers have betrayed us. We're outnumbered, surrounded inside and out. Lord Stark is dead, and I will not see another one of Stark bloodline die in front of me. You must retreat now with him, and I'll find a way to fight our way out."
Aethan nodded in acceptance but before he could anything more, the battlefield fell into a sudden, eerie silence as a scream, primal and filled with unimaginable anguish, pierced through the cacophony of battle. Aethan Reed's heart skipped a beat, and he froze in place, his body betraying him as the terror clawed at his insides. Even the bloodthirsty Umber, who moments ago was a whirlwind of rage and steel, stood paralyzed, eyes wide with confusion and fear. It wasn't just them—every soldier, every Night's Watchman, and every wildling within a 500-meter radius felt it, their instincts screaming at them to flee, which their bodies refused to obey.
The air around them seemed to thicken, becoming suffocating, and even in the biting cold of the North, sweat began to bead on their foreheads. Breathing became a struggle, each gasp of air feeling like a desperate fight for survival. Aethan's mind raced, struggling to comprehend the source of the terror that had gripped them all. He knew that voice, that presence—it was Daemon. But this wasn't the Daemon he knew. The calm, composed young man he considered a brother was gone, replaced by something far more terrifying.
He saw Lord Umber's eyes widen in confusion as he wrestled with his instinct to move and kill the frozen Night's Watchmen. Aethan tried to shield himself with his own presence. As a warg, Aethan was aware that all wargs emitted an aura that calmed animals; it was something; a presence, that every warg uses instinctually, especially around horses. One of the first lessons he learned as a warg was never to enter the mind of a human—it could drive you mad. Since the aura could never influence people as even the most powerful warg, had an aura too weak to do so, Aethan wondered whether Daemon had become the greatest warg since the Age of Heroes. Any normal man will have trouble increasing his warging and presence beyond a limit, making sure humans never felt this, yet here was Daemon, doing the impossible by freezing hundreds of people at once.
"I have no limits, Aethan. I can increase any ability as long as I work hard enough."
That boast, which Aethan had once dismissed as mere bravado, now rang in his mind. Aethan wondered just how much time Dameon had spend training, as even he lost count how many animals or hours Dameon spent using his greenseer abilities to watch various events through weirwood.
To exert such fear in his surroundings, Daemon's hatred and rage must have flooded his presence, transforming it into a monstrous killing intent. The sheer scale of it, left Aethan in awe of his brother-in-all-but-blood's magical prowess.
It was this awe that allowed Aethan to break free from the paralyzing hold. He slapped Lord Umber to snap him out of it, and together they turned to see Daemon holding Ice in one hand, clutching an arrow in the other—a stray shaft that might have struck Lord Stark's body. With a roar, Daemon hurled the arrow back at its origin, and Aethan followed its path as it embedded itself in the neck of a wildling archer who had likely aimed at Daemon's half silver hair.
Umber, the other Northmen—and even the nearby enemies—understood immediately that Daemon was the source of their fear. Aethan saw tears streaming down Daemon's face, but there was no sorrow, only murderous rage. Daemon blinked and he wiped his eyes with the back of the hand, looking at the tears in his hands in surprise for a moment.
And the rage becomes an inferno and Daemon moved with a roar of anger.
And with that rage, the fires around the camp flared. The small flames grew into towering bonfires, their heat and light so intense that night turned to day. As Daemon tightened his grip on Ice and approached the first Night's Watchman in his path, Ice ignited with blood-red fire, turning the camp as hot as the Dornish deserts in a heartbeat before shifting to a cold blue fire. The blue flame flickered like ordinary fire, but it radiated no heat—it consumed it. An unnatural chill spread through the camp, as though winter itself had descended down on them, making everyone's breath visible in the air. The sudden drop in temperature, even as the flames continued to burn with the height of a giant, caused the fighting to cease in the camp. The once unbearable heat gave way to a spine-chilling cold that triggered everyone's fear.
Aethan, who had witnessed ancient battlegrounds of the epic wars of the Age of Heroes in his visions, withstood the immense pressure, perhaps because of his bond with Daemon. He realized that Daemon's killing intent had overflowed, and the Ice had amplified it with powers accessible only to those of Stark blood, making everyone in the entire camp to freeze in terror.
The frozen wildlings, who had seen enraged giants, scanned with their eyes for a giant in their midst. The Northmen, who had witnessed dragons, looked to the sky in terror, expecting death to descend upon them.
But there was neither a giant, nor a dragon. There was only Daemon Snow.
The greatsword, as tall as the person wielding it, moved so swiftly it was invisible to the naked eye. Only the aftermath of its deadly arc was visible—a Night's Watchman's head flying through the air before crashing into the face of a frozen wildling, snapping him out of his terror. The wildling stared in horror at the severed head lying on the ground before him, then let out a panicked scream that shattered the stillness.
"STARK!" Kill the traitors! Umber's roar echoed across the battlefield, powerful enough to nearly shake the nearby Wall. He charged after Daemon, slaying a treacherous Night's Watchman who stood paralysed in his way.
"STARK! STARK! STARK!" The cries spread like wildfire among the northmen, snapping them out of their paralysing fear and stupor. Even those unaware of what had happened at the center of the camp felt the palpable panic of their frozen enemies and immediately launched into the attack to exploit the advantage. Within moments, hundreds of traitors lay dead, struck down by the Northmen who were the first to break free from the paralyzing fear that had gripped their bodies.
Daemon was a silent, relentless force of death as he tore through the camp, cutting down every black-clad man in sight. There was no shouting, no grunts of effort—only the whistling of air as Valyrian steel sliced through flesh, sending limbs and heads flying. Any Crow who saw the blue flames and the cold aura that accompanied them tried to flee, but Daemon moved faster than even a charging knight.
Aethan had always known Daemon was faster and stronger than any ordinary man, but he hadn't realized just how much his powers and constant training had elevated him. The lethality was only increased by the Valyrian steel, which moved like a artists brush he had seen in White Harbour once.
Only difference was Daemon was not painting a picture on canvas; he was painting himself in blood. Killing was his only focus—there was no wasted movements, no words of triumph or condemnation when men tried to defend themselves, just annihilating anyone wearing the Black. He darted among the men, dodging and weaving with surefooted ease, showing the results of hours of parkour in godswood and the trees. Above him, birds circled, and Aethan realized Daemon was using their vision to guide his movements so that no friend was harmed in his rampage.
As Daemon picked up speed, he became a blur to all those who watched him. The only evidence of his passage was the split body parts flying in every direction and the death left in his wake.
Aethan remained still, guarding Lord Stark's body, with two soldiers flanking him as he had ordered. By this time, nearly all the traitors in their midst were dead, and those who weren't were desperately trying to escape into the forest.
Nearing the shield wall that guarded the camp from the 2000 wildlings, Daemon leaped over the column guards, using the shoulder of a Northman in the middle of the ranks as a springboard. His momentum carried him over the entire contingent, landing him atop a wildling who was hacking at the shield wall in search of a gap. Even before the wildling could react, Daemon's greatsword, Ice, flashed, and a head flew over the shield wall. He jumped again, his powerful kick shattering the wildling's shoulder, and landed amidst the enemy, fifty meters from the Stark shield wall.
Before the wildlings could even comprehend the fiery terror and freezing dread in their midst, Daemon tightened his grip on the flaming sword, spun 360 degrees, while extending Ice and holding it parallel to ground. The enhanced strength and reach of Ice cleaved through men as if they were nothing. A wildling had tried to slash at Dameon's right side, but the attack never reached him. The wildling was already bisected in the spinning attack by the time the mace reached anywhere near Daemon's body.
Daemon cackled as the wildlings around him descended into panic, their fear fuelled by the sight of his inhuman strength and the impossibility of a flaming sword that radiated coldness like the Wall itself. Nearly a dozen men had fallen in a single rotation, the long blade of Ice cleaving through two wildlings at once when they stood close together in the chaotic mob. Even those further away recoiled in terror, retreating several steps from the sword that burned with an unnatural fire, the cold it exuded seeping into their very bones.
Then, the wildlings made the greatest mistake they could have in that situation—they moved away from Daemon, their terror evident as they screamed and scrambled to escape the flaming sword. Their haphazard retreat created large gaps in their already disorganized mob, a vulnerability the Stark shield wall was quick to exploit.
Seeing the wildlings in the center faltering, the Stark soldiers began to press the attack with their spears, taking advantage of the distraction caused by Daemon's fiery onslaught. It was at this moment that Lord Umber arrived, his booming voice cutting through the chaos and taking control of men.
"Stark men, our enemies are dying by the dozens, slain by a boy! He's shown more courage than you lot, leaping into the midst of our foes and creating a red mist of death!" Umber shouted, his voice filled with both awe and determination as he watched blood still spraying from the bodies Daemon had bisected in his deadly spin. He marvelled at how the blood flowed freely, even when the flames should have cauterized the wounds.
Energized by Umber's words, the soldiers let out a rallying cry. "Stark! Stark! Winterfell! Winterfell!" they yelled, their spirits lifted by the sight of the carnage wrought by Daemon.
"Push for two steps, you bastards! Push and then retreat—let the swordsmen attack!" Umber bellowed as he snatched a shield from a nearby soldier, throwing his weight against it to shove the enemy back. The entire Stark front line surged forward, driving the wildlings off balance. As the wildlings stumbled and fell back, the shields pulled away, allowing the swordsmen from back to charge and engage in the melee.
Daemon pressed forward, gripping Ice with his right hand while taking his knife in another. He advanced on a wildling wielding a crude wooden club with a stone tip. The wildling barely began his attack when Ice flashed through the air, slicing through his neck. Daemon followed with a powerful kick to the man's stomach, sending his lifeless body crashing into three more wildlings, who toppled backward, causing further chaos.
From that moment on, Daemon was an unstoppable force, cutting through the panicking wildling line like a knife through butter. His speed was blinding, his movements a blur as he bisected men, severed limbs, and parried any strike aimed from his left by the knife. The occasional blow that glanced off his body was shrugged off, his durability and enhanced healing rendering the wounds non-threatening.
His speed allowed him to plough through the wildlings so much that by the time anyone from side or behind could slash at his back, he was past their reach. The scattered mob nature of wildling army made it possible he could move forward without any problem. His eagles were keeping their entire eyes on him from air and when he was going to be swarmed by some brave fools from the side or back, he just rotated 360 degree in his feet keeping Ice parallel to the ground, making short work of the wildlings trying to flank him. The only reason they were not able to stab him from behind was his own speed and their fear due to his inhuman feats they just witnessed.
The wildlings screamed in terror as they saw an inhuman boy with a grin and white-black hair turned red by the blood spilled by him. Adding to the blood was the fire sword. Fire has always been a terror for man from the ancient times and when it is used against him, they always try to avoid it. But there was no refuge for the rapidly retreating wildlings.
Heads, hands, torsos—Daemon's blade cut through them all, scattering body parts and creating a red mist of blood that began to rise around him. The wildlings' will to fight was broken, replaced by a desperate urge to flee. Daemon reached the far side of the mob, his eagles showing him from above the red mist that had formed in his wake in the mob of men, resembling a man cleaved in two.
By then, Umber and the soldiers had reached the halfway point of the battlefield. Umber grinned with an insane gleam in his eyes as he saw the red mist slowly settling to the ground in almost a straight line in the middle of the battlefield. A invisible line made by dead bodies and the still falling red mist by the passing of Daemon. As it cleared, a figure emerged at the end, standing at the end of a clear path through the wildling lines, holding the Stark sword, Ice. For Umber, it was a scene straight out of the stories from the Age of Heroes, he used to like when he was younger;
Daemon stood there, bathed from head to toe in blood and gore, with entrails draped around his neck like some macabre trophy. His silver half of the hair was now a mixture of red and black, stained by the blood of his enemies.
As Daemon looked up, he saw the Northmen advancing, nearly reaching the halfway mark. He noticed the wildlings fleeing towards the forest on the left side of the field, trying to escape, and he knew the battle was already won.
But Daemon was not finished. He started moving again, cutting down anyone in his path. It was the hour of the eel when the fighting finally ended, with the Northmen victorious and the birth of a legend.
Aethan watched as Daemon approached Lord Stark's body. As his face came into view, Lord Karstark, the Mormonts, and the soldiers nearby saw a continuous clear track of running tears under the eyes in the red painted face. Blood was still dripping down Daemon's body and he was still crying when he finally reached near the body and collapsed in exhaustion.
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Daemon Snow
I woke with a gasp, instantly moving to crouch, ready to attack anyone who made a move. It only took two heartbeats before pain flared through me, forcing a groan as I collapsed on my ass to the stone floor. My body was a wreck. As I looked around, I realized I was in a good room, nothing like Castle Black.
I connected with my bonded birds and, through their eyes, I saw Last Hearth from different viewpoints. .
I tried to stand, but pain immediately flooded me. My entire body was swollen one big bruise. My memory stirred, bringing the last few moments to the forefront, and sadness enveloped me once again. Still, there was a twisted sense of satisfaction, a pleasure in the slaughter I had wreaked afterward. I glanced down at my hands—they were still stained red. Whoever cleaned me had barely managed to scrape away the blood
Making the pain less with my control, I got up and sat on the bed, grabbing the water pot and drinking it all.
I sighed, thinking over what had happened that night. I wanted to blame myself for incompetence, but I knew deep down it wasn't my fault. There hadn't been any Night's Watch rebellion in the canon timeline, and my birds had been monitoring the Wildling army, helping us prepare. None of us suspected the treachery of the Night's Watch collaborating with the Wildlings. I couldn't even use my greenseer abilities to check on my uncle—I had too little time and no idea of the exact day to search the weirwood network. At the end of the day 1000 men ambush against 200 only had one outcome and there was no chance for betrayal to be the reason for my uncle's death, so I never bothered to see his death.
My eyes still watered, remembering my grandfather's death. The pain was still fresh, gnawing at my insides like a festering wound, and I wondered how I could feel such agony now, when I barely felt anything for my uncle's death earlier in Winterfell. The disparity haunted me, leading me to comb through my memories in search of any inconsistency. Was someone manipulating my mind, bending my emotions to their will? But I found nothing out of the ordinary—only the strange clarity of my mind's version of Winterfell, pieced together by the likeness of Dragonstone. The vision was more vivid than ever, with the distinct outline of the Weirwood tree becoming clearer. A dragon had begun to form at the center, right where the Godswood stood in the real Winterfell.
Whatever happened that night had changed me. My mind had sharpened, expanded, and in that moment, I understood why I hadn't felt sadness before. It was my own doing.
My own ability to control my body and mind. It is through which I reduced the pain earlier, it is a part of my limitless potential wish. I was adamant not being a family man from the moment I was born here and suffering the pain of death of loved ones from my childhood, that the control aspect made it possible to hinder any feelings unconsciously. But the death of my grandfather was too much for it and it broke that control, flooding me with sorrow and rage that I had never allowed myself to feel before. I sighed, the exhaustion seeping into my bones, as my healing overworked to mend the spilt muscles and even hairline fractures in my bones.
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The door to my room creaked open, and Aethan Reed stepped inside. His face was etched with sorrow as he spoke softly, "Daemon, I'm sorry for your loss. Lord Stark was a good man and a greater Lord of the North."
I nodded, though my mind was too clouded with fatigue and frustration to fully absorb his words. "What happened after I fainted? And why the hell are we here at Last Hearth instead of Castle Black, killing those traitors?" I asked while grabbing the plate of food from Aethan's hands. It was piled high with enough food to feed three grown men, as Aethan knew how much I needed after using my abilities. Sustenance was key to healing my battered and broken body.
"The wildlings and Night's Watchmen were routed, but almost a thousand of them escaped," Aethan began. "Of our men, only 800 Stark soldiers survived, along with 200 from Mormont, and 100 each from the Umbers and Karstarks. The betrayal of the rangers cost us dearly. After you fainted, the lords argued over who should lead and when to strike the Night's Watch or chase the wildlings. I made them see reason—that marching on Castle Black with so few men and many injured, not knowing where loyalties lay, was foolish. So, we retreated here."
I frowned at the thought of the wildlings still being alive, slipping away under the cover of night. "I see. We need information and confirmation. What happened to Ser Noseless? Is he still breathing?"
Aethan grimaced. "Yes, he's in the dungeons, but no amount of torture has made him talk. He grins, satisfied with himself, and keeps boasting about killing two Starks. One of our men lost control and beat him until he was unconscious. The healer says he's barely alive—he'll last a day at most. I managed to stop Lord Umber from killing him outright after you fainted and even took command of the remaining Stark men, making him our prisoner."
I raised an eyebrow, impressed. Aethan was only a young heir, with none of his own men nearby, yet he had managed to hold sway over the two lords, even the fierce Umber. "How the hell did you manage to get Lord Umber to hold back when he was after blood?"
Aethan smiled faintly. "Well, Daemon, it's only you who ignores my advice. We crannogmen are the bog devils, the ultimate survivors. Our loyalty to Winterfell has never been questioned, and in matters of survival against bigger and better foes, the Reed's words are always heeded. The Stark men follow me because I was fostered at Winterfell and spent years under Lord Stark's roof."
I processed what I heard and could only scoff in reply.
"You never told me why the Reeds are so loyal to Winterfell. The Starks conquered you, married the daughter of your Swamp King for your abilities. I know why the Mormonts and Manderlys are loyal—Mormont was saved from the Ironborn in a wrestling match, and we gave the Manderlys land when they fled the Reach. But the Reeds were conquered like everyone else."
Aethan chuckled, "And you'll never find out. But you can always try your luck through the weirwoods to glimpse the past."
I waved his teasing comment away. "Let's focus on the present. What do we know about the enemy? And why did so many Night's Watchmen turn traitor? My hands are itching to kill more of them," I snarled.
Aethan sighed at my anger and behaviour.
Aethan sighed at my frustration. "I asked around some of the surviving Night's Watchmen. They were surprisingly talkative. I've pieced together a theory. It starts with the man you insulted and discarded as irrelevant—Ser Noseless. He's the eldest son of Ser Lucamore Strong, the Kingsguard who was gelded and sent to the Wall in 73 AC for marrying three women and fathering many children, all labelled bastards by the Queen."
I gaped. "Lucamore the Lusty? The hero of that awful song that made the entire realm laugh? How in the name of the Seven did he manage to turn so many Night's Watchmen against their vows?"
Aethan shook his head, his expression stern. "This is your problem, Daemon. You underestimate people because you believe nothing can truly harm you. But that's dangerous. For all his flaws, Ser Lucamore was a Kingsguard, and his martial skills reflect that."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing, "From what I've gathered, resentment against the King and the Night's Watch had been festering for years. The men sent here by royal command already felt bitterness toward their fate, and one of them had been stoking those flames for the last decade. The issue was, they lacked a true leader—someone capable of giving them hope, of uniting them in their desire for escape and rebellion. That's where Lucamore came in. He and his sons were recruited, and with his reputation as a skilled warrior, he quickly usurped leadership. The men were eager to follow a Kingsguard, even a disgraced one."
I narrowed my eyes, processing this unexpected revelation. "And the wildlings?" I asked, already suspecting the answer.
Aethan nodded grimly. "They were already in contact with the rebellious group. Lucamore simply suborned them, offering strength and benefits that they have not seen in decades. As he defeated the leaders of various wildling tribes, more and more fell under his control, especially when he killed any rival who dared to challenge him. This is all the information I've confirmed from the prisoners,"
I was flabbergasted by the information and wondered what happened to Lucamore in canon.
"This is the how, Aethan. Now why?" I asked.
Aethan grimaced, clearly uncomfortable. "Unfortunately, I don't know the full motive with certainty. But I managed to scry on a meeting between two brothers, and from what I overheard, I can guess the motive. It was plain, honest revenge."
"Revenge?" I exclaimed, baffled. "Revenge against who? The North has done nothing to them."
Aethan hesitated before answering. "Against your grandfather." Seeing my confusion, he quickly added, "The King."
I paused, processing the implications and I could guess their plans immediately.
It was a bold and audacious plan, one built on arrogance and the assumption of things happening exactly as they want.
"That was a risky move on their part, but I can see why they'd do it. Returning the Gift to capable hands forced them to act before their chances of success vanished completely. But even then, killing Lord Stark and his heir might not be enough to drag a dragonrider from the South to defend the Wall. Even if they come, they won't venture beyond the Wall with an army unless they have their dragon. All this, just to separate a Targaryen from his dragon and kill them," I said.
"Well, you missed something else, Daemon," Aethan replied. "Ser Lucamore was a Kingsguard, privy to the inner workings of the realm. He knew about your plan to frustrate the king with constant complaints, and he likely concluded that it was an attempt by the North to tarnish the image of the 'good king.' Or maybe he overheard the king himself interpreting it that way. Ser Lucamore knew the North despised the Targaryens, and he intended to exploit that. He also knew Bennard Stark would become regent, and that Bennard would stop at nothing to hunt down the wildlings who had slaughtered his family.
There was already a plan in motion for Lucamore to become the Lord Commander. As the leader of the Night's Watch, Ser Lucamore could stay in the shadows, manipulate events, and become Bennard Stark's greatest ally in his quest for vengeance. From there, he could deepen Bennard's hatred for the Targaryens, perhaps by pointing out that the Targaryens had deliberately weakened the North. He might even suggest luring the king or his sons north under the pretense of fighting the wildlings, only to have them killed when they ventured beyond the Wall. If the North grew angry enough, they could declare independence—and Lucamore knew that anger was already festering."
I was taken aback by his words. "That's foolishness. Northmen betraying their sworn king without just cause?"
Aethan grimaced. "Yes, it is foolishness from our point of view, but for a southern knight who violated one of the highest oaths? Not really, Daemon. Strong managed to corral the wildlings, even when their hatred for the Night's Watch is legendary. From Lucamore's point of view, why couldn't he recruit a Stark for a plan that would make them kings again? After all, the North was never truly conquered, and the current king and queen have only worsened things with their arrogance. For all he knows, we're just biding our time. We still keep our distance from the South. And don't forget the Company of the Rose—a sellsword army led by a Stark bastard. They're one of the greatest companies in Essos, waiting for the call of a Stark king. They could have gathered untold knowledge on how to fight dragons from their time there."
I scoffed. "That's a lot of assumptions for this Lucamore to make, especially regarding the Northmen's honor and loyalty to their vows."
Aethan nodded in agreement. "But you have to remember this, Daemon—a traitor and a liar always believes that others are just like them, just waiting for the most beneficial opportunity to show it."
I nodded sharply at Aethan. "That's indeed true. When did you get to be such a wiseass? Well, anyway, I suppose I should walk and eat now, or we'll never end this conversation. After that, let's make sure I personally welcome Ser Noseless back to the land of the living from his deathbed and see whether your guesses are correct."
Aethan looked worried. "Are you sure, Daemon? Even though he's guarded only by Stark men under my orders, word may spread."
"It's a risk I'm willing to take after my own performance that day. No one would believe I'm just a normal man anymore," I said, shrugging off his concern.
When Ser Noseless finally woke up, it took me only fifteen minutes to break his will. He quickly realized he would heal and survive for a long time, thanks to my abilities. He called me a demon, the very representation of the Seven Hells, and other ridiculous names—all while I laughed at his overdramatic yelling.
The information he gave me was valuable, and I ended the torture by taking his other hand as well.
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