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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and all rights for characters, plots and settings belong to G.R.R. Martin and FromSoftware. I have no ownership.
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"The war has been waged since time began, and before it is done, all men must choose where they will stand(…) Against stands the Great Other whose name may not be spoken, the Lord of Darkness, the Soul of Ice, the God of Night and Terror. Ours is not a choice between Baratheon and Lannister, between Greyjoy and Stark. It is death we choose, or life. Darkness, or light."
Melisandre of Asshai
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Westeros, Hardhome
Aerion/Jon
They fled. As fast as their legs would carry them, accompanied by the sound of cracking ice and laughter echoing around them, like the crackle of spreading frost. It was filled with joyful cruelty and the thrill of the hunt.
Jon ran faster than he had ever run in his life, far faster than a normal human could manage, and Song, clinging to his back, tried desperately not to fall.
He had to warn the Free Folk, and they should all flee immediately, though he didn't truly hope they would succeed. Not from this nightmare, not with the number of Others he had seen inside the massive cave.
And even if they did escape, what next? How to fight against such a force. He had previously expected that, at worst, they would be faced with two, maybe three, dozen ice demons. The truth was far more terrifying.
There were hundreds of them, each beyond a human warrior and deadly, with the power to animate corpses. Worse still, a thought took root in his mind. What if there were more places like this? What if there were more Others? Perhaps even stronger, more powerful ones?
He didn't want to think about that now. He had to survive first and save whoever he could. He had no doubt he could escape on his own on the Torrent, but that meant abandoning not only the Free Folk but also the black brothers, and Tormund, who had to be somewhere between the Wall and Hardhome.
While he was certain he outmatched the Others physically and could perhaps handle a few, fighting more guaranteed certain death. Still, he had to slow them down somehow.
Still running, he turned to the Child of the Forest. "Song, you must inform the Free Folk to flee along the coast. I will buy some time."
"You can't," Song denied in a fiery tone. "You, of all people, must survive, Dawnbringer. You must reach beyond the Wall, no matter the cost. Otherwise, all hope for living things will die."
Something told Jon that this was the logical decision, and he needed to think of the bigger picture. But he quickly pushed those thoughts aside. This was not how he was raised. This was not how he was taught.
For a moment, he pictured the faces of Eddard Stark and Aemon Targaryen. His uncle and foster father would be disappointed, and the old maester would say something like, "Kill the boy..."
Having made his decision, he stopped almost in place, so abruptly that Song almost flew off his back.
"I'll stop them here before they reach the point where the tunnel branches into more branches, where they can not only circle me but also exit the caves at multiple points at once. Go, Song. Warn the people," Jon called, gritting his teeth and bracing himself for a confrontation he might not survive.
She froze at his words, clearly torn, but finally nodded and replied, "I understand now why the gods have turned their attention to you. I hope we will see each other again."
Then, swift as a cat, she strode forward, leaving Jon in utter silence as the sound of her footsteps faded. The Others fell completely silent. Not only was their terrifying laughter absent, but there wasn't even the slightest rustle or footstep.
From where he had come, only darkness glared at him. He summoned the Dragon Communion Seal, concentrating his thoughts on the only incantation he knew, one that he hoped would prove useful against the Cold Shadows, or whatever they were called.
He couldn't say how long it had been since he stopped to confront them, but it must have been at least several minutes, and there was no sign of the Others.
Jon's knuckles were white from clenching his grip on the Sacred Seal, and he was beginning to fear that his enemies had found other passageways and bypassed him, or worse, surrounded him.
But after another drawn-out moment, he finally heard the sound of footsteps, but it was barely audible. It didn't even sound like ice touching ice, which was what the Others' armour and footwear seemed to be made of.
A pair of eyes gleamed in the darkness of the tunnel, then another, and another. Then another dozen, their glow bright enough to partially illuminate their silhouettes. More were appearing all the time.
The Cold Shadows weren't in any hurry either. In fact, they acted as if they were enjoying the hunt, allowing their prey to feel a tiny grain of hope of escape, only to then strip it of it.
The Others were incredibly arrogant about it, but Jon couldn't really blame them. Not only were they superior to humans in every respect, but there were truly many of them. Far too many.
Slowly, the sound of ice or crystal grinding against itself echoed. The Others drew their crystal blades, or was it magical ice?
Terrifying smiles spread across the faces of the closest Cold Shadows, seemingly the contorted expressions of the human ones.
"ᚺᚨᚾᛖᚱᛖᛁᚾᚺᛁᚾᚨᚺᚢᚷᚱᛟᚲᚢ, ᛖᚾᚺᚨᚾᛗᚢᚾᛖᚾᛞᚨᛊᛖᛗᚺᛁᚾᛁᚱ, ᚦᚨᚱᛊᛖᛗᚺᚨᚾᚨᚺᛖᛁᛗᚨ. (He's one of the brave ones. But he'll end up like the rest, where he belongs.) A voice, as if from the very heart of winter, came from the mouth of one of the Others, piercing like a frosty wind from the farthest north. Yet there was beauty in it, just as even the harshest winter holds unforgettable sights and wonders.
Jon don't understood what he said, but the Others laughed at their brethren's words, carrying with them the cold contempt of beings who looked down on everything or simply from a perspective completely different from the living.
He could have attacked immediately, but he waited for them to make their move and get even closer, as they were now about 30 metres (90 feet) apart. Every moment gained was precious.
"ᚺᛚᛁᚱᛒᛚᚨᚦᚱᚢᛖᛁᚲᚱᚨᛏᚺᛟᛚᛞᛁᛟᚲᛖᚾᚢᛖᛁᚲᚨᚱᛁᚨᛏᚺᚢᚷᚨ, ᚦᛖᛏᚨᛊᚲᚨᛚᚢᛖᚱᚨᛗᛖᛊᛏᚱᛟᚢᛁᚾᚱᚢᚨᚱ (Warm-blooded. Weak in flesh and even weaker in mind. This is supposed to be our greatest enemy.) Another one spoke, and though Jon didn't understand the words, the contemptuous expression on his face and tone of voice made it clear that it was meant as an insult.
"ᚦᛖᛊᛁᛗᚢᚾᛖᛁᚷᛁᚺᛚᚨᚢᛈᚨᛒᚢᚱᛏ, ᛖᚲᛗᚢᚾᚨᚾᚨᛊᛏᚺᚨᚾ( This one isn't going to run away, I'll take care of him)," said the Other, standing slightly behind him. Then, with his ice blade drawn, he charged at Jon, who took a deep breath and gripped the Sacred Seal tightly with both hands.
He took two quick steps forward and cast the incantation. A majestic dragon head appeared above him, its jaws gaping, and a roar erupted from it, making the walls tremble. Sapphire-coloured flames followed.
They instantly filled the tunnel from wall to wall, rushing straight towards the surprised Others, many of whom let out cries of terror. The ice walls began to melt from the heat, creating a thick, steamy haze.
The Other, who had stepped forward, was instantly engulfed in flames, and soon the others suffered the same fate. They clearly attempted to use their ice-related powers, but they only temporarily slowed the spreading river of flames.
When his focus was completely exhausted, the incantation ceased, and Jon fell to the ground. The tunnel before him transformed into a stream of boiling water and thick steam, flowing toward the main chamber from which he fled. Even some of the exposed rock had melted, turning to lava.
But that wasn't the end. Further down the tunnel, Jon saw an ice wall that had grown across its entire width, blocking the river of fire, whose last tongues licked at it, slowly fading. Suddenly, the wall began to crack, a moment later shattering into thousands of fragments, revealing the Others hidden behind it.
This time, however, there was no trace of dark amusement or contempt in their gleaming blue eyes. Only cold fury.
Of course, they had to have a way to counter his flames; otherwise, it would be too good to be true.
He broke into a run, summoning the Flask of Cerulean Tears, the only one he possessed, and poured its entire contents down his throat, almost immediately feeling his mind clear again and his dizziness disappear. His mental focus had completely recovered.
However, this was his only bottle of Cerulean Tears, so he couldn't afford any more attacks like that. He gambled everything on one card, and unfortunately, it didn't work. Damn,
He ran as fast as he could, but the ice beneath his feet hampered him considerably, for he had to be careful not to slip. The Cold Shadows followed him, not slowly as before, but in these conditions, they almost matched his speed, nipping at his heels.
At one point he tried to slow them down by sending a Glintstone Arc at them, but their armour easily took the attack, and only one of them, whose attack he caught at face level, lost the top half of his skull.
On the one hand, it proved ineffective in this situation, but on the other, it confirmed that Glintstone Sorcery also worked on Others, though less effectively on their armour. However, it was another of the few methods he could use to fight them; now he just had to survive long enough to use this knowledge in the future.
After all, he had only scratched the surface of the potential and power sorcery offered. Mistress Sellen had thoroughly explained to him what true masters of this art were capable of...
That's why he should have kept his mind focused on escape. Losing his concentration for a moment, he slipped on the icy floor and almost ran full speed into the wall. Only the fact that he threw himself completely to the ground and slid the next thirty metres (98 feet), stopping against the wall.
He quickly rose to his feet, but one of the Others was almost on top of him. He, having no weapon in his hand, instinctively reached out and grabbed the other's wrist, stopping the sword from falling. Surprisingly, he felt only a slight chill as he touched the other's icy glove, but what's more, he was stronger.
He scrambled to his feet and, still holding Other's hand, threw him at his oncoming companions, momentarily halting the entire pursuit, which had become a tangle of icy bodies and limbs. It might have been comical to him, if not for the fact that behind them, dozens of their companions were trying to bypass them and catch up to him.
He continued to flee, passing through successive tunnel branches along the way, until he finally glimpsed a light at the end of the tunnel, and he fell out, more than twenty metres above the ground. And although he tried to cushion the impact by rolling, his left leg broke just below the knee, and those were only external injuries.
Dazed, he rolled onto the ground and summoned the Flask of Crimson Tears, pouring its contents into his mouth. His leg healed, and the internal injuries disappeared. But there was so much good news, for Others were pouring out of multiple tunnels at once.
Getting to his feet, he barely had a moment to take in the situation outside, and seeing what was unfolding before his eyes, he couldn't help but feel a burning sense of resentment. The Free Folk fled in panic to the south, passing a cliff dotted with caves.
Shouts of terror filled the air. Everyone tried to get to the front of the procession, disregarding the others, fighting for space to the point that adults trampled children to death, leaving the weakest to fend for themselves.
Everything turned into pure pandemonium when the Others arrived, some rushing towards him, the rest following the fleeing men. Killed by the crowd, they began to rise from the ground, their eyes glowing blue.
From midday, he heard even louder screams of terror and death. Others waiting among the sprawling trees of the Haunted Forest apparently pounced on the fleeing humans.
Jon summoned Torrent and hurried him toward the fleeing crowd, leaving his pursuers far behind. His faithful steed was undoubtedly the fastest land creature on his home world, easily outpacing the fastest horse twice. Whether the same could be said of the Lands Between, he didn't know.
Racing on Torrent, he instantly overtook the rushing mass of fleeing humans, so much so that even most of them failed to notice him. Holding onto the spectral mount with only his legs, he summoned Ornamental Straight Swords to both hands and activated their ability, enveloping them in a luminous aura of Holy power.
It was just in time, as the front of the Free Folk column was being slaughtered by the advancing Wights, while nearly a dozen Others watched from a distance. Jon pushed his way through the mass of reanimated bodies and raced toward the real enemy.
In a few seconds he caught up with the first of his opponents, who tried to block the blow with his ice blade, but Jon was faster, and, combined with Torrent's momentum, Cold Shadow lost his head before he realised what had happened.
Torrent struck another enemy with such force that the impact threw him a good 20 metres (65 feet) into the distance. Jon relentlessly slaughtered one enemy after another, forming a deadly connection with Torrent. And for a moment, he saw hope as the wights began to fall to the ground, opening a passage for the surviving humans.
His hope quickly faded, however, when only two hundred escapees managed to get through before the dead began to rise again, joined by those of the Free Folks who had just died, cutting off the remaining humans completely. Jon knew they were doomed, especially when he saw over a hundred Others rushing into the rear of the escapees in cold fury.
So he did something he'll likely regret for the rest of his life. He decided to abandon those who had managed to get through and try to save those who had managed to escape. He headed in that direction, trying to block them from the wights following them.
He jumped off the Torrent and, landing, summoned Dragon Communion Seal, activating Agheel's Flame Incantation. Azure flames burst from his mouth, and he directed them to cover as much area as possible, spreading like an avalanche along the slope.
They consumed the advancing wights, and then the rest, mixed with the surviving Free Folk behind enemy lines.
However, it was of little use. His attack was too weak in the open to inflict serious casualties on the enemy. Hundreds, even thousands, of fallen men rose as wights, followed by over a hundred Others.
Jon jumped back into the Torrent to catch up with the two hundred survivors. He felt slightly dizzy, having exhausted all his focus on the incantation, and it seemed as if his mind was unusually sluggish, making it difficult for him to think clearly.
Catching up with the remnants of the Free Folk, he immediately realised that despite the terror that fuelled them, they were slowing down, exhausted and struggling through a layer of snow nearly half a metre (2 feet) high.
And the Others weren't stupid; what's more, they treated this as a hunt and were already overtaking them from the right, completely surrounding them in mere minutes. What's more, when Jon tried to approach them to open a passage, ice spears flew towards him, one of which finally pierced Torrent completely.
With a squeal of pain, Torrent vanished into thin air, and Jon fell to the ground, rolling. Holding his sword in one hand, he summoned the Academy Glintstone Staff in the other, waiting for at least some of his Focus Points to regenerate.
As he did, he retreated closer to the ever-shrinking group of survivors, while the Others and their minions surrounded them in an increasingly numerous and tighter circle.
'Fuck,' he thought. This was where his recklessness would end. He wouldn't be able to save even this handful, and he couldn't be sure that dying here would mean he would be reborn. There was nothing he could do to change anything.
"LEIG DHOMH A-STEACH. BHEIR MI SAORADH DHUIT. (LET ME IN. I WILL FREE YOU)," came a whisper that simultaneously seemed to rumble like thunder, and Jon clutched his head, which was ripping with indescribable pain, as if thousands of needles were piercing his skull.
"CHAN EIL DÒCHAS AGAD. THA A H-UILE AIR A CHAILEACHD. LEIG LE GACH NÌ A BHÀSADH LE TEINE. LEIG MI A-STEACH (YOU HAVE NO HOPE. ALL IS LOST. LET ALL BE BURNT BY THE FLAME. LET ME IN)."
The pain was growing stronger, and he barely registered falling to his knees as something pressed against his mind like a massive mountain.
"Let me go! Go away!" he cried desperately, no longer even registering what was happening around him.
"THA TÙ AIR CALL. BITHIDH A H-UILE AIR A GHLACADH LE OIDHCHE SHÌORAICHE. LEIG LEAM A-STEACH, AGUS LEIG MI LEIS A DHÈANAMH SAORADH AIR A H-UILE ANN AN TEINE GLANAIDH (YOU HAVE LOST. ALL WILL BE CONSUMED BY ETERNAL NIGHT. LET ME IN, AND I WILL LIBERATE ALL IN CLEANSING FIRE)."
The voice grew louder, and the pain was almost unbearable. Jon's resolve weakened, especially since his mind was already weakened, and he knew he couldn't resist any longer before the pain killed him.
Through pain-stained eyes, he saw blurry figures approaching. Others. They wanted to finish him off as he crumpled helplessly on the ground.
He wasn't going to give them that satisfaction. If the world was truly to be consumed by the Cold, it better be consumed by flames. With that thought, he stopped resisting the voice.
"Come" were his last words.
A moment later, sickly yellow fire erupted from his head, consuming the right side of his face but not reaching the Great Rune. His thoughts drowned in a sea of madness. A terrible, almost mad laughter echoed in his head.
"HAHAHHAAAAHA! GU BITH MO LÒINN A' GLANADH AN SAOGHAL SEO! GIDH AN T-URRAINN A DHÈANAMH AIR AN T-SAOGHAL. (MAY MY FLAME PURIFY THIS LAND. MAY CHAOS TAKE THE WORLD)"
Fire. Madness. Flame. Frenzy. And nothing more. Everything was consumed. Everything was destroyed.
He saw only fire everywhere.
Fire, flames, and… light? Yes… light.
A golden light erupted from within him, consuming everything. Him, Flames, and Frenzy.
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Westeros, Beyond the Wall
Tormund Giantsbane
For the past three days, they had been racing tirelessly, as if they were being chased by the Cold Ones themselves, though that might have been true, as he didn't know if they were hiding in the Haunted Forest, which loomed ever so slightly in the distance.
He hoped Jon was alright. The young King Crow had a tendency to get into trouble, and after recent events and the gods' interference, Tormund expected him to start getting into even worse situations.
The young man had his heart in the right place and a good head on his shoulders, and if it weren't for what had happened a few hours ago, he would probably have been confident that Jon had everything under control. Now he wasn't so sure.
He'd already had a gut feeling that something bad was happening, but when the entire sky to the north suddenly turned sickly yellow, and the horizon in the direction they were heading erupted in flames the size of Frostfangs, he knew something bad had happened.
The flames radiated no less malevolence than the Cold Shadows, and they were doing something dangerous to his and his men's heads. They had to kill Little John and Dull Gorn, for they had fallen into some kind of madness and attacked their nearby companions.
Everyone else was no better. Noseless Wyll simply fell to his knees and clawed out his eyes and half his face, bleeding to death. Fortunately, it all lasted only a minute or two before it stopped. A burst of golden light illuminated the horizon, and when it subsided, the flames and madness were gone.
After all this, Tormund, despite the protests of many of his men, tried even harder to reach the old settlement and Jon.
They were still at least twenty kilometres (12 miles) from Storrold's Point, the promontory on which Hardhome stood, when Tormund became convinced that everything they had seen had actually happened.
For here, the snow ended, and the scorched black earth began, radiating something terrifying. Just looking at it sent shivers down his spine, even nausea.
Practically the entire finger-like strip of land, stretching for over 50 kilometres (30 miles), had been transformed into a black wasteland, and because this sliver of land sloped down toward the sea, the white-haired warrior had an excellent view.
He couldn't say for sure, as they lay at the foot of a cliff, but it seemed that Hardhome had completely vanished. Everyone was dead.
He wanted to turn around and return to Wall, but something told him that Jon had survived…no, not only had he survived, but he had somehow been responsible for all of this.
He glanced at Brogg, standing slightly behind him, his eyes wide with horror at the sight. "We're moving. We have to get there before dark," he ordered, but Brogg looked at him in disbelief.
"Have the Others lost your mind, Tormund? You want us to go there? Nothing could survive those fucking flames," the man replied angrily, but he backed away slightly as Tormund moved toward him.
He might understand the other's fear; after all, he felt it himself, but he wasn't going to tolerate cowardice, especially not now. "You're Craven Brogg. You're going to come back with your tail between your legs now, aren't you?" He asked menacingly, then glanced at the others.
"And you, are you going to tell the Crows how you fled in fear like children?" he called, earning hardened stares and shakes of the head.
"Good. We're going immediately."
They struggled through the lands scorched by this maddening fire, and Tormund began to honestly wonder if there were worse things than Others.
Fire was associated with warmth, survival, and warm food, but now he saw its worst possible side. And not a natural one. Gods or demons were involved; he didn't know if it made any difference.
He had expected the fire to do more damage, to turn the earth into molten rock, as he had heard in the stories, but the flames seemed to simply scorch everything alive. Every creature, every tree and every blade of grass hidden beneath the snow vanished, but nothing more.
Finally, they reached the vicinity of Hardhome, and there, lying in the midst of nothing but scorched earth, he found Jon. Naked like a newborn, he lay, staring absently at the sky.
Tormund's eyes were immediately drawn to the burnt, or perhaps tattooed, flame symbol on his chest, which seemed to pulsate with a life of its own, as if a real fire were contained within it.
This only confirmed his earlier suspicions about the origin of this unnatural fire.
He approached the young man slowly, the frightened whispers of his companions echoing as he approached.
"Jon, King Crow, can you hear me? What happened here? What happened to Hardhome?" he asked, though he already knew the answer to that last question.
Although Jon didn't react at first, after a moment he turned his head towards him and burst into mad laughter, and it took him a moment to calm down. Then, with tears streaming down his cheeks, he said,
"May the chaos take the world... That fucker."