Strength of the Wolf
First Day of the Fourth Month 294 AC
Eddard Stark thought he had grown used to the strangeness his life had become, he had hired witches and poured over crumbling texts the contents of which he would have counted the ravings of madmen were it not for the for the undeniable proof of his own eyes, were it not for what he had seen at the Wall and what Benjen had told him he had seen beyond it. Yet on that chilly summer day as he carefully read through the books for the new sworn sorcerers he found that he was not prepared.
The door handle twisted hard, the hinges creaked as something thudded into it. As Eddard reached for the sword he now bore at every turn he saw that the creature behind the door was a large black cat. Then the cat spoke. "Lord Stark come quickly, there is and enemy in the keep, your son has been attacked!"
The words did not fit, they couldn't, they wouldn't... Some part of Eddard wanted to laugh at the absurdity. What business did a talking cat have in his keep? Was it a spy, an enemy, a trickster fey or just a sign of the fact that he had not gotten enough sleep last night?
Yet his body was already moving, his lips already forming words. Even if this was a trick or some cruel farce it was not in the nature of Eddard Stark to do anything else. "Where?"
"The kitchens when I saw them, though the enemy will likely have moved already..."
There was a splash and the sound of breaking glass behind him. The delicate glass bowl Catelyn had given him a few months ago shattered and from it emerged a mankin of leaves and petals, one of a kind he recognized, though he had never seen the like before. "The crypts, any servant of Winter bearing the taken blood of House Stark will make for the crypts."
Leshy Eddard knew they were called, protectors of the Wall, servants of the Old Gods and the Dragon, though they could have been servants of Hell itself and Eddard would have listened to it that day.
***
The fastest way from the kitchens to the crypts lead through the godswood, but be the servants of the Others ever so daring they would not trespass upon that ground. Instead it raced through the kennels, uncarring of the barking of dogs, disdainful of their bite, a
shadow upon the earth, another shadow followed. The men-at-arms were rallying to the defense of Winterfell with steel and mortal courage against deathless dread, but they were yet too slow, too far to bar the Enemy's way.
Even as the Lord of Winterfell raced across the courtyard the only thing in the monster's way was the boy Jon Snow, his eyes heavy with tears at the sight of his brother's broken bloodied corpse slung bonelessly across the monster's shoulder. Of all the spells he had learned these past few years, of all the incantations, only one came to mind:
"
Suffer," he hissed in the tongue of Valyria that was no more, allowing his own pain to pour into the world.
Yet the enemy smiled with bloodied lips for there was no pain it might suffer beside the agony of it existence. Charge unbroken the scythe arced towards the boy with vicious purpose and sliced into his chest, sending him flying across the threshold. It laughed cold and achingly empty.
From the darkness of the crypt rose another sound filled with anguish and rage, such as had never been found on mortal lips. A luminous form bearing arms and armor forged of memory and deathless purpose barred his way. It was in that place and in that hour that Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, laid eyes on his sister once more. A battle of spirit and will against
fell curses flew. Lyanna could not long endure. It seemed at time that Lyanna's blade could not even find the
leaping, whirling horror in man's flesh. Twice only she scored accursed flesh and it was nowhere near enough.
Across the threshold Jon Snow healed, flesh knit together by the arcane power of his belt from the precipice of death.
I can't fight this thing, Jon knew with utter certainty as he watched it tear away his mother's shield.
I can't touch it's mind. What else can I...
"
Sanctuary," he called and to his surprise the word was not in the tongue of the dragon lords but one older still, and as he called something without answered. The wards of Winterfell long fallen into torpor flared to life and deadly power, ghost flame dancing across his skin without harming him.
"Get back, mom get back!" he called in his mind.
A moment too late... He felt his mother die again, her pain clawing at the edges of his mind. "No!"
Not her too. With all his will and all his magic Jon snow held his mother's soul to life.
Tattered, broken, he could still feel the thread that held them together.
The Hollow Man looked upon the ward-fire, upon Jon. If there could be said to be an expression upon those pale features than it was exasperation, more than fear or anger. Then
a soft green light burst around it as it could feel the power of the Old Gods binding it in place. He only caught a glimpse of the green spirit that worked the magic before his uncle was upon the monster, Ice shining ethereal blue in the reflection of the ward fire.
Knowing itself outmatched and wounded for all it did not seem to feel the gashes across its shoulders and arms, the enemy sought to slip aside from Ice's edge, but hemmed in by sorcery and spellsteel its time had now run out. Three times fell the sword of the Kings of Winter, the first time it took a finger, the second time an arm and the third time it cleaved the enemy's head from his shoulders.
OOC: It turns out that if you warn Jon Snow of danger in Winterfell he is more likely to run towards it than away, also he made his knowledge religion check to guess where the soulless was taking Robb's corpse. Putting his learning to good use I guess... and yes he was in dire straights from that hit, 2 HP remaining before he triggered his belt to heal.
