Hey everyone. I'm back, and with a new story from patreon. A while back, around the start of the new year if I remember right, I hosted a poll asking people on my patreon what story they wanted to see. They had three options: A RWBY/Baldur's Gate 3 crossover, a Persona 3/Persona 5 crossover, and this story. As you can see, this story won the poll.
To be honest, I'm still not fond of having to resort to using patreon, but hey, if it helps my financial situation and help my family, what the hell. And its also thanks to you guys that I'm able to continue writing in the first place, since like any self-respecting fanfic author, I want people to respond and react to my writing so I can improve.
With that out of the way, a quick notice. This story actually has five chapters as of this writing. If you like what you see and want to read more, as well as possibly offer ideas of your own (that may or may not make it into the story), find out more HERE. And if you want to support me outside of this shamepless plugging, consider checking out my book series Chase Ryder and the City of Lost Memories over on Amazon. I recommend the kindle versions as they are the cheapest.
...no, seriously. I TRIED making the paperback versions around 15 bucks, but Amazon wouldn't let me. Assholes!
"And it grew both day and night, till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine, and he knew that it was mine."
—A Poison Tree, by William Blake
The fallen leaves tell a story.
JON
Jon awoke with a startled gasp. His body moved, driven by adrenaline and fear, reaching for the blunted sword laid at his bedside. His actions stirred the slumbering direwolf at the foot of his bed. Ghost lazily raised his head and peered at his master inquisitively, perplexed by his sudden movements.
In his half-woken state, Jon swore he saw
someone with a brandished blade in hand. Instead, he found no one. His room was empty and barren, his belongings undisturbed. He looked around, searching for a potential intruder, but found no one.
A moment passed before Jon sighed, letting the tension bleed from his muscles. He slid the blunted sword back into its sheath, wiping the cold sweat from his brow.
"Another dream," he murmured with a frown.
For reasons Jon could not fathom, dreams plagued him for the last few months or so, so vivid and fantastical he nearly thought them to be reality. They spoke of an epic, dark and dreary and worthy of songs, yet he could not understand why he dreamed of them. He did not know if it was hearing one too many of Old Nan's tales or if the dreams were a message from the gods. What message the dreams entailed, he did not know. In the end, he merely dismissed them as fanciful and nothing more.
That, and Jon sorely believed the gods would deign to speak to a bastard child.
His father, Lord Eddard Stark, is the Lord Paramount and Warden of the North. The Stark lineage is long and storied, dating as far back as the days when the Children of the Forest once freely frolicked across the planes of Westeros and dragons soared the skies. The Northern climate is harsh even in the best times, but such conditions gave rise to warriors and survivors. These people came to call the freezing winds and white-laden lands home when House Stark once ruled like kings.
Like other kings in ages past, however, they were made to bend the knee and swear fealty to a wayward conqueror from the eastern lands of Essos.
In nearly three centuries, House Stark managed to retain its influence and power, and according to some, it boasted a stronger connection now more than ever thanks to the rebellion nearly twenty years ago. In his younger years, Eddard Stark fought alongside and befriended Robert Baratheon, once heir of the Stormlands and now King of the Iron Throne. While relations between the North and the South remained tense and uneasy, the friendship between the king and the Northern Warden offered no small amount of political power to the Northern lands. Eddard Stark's actions and accolades made him popular in the North, respected, and recognized as a worthwhile leader of the house and of the North.
And yet, for reasons few could fathom, Eddard Stark welcomed his own bastard child into Winterfell.
Although Jon got on well with his half-siblings for the most part, the same could not be said of Eddard's lady-wife Catelyn. She did not demean or insult him, and she never once raised a hand against him. That would imply she deigned to interact with the boy at all. Her weapon toward him was a stare, cold as the winter winds, and a silence as dead as the crypts. Any cruel barbs or insults were reserved behind closed doors and away from sensitive ears, in the privacy of her room or his father's solar.
Jon never understood why his father welcomed him and raised him with the rest of his half-siblings. Perhaps he did it out of duty, or perhaps out of familial love. Perhaps it was made because of a promise to his late mother, a woman everyone knew little of. The identity of Jon's mother is a secret known only to Eddard Stark, a secret he seemed adamant about taking to the grave. Jon lost count of how many times he asked about his mother's identity. When Lord Stark refused to give a name, he asked what sort of person she was. Again, Lord Stark refused to say beyond that she loved Jon with all her heart.
He vaguely remembered the rumor that danced about Winterfell years ago when he was but a few name days, how the servants speculated his mother was a woman named Ashera Dayne. He recognized the name, if only from his studies; Ashara Dayne was one of ladies-in-waiting for the late Princess Elia Martell, sister to Prince Oberyn Martell and heir of Dorne. The servants often spoke of her beauty, how it captivated and bewitched so many, his father supposedly among them. Any talk of Ashara died the moment Lord Stark heard the rumors, and with a snarling rage that wouldn't be out of place on a direwolf.
Jon did not know whether Ashara was his mother, but he felt no attachment to the name. It did not stir anything in him.
Jon took a few moments to relax, calming his nerves before he finally laid himself back down to sleep. Daylight had yet to break through his curtains, meaning morning practice and chores could wait a while longer. He wanted to sleep a while longer despite the horrid experience from earlier. Ghost padded its way up next to him, gently laying at his master's side while Jon lulled himself back to slumber.
No dream assailed his sleep then.
(linebreak)
"You look like shit," was the first thing that came out of Theon Greyjoy's mouth when Jon joined him and his half-brother Robb for morning practice.
Jon rolled his eyes, recognizing the barb for what it was. Robb, on the other hand, looked concerned. "Is everything alright, Jon? You don't look well."
"I'm fine," he insisted. "Just had another strange dream is all."
He told Theon and Robb of his dreams once before if only to have some peace of mind and the vague hope they might be able to help make sense of them. Theon told him he listened to Old Nan's stories one too many times whereas Robb wore a disturbed, if curious look, often inquiring about every detail Jon could remember. Ultimately, the dreams still made little sense to either boy.
"Same as before?" Robb asked.
Jon nodded. "Same as before."
"I keep telling you, you listen to that hag's stories too much," Theon said. He hopped over the wooden fence surrounding the training yard and grabbed one of the blunted swords from the rack, giving it a few swings to test its weight. 'They're amusing to hear, but ol' Nan's barking mad, I tell you."
"And her stories often have a grain of truth to them, you bloody arse," Robb groaned as he joined Theon in the yard. "And we shouldn't dismiss Jon's dreams so off-handedly. For all we know, they could be green dreams."
"Oh, come off it. When's the last time one of your greenseers showed up?"
Jon pursed his lips in thought. Truthfully, he wanted to agree with Theon. Whatever dreams they were, they were certainly not green dreams. The last records of the greenseers was during the days of the Andals' arrival in Westeros, that which supposedly marked the end of magic and of the Children of the Forest.
He put the thought out of his mind and joined his half-brother and Theon in the yard, engaging in the routine practice of clashing blades. It was these moments that made Jon feel like a trueborn Stark. Each time he clashed swords, he felt his hackles rise and his wolfsblood whisper. Instinct propelled him to move faster and strike harder, in turning making Robb and Theon more competitive. As they continued to exchange blows, Jon felt his worries bleed away.
By the time the sun was in the sky and the servants were up and about Winterfell's halls, the morning routine reached its end. The boys were caked with sweat and their swords nicked. As always, Theon struggled to keep tempo with the Stark-blooded boys, though Robb looked tired, having tried to keep up with Jon and failing. When Rodrik arrived, they had already returned their swords to the rack and separated. Robb left to Maester Luwin and continue his lessons while Jon went with Theon to the eastern wing.
"Say, Jon, you heard what's been happening over in the South lately?" Theon asked suddenly as they walked through the halls. "Heard some sailors talking in a tavern the other day. Something's got the high and mighty nobles there twisting their nickers."
"Like what?"
"Somethin' the sailors saw near the southern coasts off Essos. Dunno what, but with how pale the sailors' faces were, I'd thought they'd run into my uncle Euron." A shudder went down Jon's spine, noting the disturbed look on Theon's face. Admittedly, Jon knew little of the Ironborn beyond hearsay and what Theon told him, but even then, he knew nothing of their people and culture. Even so, the name invoked a feeling of indescribable dread.
As Jon and Theon rounded the corner, a familiar head of dark hair barreled into him, nearly throwing him to the floor. He grunted, nearly losing his grip on the wooden box in his arms. "Ow!" a familiar voice whined below him. "H-hey, who put a wall there?"
"Guess again, Arya," Theon snickered.
Arya Stark, Eddard Stark's youngest daughter and child, often described as a wild child more interested in how to swing a sword than sewing. Besides Robb, Jon felt he was closest with her out of all his siblings. Try as his father did, it was impossible to tame her. She took to her lessons with the septa as well as a fish took to dry land, or so Theon had said. He thought she was closer to a direwolf, free and wild as the wind.
Arya blinked and looked up from her spot on the floor. "Oh. Hey, Jon."
"What? No hello for me?" Theon gasped in mock pain, making a grandiose gesture of clasping his chest as though he were in pain. "I'm hurt, Arya."
Jon rolled his eyes, ignoring the squid for a moment in favor of his half-sister. "On the run from the septa again?" he guessed.
"It's not my fault the lessons are boring," Arya whined as she picked herself up off the floor. "I'd rather listen to Luwin than the old hag."
"Come on, don't say that. I'm sure she means well." He only said that to keep appearances, of course. Jon didn't particularly care much for Septa Mordane. The old woman was doing her job and could be kind at times, but such temperament was usually reserved for Sansa and her mother. She was respectful to the men of the household, all while expressing mild displeasure with him. She didn't call him out or make snide remarks, but she was certainly rude when she wanted to be.
Not that he expected anything different.
His sister recognized the lie for what it was and scoffed. "Oh, please. I'd much rather join you, Robb, and Theon in the yard."
"You're always welcome to get your ass kicked," Theon japed. "I could use a friend in the mud. Your brothers have an unhealthy tendency to beat each other into the ground when their blood goes to their sword arms."
"And you're any better?" Arya challenged.
Theon smirked. "Oh, I never claimed to be. As fun as it is to chat with you, we should get going. We've an errand to run for the blacksmith, and I'd rather not get chewed out again."
Arya gave him a skeptical look. "…did you lay with his daughter again?"
"You make it sound as if I've seduced her. I assure you, it was the other way around."
Jon sighed. That certainly explained why Sir Mikken looked a hair's breadth away from cutting Theon down where he stood.
ROBB
After his lessons with Maester Luwin ended, Robb went to join his father and continue his studies into lordship when he happened across his lady mother, Catelyn Stark, speaking with one of his father's men outside his solar. He recognized the soldier as Sir Carlos, a newcomer to Winterfell but easily one of the most devoted men its Master of Arms had the pleasure of teaching. He crossed blades with him once before. While Sir Carlos was not as good as he or Jon, he still had an amazing sword arm.
"…he's been in such a mood since the letter arrived," Robb heard his mother say. "You do not know what was written?"
Sir Carlos shook his head. "I am afraid not, my lady. I dared not ask for fear of incurring Lord Stark's wrath, not with the way he glared at the raven."
Robb frowned.
What sort of letter arrived to put father in such a bad mood?
His lady mother heard his approach and turned, smiling kindly when she saw him. "Oh, hello, Robb. Have you come to speak with your father?"
Robb nodded his head in greeting. "Yes, mother. I want to continue where we last left off in our studies from the other day, though I fear I have picked a bad time. Forgive me, but I overheard some of your conversation. Father received a letter?"
"Yes, Lord Robb," Sir Carlos said. "The letter came from King's Landing bearing the seal of the Crown."
Robb's eyes widened significantly. "From the king?"
Like many, Robb heard the stories of how Eddard Stark became friends and sworn brothers with King Robert Baratheon during his father's time in the Eyrie, and how it'd been the Starks who first answered Robert Baratheon's call for war when Lyanna Stark, his aunt, was stolen away by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and the Mad King killed his grandfather and uncle, Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark. Even now, bards continue to sing the tales of the Wolf and Stag Lords. What the bards failed to realize was that whatever friendship between his father and King Robert had evidently soured.
Oh, his father spoke fondly of his time under Jon Arryn and his friendship with the king, but there was always a bittersweet tone. Whenever he spoke of the king as of late, he did so with trepidation. Robb asked what could have happened to sour their friendship. He did not say, but his expression told Robb all he needed to know. The king did something that his father could not stomach.
"I cannot say. All I know is that its contents have put Lord Stark in a foul mood," Sir Carlos said before bowing his head in apology. "Forgive me, but I must return to the yard. Sir Cassel wants to put us through our paces, and I do not wish to incur his wrath."
"Please, do not let us keep you," Robb said. The knight smiled gratefully at the young lordling and left, disappearing down the hall.
His mother offered him a kind smile before she left as well, mentioning something about talking to the septa. Robb watched her leave before he turned to the door to his father's solar and took a deep breath. If his father was in a mood, he knew better than to press his luck. Even on his best behavior, Robb knew he wasn't the perfect student. There were times when Maester Luwin would look at him with disappointment or when his father shook his head, though admittedly Robb knew it was deserved for having acted out in those moments, and even then, the mistake was corrected shortly after. A student's job is to learn, and a student who doesn't learn shouldn't be a student at all, or so the Maester had said.
Robb rapped his knuckles against the wooden frame of the door. "Father, it's me."
"Enter."
He opened the door and stepped inside. Lord Eddard Stark, Paramount of the North and head of House Stark, sat at his study with the look of scrutiny. Sir Carlos' words were proven as he saw his father level a look mixed with bitterness and resignation, a furrowed brow implying dueling thoughts.
Robb closed the door behind him and stepped in front of the desk. "Is…everything alright?" he asked, choosing his words carefully. "Sir Carlos and mother are worried."
Eddard said nothing for a short while, staring at the letter on his desk before he sighed, pinching the ridge of his nose before looking up at his eldest. "A letter arrived from King's Landing, written by His Grace. It seems he wishes for me to ride for the Red Keep and join him to investigate a foreign land."
Robb blinked. "A foreign land?" he repeated, befuddled. "I do not understand. The lands surrounding Westeros have been known to us for years."
Were this news in relation to the Sunset Sea, Robb might have been willing to believe such talk. To the best of his knowledge, not a single ship that made its voyage across the Sunset Sea never returned, either having sunk to the bottom of the ocean or disappeared, never to be heard from again. There were many theories and stories of what laid beyond the Sunset Sea, with the Lords of the Lonely Night having no shortage of tall tales and fables, but that was all they were. Robb once asked Theon about them, hoping to find some grain of truth, but it seemed not even the Greyjoy heir knew for certain what laid beyond the western seas of Westeros.
In contrast, most of the lands to the east were documented and mapped, albeit to a point. The lands beyond the Bones, the Further East, remain largely unknown.
Eddard must have seen the thoughtful look on his son's face and spoke, addressing the thoughts in his head. "A band of sailors returning from Lys were caught in a storm and were adrift at sea for a time. According to them, the seas were unnaturally violent and unruly. They'd been missing for at least two months before they managed to reach Driftmark."
"Two months is a long time, even for a voyage between Lys and Driftmark," Robb noted. "How bad was it?"
"They lost four men," Eddard replied sadly. "Two fell overboard during the storm, and two more died of starvation." The lord shook his head. Although he did not know the sailors, he mourned for the senseless loss of life all the same.
"They starved?"
"I imagine they believed it would be a short voyage," he replied. "Sadly, the gods old and new are fickle. They went four days without food and water when they ended up drifting through a thick fog. Past it, they found a land they'd never seen before, one with a giant tree standing sentinel from over the distance."
Robb frowned. "A giant tree? Sounds like the sort of tale a bard would think up."
"I thought much the same at first, but the sailors reports lead me to believe otherwise."
From there, his lord father told him what King Robert relayed to Eddard in the letter. The sailors docked on foreign shores, driven by hunger and desperation. Whether by fate or luck, the foreign land they discovered was inhabited as they were happened upon by a roaming band of soldiers. The soldiers flew no banner they recognized, but were thankfully hospitable. The sailors were offered lodgings and food in a village, as well as some supplies for the return trip home. They also brought with them trinkets and gifts during their admittedly short time in that foreign land. One such trinket was included with the letter.
Eddard handed the trinket to Robb. It looked like a far-eye, albeit in the color of polished silver rather than dull bronze. The round glass attached to the end was smaller as well, though he couldn't help but notice the intricate, thin markings where the glass and metal coupled. He also took notice of the odd ring-like protrusions in the middle of the tube. Stranger still, the protrusion moved when he rubbed his fingers across its surface.
"Look into the eye and twist the ring," his father ordered.
Robb frowned, but did as he was told. He looked through the far-eye and at his father's face. He twisted the ring and—
He gasped, nearly dropping the far-eye as he pulled it away from his face. His father hadn't moved from his desk. He looked through the far-eye again, this time twisting the ring in the opposite direction. Robb watched in fascination in shock as the eye's view expanded. Where before he saw his father's face, he now saw the study in its entirety, and his father in full view.
Robb breathed in amazement, gently setting the far-eye on the desk, fearing he might break it with the slightest mishap. "That is… What is this? What sort of contraption is this? A new invention from Myr?"
"The sailors said it's called a spyglass," Eddard said. "Robert had Grand Maester Pycelle have a look at it. While the Grand Maester is no expert in the crafts of Myr, he said it was far and above anything he'd seen of their make before."
"Then, it was crafted in this foreign land with the large tree?"
"Aye."
Robb saw the expectant look on his father's face. Suddenly, he realized he was being tested. He was not shown the spyglass and told of the letter's contents for nothing. There was more to this, something his father wanted him to understand. Robb thought on what he learned up until now, and then recalled his father's words, of the soldiers who flew banners.
"The sailors," he started, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Did they find out who ruled this foreign land, or to whom the soldiers swore their loyalty to?"
Eddard's slight smile was one of approval. "They claimed to serve Nepheli Loux, Lord of Limgrave and keeper of Stormveil Castle."
Robb frowned. "Forgive me, father, but I do not recall any noble house by the name of Loux."
"Nor do I," Eddard said. "Some in the small council believe the sailors are mummers making up fanciful tales, but Robert believes otherwise."
"That does not explain why he wishes for you to journey with him to these supposed lands."
His lord father sighed heavily. He gave another glance at the letter on his desk, his face in deep contemplation. After a moment of silence, he looked up at Robb. "The Lord Hand is ill." Robb's eyes widened. Before he could open his mouth to ask questions, Eddard raised his hand and stopped him. "He is not dying, but Grand Maester Pycelle believes he is not long for this world. It's hard to tell whether it's disease or old age, though I'm inclined to believe the latter. The chains of the Hand of the King bear as heavy a burden as the crown, and while Jon Arryn is a stalwart man of principle, he's as mortal as the rest of us."
"And old," Robb said thoughtlessly, cursing when he realized he spoke out of turn. "I mean, that is to say—!"
Eddard chuckled. "Peace, Robb. You are not wrong. Jon was old even when I fostered under him, and I doubt he's grown younger since I saw him last. Although he's been fulfilling his duties faithfully, Robert believes it may be time for him to step down. I am to help him convince Jon to resign from his post."
"And the voyage to this foreign land is to be your excuse? Surely, simply going to King's Landing would produce the same results."
"There's more to it than that," Eddard said. "Robert…" He paused as if thinking about what to say before sighing. Eddard seemed older than he was, as old as the portrait of Robb's grandfather, the late Rickard Stark. "Robert wants to discuss me replacing Jon as the Hand of the King…and discuss tying our houses together."
JON
Jon didn't remember how or when he fell asleep. By the day's end, he'd been so tired from chores and training in the yard with the guardsmen that he found himself retiring earlier than usual.
"The fallen leaves tell a story."
It was the same dream again.
A land was wreathed in flame, dark as night with a ghostly pale tinge. Everywhere he looked, he saw fire and corpses, bodies strewn across the grassy planes consumed by the flames. Some died impaled on spears and swords and left to rot. Amid the flames, he saw inhuman figures committing wanton slaughter with odd weapons designed to skin and flay rather than pierce and cut. They
looked human, but their proportions were wrong. Some were tall and lanky while others were wide and fat, each thundering stomp sending ripples across their rolling pale and stitched flesh.
Only it was not flesh, but skin sewn into cloth. Jon's stomach churned in revulsion when he saw what looked like faces etched into the fabric, stretched, and formed into looks of utter anguish.
The only one not participating in the slaughter was a woman clad in elegant white robes. He could barely see her face beneath the white hood pulled over her head, only making out glimmering eyes of dusk and black hair cascading down past her chin and ending where her neck met her shoulders. In her hands was a bundle of cloth wrapped around a bulk of misshapen, writhing white flesh. Jon watched in disgusted fascination as the lump of meat writhed in the woman's arms, cradling it as if it were a child.
All the while, he heard the wailing cries of a babe, louder than even the cackling ghostly flames.
Jon shielded his face as a roar of flame exploded in front of him. Strangely, he felt no heat from the fire, only a soul-crushing cold that dug into his bones and sending chills down his spine.
The scene changed. Where before him once stood a grassy plain with a burnt towering tree now stood large, jagged mountains and a brick tower. The tower was crumbling apart, slowly falling into decay. The sky was burning, alight with a sickly yellow flame. The mere sight made the back of Jon's eyes burn in a way he never thought possible. It felt as if someone took a branding iron to the back of his eyeballs. A sharp pain erupted in the back of his skull, so intense and crippling he fell to his knees. He gritted his teeth, clenching them while trying to power through the agonizing pain.
A direwolf whimpered at his feet, its fur tinged in soot. It looked oddly familiar, yet for the life of him, Jon could not figure out why. It was weak, barely able to stand on its feet. As he reached to comfort the direwolf, Jon saw figure standing before the tower. He saw a tattered cloak swaying in the wind, hands stretched out in jubilation while looking up at the sky. As the tower finally crumbled into nothing, not even a pile of rubble, Jon heard whispers. Cries of joy, of freedom. Free from the pain of life, of suffering.
"May chaos take the world," they chorused. "May chaos take the world."
Jon clamped his hands over his ears, blocking out the voices.
The scene changed again. The pain vanished, almost as if it was never there at all. In its place was a dreadful cold sinking deep into his bones, his flesh feeling like ice. Around him was a field of snow, giant spikes of ice jutting up from the ground like spires. He found corpses, bodies laced with patches of ice. Some looked barely human, with pale skin and baleful eyes that glared at him with such dreadful hate. It was not hate born from personal grudges, but for the sake of
living. The corpses despised him for having warm blood in his veins.
A thundering roar and booming cracks of lightning drew Jon's attention to the sky. Far above, he saw a creature that no longer existed in this world; a pair of dragons, soaring through the thundering sky, fighting some unseen foe. With each burst of thunder, Jon saw
something amid the clouds.
The direwolf at his side growled, baring its fangs at the
thing approaching. Jon forced himself to look forward. Through the cold mist obscuring most of his vision, he saw glowing blue eyes. Eyes that stared at him with the same cold, dead hatred as the corpses around him.
A gust of wind blew across Jon's face, forcing him to shut his eyes closed again. The gust became a gale. The bastard yelped, the wind throwing him on his back. As he opened his eyes, he found himself staring up at a glittering night sky filled with stars, shining far brighter than he knew possible. Among them was the moon tinged with a dark color. It was as mesmerizing as it was unsettling. Jon groaned, forcing himself to sit upright. There, he saw a sight that horrified him.
It was Winterfell, lying in ruin. The walls were no more than mere piles of rubble, the roads upended and ripped apart as if a giant knife from the heavens gouged the earth, and the keep torn down. The ghostly flames he saw before licked and ate away at the stonework.
The direwolf howled, both in rage and in mourning. Jon could only stare numbly at the sight, wanting desperately to belief this was no more than a terrible nightmare. He only barely registered the sight of a ghostly tree, similar to the towering burnt one in the foreign lands, standing ominously in the distance.
Suddenly, Jon saw
him. A figure walking through the flames, clad in vile armor and a helm marked in ash. He saw a ghastly face emblazoned on the helm, a corpse with black eyes burning with the same ghostly fire that burned Winterfell to naught but ashes. In hand was a black sword wreathed in the same fire. The figure approached at a steady gate, not at all concerned by the direwolf, even as it snarled and growled and barked at him. When the figure continued to approach, the direwolf charged and leaped with its fangs bared.
Despite being the size of a man, the figure seized the direwolf by the throat, holding it aloft in the air as though it weighed nothing and plunged its flaming sword into its body.
Jon screamed in horror. "NO!" He leaped to his feet, drawing the sword from his hip and charging blindly at the armored monster as it callously threw the dead direwolf to the ground. Jon swung his sword, driven and fueled by rage. The figure batted it away easily, countering with a punch to the face that stunned him, long enough for the figure to kick him to the ground. He tried to get up, but found the flaming black sword driven into his chest. He gasped, feeling no pain. Instead, he found the same dreadful cold from before claiming him. The world bled away, turning into murky shadows.
As the world turned to shadows, as Jon felt his senses dull and numb, fading into nothing, he saw a scarred hand reaching for him. Weakly, he reached back, clasping and gripping the offered hand. The arm pulled, and Jon was pulled out from the darkness. The sky above was alight with shining stars and a familiar pale moon, its blue-tinged sibling sitting behind it like a shadow. Standing over Jon was a woman, her hair burnt black, her right eye milky gray, and her left a glowing gloam.
"Of the Promised Lord Without a Throne."
