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Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
ASOIAF and all of its characters belong to GRRM
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 80: The Old Bear's Shadow
The snows had begun in earnest by the time Ned Stark's party reached the Gift. The wind blew cold from the north, carrying the promise of a harsh winter, and the grey sky hung low over the rolling hills like a lid on a pot.
The world had turned white and silent, the only sounds the crunch of hooves in fresh powder and the soft panting of the horses as they trudged through the drifts.
Ned's horse plodded onward, its breath pluming white in the frigid air.
Behind him, a dozen of his most trusted men followed in a loose column, their cloaks dusted with snow, their faces hidden beneath hoods and scarves. They had ridden from Winterfell with haste, driven by the news that had reached them. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch was dead, and Benjen Stark had been missing for over a year already, with no one giving him a proper explanation about what had happened to him.
Bran rode at his side, his face pink with cold, but his eyes bright with excitement. He had grown in the months since the accident that had nearly claimed his life, though he was still slender and boyish. The fall had left him with a strange stillness at times, a faraway look that Ned had learned to recognize but not understand.
Summer loped beside them, his grey fur stark against the white, his golden eyes scanning the trees as if he sensed something the men could not.
The direwolf had grown large in the months since Winterfell...large and silent and watchful. He did not move ahead like a common hound, nor did he lag behind. He matched their pace, his breath misting in the cold, his ears swiveling at every sound.
"You are quiet, Father," Bran said, breaking the silence. "I mean... quieter than usual."
Ned glanced at his son. "I am thinking."
"Of what?"
"Many things, my son. Of your uncle Benjen. Of your brother Jon, whom I have not seen since we parted to go south. And of the eerie news we received about the Lord Commander's passing."
Bran looked ahead, toward the distant line of ice that had begun to appear on the horizon. The Wall dominated the landscape even from here, its true height hidden by distance, but its presence was undeniable.
"Do you think Jon will be happy to see us?" Bran asked.
Ned did not answer. He did not know what Jon would feel. The boy had been sent to the Wall with anger in his heart, and Ned had never had the chance to explain why he could not tell him everything. Perhaps now, with Robert dead and the secrets no longer needed, he could tell him the truth.
'If he will listen,' Ned thought. 'If he will forgive me.'
He could only hope for the best.
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Castle Black emerged from the snow soon enough. The towers were dark against the grey sky, the walls thick with frost, and the great gate was closed.
Icicles hung from the battlements like frozen teeth, and the dark stone seemed to absorb the little light that filtered through the clouds.
But as Ned's party approached, the iron portcullis rose with a groan of protesting metal, and they rode into the yard.
The black brothers who gathered to greet them were a ragged-looking bunch. Some old, some young, some with missing ears or noses, their faces weathered by cold and wind. Their eyes were hard, their expressions wary.
But when they saw the direwolf loping beside Bran, they stepped back, murmuring among themselves.
A man in a steward's cloak approached and bowed. "Lord Stark. We received your raven. You are welcome at Castle Black."
Ned dismounted, his boots crunching on the frozen mud. "I am here to see my son, Jon, and to learn what happened to Lord Commander Mormont."
The steward's face darkened. "Best you hear it from those who were there, my lord." He gestured toward the common hall. "There are survivors. They will tell you."
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The common hall was crowded with black brothers. The air was thick with smoke, and the smell of old sweat, and the benches were filled with men who had seen too much and slept too little.
Ned sat at the head of a long table, Bran beside him, Summer curled at their feet. The Stark veterans who had been sent to the Wall months ago stood near the walls, their hands on their swords, their eyes watchful.
They had been his men once, and they remained loyal in their hearts, even if their oaths now bound them to the Watch.
A man named Eddison Tollett, called Dolorous Edd by his brothers, told the tale. His voice was flat, his humor grim, but the story he told was one of betrayal and blood.
"Craster's Keep," Edd said. "We went there for shelter, milord. The old man had his wives, his daughters, his... arrangements. Some of the brothers couldn't stomach it. Karl Tanner, he called himself a fookin' legend. Led the mutiny. They killed the Old Bear in his sleep. Stabbed him in the heart."
Ned's hands tightened on the table. "So Mormont is truly dead."
"Aye, my lord. Dead and burned. His bones are in the ashes."
Ned closed his eyes. He had known Jeor Mormont for years...he was a hard man, a good man, a man who had given up his lordship to serve the Watch. He deserved better than a mutineer's blade in the dark.
"And the mutineers?" Ned asked.
"Scattered. Some went south, some east, some west. Karl Tanner may still be alive, or he may be dead. No one knows." Edd shrugged. "The gods don't care much for justice in this part of the world, milord."
Ned opened his eyes. "Any news of Benjen? Of my brother?"
Silence. The brothers exchanged glances. Finally, a ranger named Dywen spoke, his voice low and rough. "No word, Lord Stark. Benjen went north with six men. None has returned. We sent rangers after them. They found... nothing. Just snow and wind and the cold."
'Benjen is dead,' Ned thought. 'I have lost another brother.'
He did not speak the words aloud. He did not need to.
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Samwell Tarly found him in the yard shortly after he left the hall...a fat man in black with a round face and frightened eyes. Beside him stood a woman in a ragged dress, a babe in her arms. She did not meet Ned's gaze.
"Lord Stark," Sam said, bowing. "I am Samwell Tarly. I was with the ranging party at Craster's Keep."
Ned glanced at Sam. "Tell me what you saw up there."
Sam spoke of the mutiny at Craster's Keep. Of the betrayal, of Karl Tanner's cruelty, of the Old Bear's death. He spoke of the cold and the hunger and the fear. His voice trembled, but he did not embellish the story. Ned could see the truth in his eyes.
"I brought Gilly and her babe," Sam said. "She is Craster's daughter. His... wife. She wanted to escape. I could not leave her there."
Ned studied the woman. She was young, too young, and her eyes were hollow, as if something inside her had been scooped out and thrown away. "You are safe here," he said. "No one will harm you."
Gilly said nothing. She clutched the babe tighter.
"There is more, my lord," Sam added, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "I saw... something. Beyond the Wall."
Ned raised an eyebrow when he noticed how uneasy Sam had become. "What is it that you saw?"
Bran was watching Sam with curiosity, his grey eyes sharp and intent.
"I saw... one of them. One of the Others. It came for Gilly's babe. I killed it."
Ned's blood ran cold. "You are certain?" This was not the first time he had heard of those creatures. The memory of the deserter he had executed years ago...the madman who had babbled about white walkers and dead men walking, was still fresh in his mind.
Bran did not say a word, but his expression changed suddenly. He was thinking of the same thing.
"I saw it with my own eyes, my lord. The dead walk. The Others are real." Sam swallowed hard. "Jon Snow will vouch for me. He has seen the wights. He knows about them, too."
Ned nodded slowly. "Where is Jon? I would like to speak with him."
"He is still beyond the Wall, my lord. He went with Qhorin Halfhand to scout the wildling camp. He should return soon."
"Father..." Bran tugged his arm, an expression of concern plastered on his face.
"It is fine, Bran." Ned tried to reassure his son. "I am sure he will be back soon."
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The gates opened at dusk, and a ragged figure stumbled through. He was wrapped in furs and black wool, his face hidden beneath a hood, his movements stiff and pained.
But Ned recognized the way he moved. He was sure of it.
"Jon?" He called the name in a whisper from the top of the wooden steps.
The boy...no, the man, pushed back his hood, and Ned saw his face. He had changed greatly during the time they had been apart.
His face was harder now, marked by cold and wind and hardship. The softness of boyhood was gone, replaced by the sharp angles of a man who had stared into darkness and not blinked.
"Oh no..." Ned saw the injuries and rushed down.
Three arrows had pierced Jon's shoulder and arm. The shafts had been broken, but the wounds were fresh, the blood dark on his cloak. His face was pale beneath its weathering, and his eyes held a deep exhaustion that went beyond mere fatigue.
"Jon!" Bran cried, rising from his seat.
Jon saw them: his father, his brother, the direwolf, and for a moment, his face showed something that might have been joy. Then the pain overtook him, and he stumbled.
Ned caught him before he fell. "Help me get him to the maester," he commanded. "Now."
Jon was taken to Maester Aemon's quarters and promptly attended.
The arrows were removed with care, the wounds cleaned and sewn shut.
Jon clenched his teeth but never screamed during the whole process, though sweat beaded on his brow and his knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table.
Ned stood beside him the whole time, while Bran waited outside the room, Summer at his feet.
When the maester was done, Jon spoke. His voice was rough and dry. "Father. You should not be here."
"I came here to see you. And to learn what happened north of the Wall. There have been many strange rumors as of late. About wildlings and... other things."
Jon closed his eyes. "Death is coming for us, Father. Mance Rayder has gathered every wildling from the Frostfangs to the Frozen Shore. Tens of thousands. They mean to break through the Wall."
"Mance Rayder," Ned muttered the name. "The King-beyond-the-Wall."
"You know him?" Jon asked.
"I know of him." Ned's voice was grim. "I knew he was raising an army. I figured that at some point, I would have to take a host north and deal with him." He glanced toward the maester. "May I borrow a few of your ravens? There are urgent letters to send."
"Go ahead, Lord Stark." Maester Aemon's voice was thin. The old man appeared exhausted after treating Jon's injuries, but his mind was still clear.
"Will you stay here?" Jon asked.
Ned nodded. "This is also my duty as Lord of Winterfell. The Night's Watch will not have to face this trouble alone." He turned his face toward the door. "However, I would need to send Bran back home with a few of my men. This is no place for him to remain."
"Bran is here?!" Jon exclaimed as if he had just remembered something. "Wait, no... You cannot send him south now."
"Why not?"
"Father, I need to warn the others. There are wildlings already south of Castle Black. Some of Mance's raiders have crossed the Wall. They are in the Gift, burning and killing."
"What? How do you know this?"
"I..." Jon hesitated for a moment. "I came with them." He placed a hand on his chest, where the last arrow had almost killed him.
Ned's expression did not change. "I suppose there is a story there. But that will have to wait. We need to warn your brothers and send men to defend the Gift."
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He wrote to Robb, telling him to call the banners and march north. He wrote of the wildling host, of the danger to the Wall, of the need for every sword in the North. He wrote of Mance Rayder but made no mention of the Others, as he did not think Robb would believe it.
When the raven flew, Ned stood at the window, watching it disappear into the grey sky. The bird grew smaller and smaller until it was just a speck against the clouds, then nothing at all.
"Father." Bran's voice was soft.
Ned turned. His son stood in the doorway, his face pale but determined. Summer was at his side.
"I want to fight," Bran said.
"You are still a boy," Ned replied.
"I am almost a man. And I can shoot a bow better than any of the men you brought." Bran met his gaze without flinching. "I have been practicing every day. I want to help."
Ned wanted to deny him, but a battle might be inevitable, and Bran was not wrong. He was almost a man grown. "Perhaps it is time."
Bran's eyes became bright. "Really?"
"You will remain at my side and follow all my commands. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Father!" Bran nodded with excitement, barely able to contain himself.
Ned shook his head. His son was so eager to participate in a battle because he did not know any better. With some luck, he would soon learn better.
But the luck of the Starks had never been good, and winter was coming.
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