VII. The Other Shadows

A/N: Surprise guys! Please don't kill me. I've actually had this chapter at 90% for the past five months except for the last few bits, which I couldn't seem to fit in properly. Nasty case of writer's block, or in other words, "life is too demanding that I'm not able to sit down and think" case. I love you guys and I'm glad I'm still able to affect people with my writing, which I sorely miss. I'm rusty, and my plot is still a jumble in my head, but I'm still trying. Don't get me wrong, I HAVE a plot, just a lot of loose ends and unknown motivations... I'll whack it down somehow.. just hope it's good enough. Please review and let me know what you think. Next chapter is Arya's.

JON

Jon awoke to the flickering of a candle. For a brief second the shadows on the wall reminded him of heavy sharp teeth, blood and screaming - but there was nothing in the room but silence.

He pulled himself upright, wincing at the pain that pierced his chest. He couldn't recall where he was and why he felt so badly hurt. All he knew was that the thick hemp bandages were wound too tightly over his naked torso, and that the candlelight was so dim it strained his eyes. All around him a wall of stone rose, with no door or window in sight. As if by instinct he searched for Longclaw or even his satchel, gloves or boots in the semi-darkness, but he found nothing.

Jon put his hands to his face. Despite the cold his breath was feverishly warm. He could even feel sweat on his brow. The bandages smelled like tansy and yellow dock herb- indicative of an infection. Someone had been treating him, and if that were the case they should be somewhere nearby.

"Wa-terrr," he croaked, as loud as he could bear, which was not too loud at all. He called out for it again, several times, licking his cracked lips with his dry tongue.

Something shifted above him as the wooden ceiling slid open, revealing a small boy's dark eyes peering into the room. Then the lid slid close and Jon was alone again.

Now that he was regaining his wakefulness, Jon thought back to his memories. He had been with his men, riding against the cold northern winds. The Others had driven them down south from Greybark, chasing them with their dead steeds of horses and bulls and bears. The snow had been cold and sharp and winded his men, but fear was sharper still, so they had ridden on. Jon remembered the tautness of his leather reins, the wind whipping and sniping and Ghost's heavy paws on the snow. His voice breaking as he shouted for his men to keep together.

The horses' terror were a means to their survival. Jon's own mount had begun frothing at the mouth, unruly as it cantered, swift and skittish as a deer. Jon guiltily remembered the timbre and pitch of each horse that screamed and stumbled and fell. He had looked back too, resigning himself to the sight of dead men flocking around his comrades.

Human screams were the loudest in his head, as fresh and lifelike as ever.

Jon closed his eyes. He must have lost a third of his men riding across the Wolfswood and out into what he assumed to be the Barrowlands. It meant that they were leagues from Greybark, yet the dark horde had continued on.

The wooden ceiling slid open again, and Jon was pulled from his reverie. He watched in silence as a ladder was brought down and soon, two men in brown robes descended. The first man was tall and built like a warrior, and because his skin was dark as teak it made the whites of his eyes stand out harshly in the shadows. The other man looked Westeros-born, with fair skin, and though slightly smaller than the first man, he was also brawny. Jon could only see his bare arms and feet, for the second man was hooded and masked.

"Feeling better, son?" said the dark man, holding out a cup to Jon's lips.

Jon drank eagerly as the two stood watching him, silent as stone sentinels. Once he was done the dark man handed the cup to his hooded brother and began inspecting Jon's dressings and skin.

"Your fever is breaking," he said approvingly.

"What have you done with my sword?" said Jon, "My men? Where is my wolf?"

"At ease, brother. Men and wolves are not easily comforted in a room under the earth."

Jon's eyes adjusted to the darkness rather poorly, but he did his best to examine the man speaking before him. The man was a giant, almost seven feet tall and four heads wide in the shoulder; each hand could easily wrap around the whole of Jon's throat. Jon wondered if he was from the Lands of the Summer Sea, or maybe from other continents south of Essos, for his lush dark skin was unusual.

Jon frowned, "I have no recollection of you at all... yet I know you."

The man shrugged, "Your mind was addled. Fever from the infection on your wound. The Others walked among you."

"Behind us. I distinctly remember they were behind us."

Jon could remember a little more now. He and his men continued past the hills, crying for help and searching for any kind of refuge. But the small hamlets they crossed were abandoned or dead. The Others had grown bold and had kept on the chase, sweeping up the cold and the mist around them like a giant, vengeful storm.

Close to despair and hounded, Jon nearly wept at the sight of a broken-down monastery in the distance, sitting atop a small plateau in serene repose. A small stream snaked around it and the surroundings were clumped with giant iron trees leaning heavily on the building. As they approached they saw massive roots and vines rotting the towers away and choking at the walls. It was a ruined, shambled estate, but it was easier to secure.

Jon remembered the night they crossed the river, the shadows and the mist just behind them. Jon had steeled himself right before the water, screaming "They're gaining! Cross it! Get to the other side and defend the walls!" but when he had seen Kormick and his horse being dragged down by the mist he acted without thinking. Vaguely he realized he was forcing his horse to gallop the wrong way, but by then it was too late- there was a freezing coldness in the air and everything in Jon's vision grew hazy as he approached his fallen comrade.

But what he saw froze his heart.

During the chase, Jon often glanced behind him, peering into the heady mist. He had always seen the misshapen figures of the Others following close. But the creature before him now was not like them. In fact, some of the wights within range had shirked back from these new, strange, silent creatures. The stink of cold and death hovered, but the beasts on top of Kormick was unlike anything he had ever seen. They seemed to have been human once, but now they were hunched over on all fours like a beast, with webbed feet and jowls twice as large as their heads. It didn't seem to have skin; instead it stood jet-black and bony against the white snow, like a solid shadow. Only its wet teeth and its large, round, gleaming white eyes gave it that wicked expression.

It had shred Kormick's innards with its mouth, spraying the snow with red rain. As Jon approached one the creatures turned, crouched almost like a human boy, and then jumped high and straight towards him with a swiftness unlike any of the Others.

Then there was a sharp pain on Jon's chest as the teeth bore into him, and he fell back, winded against the smack of solid ice. So many things were happening at once that it all became a blur. A heavy weight was on him; he thought he could feel ice cold hands digging into his heart could hear the shrill whine-turn-garble of his horse as it gurgled on its own blood, and Ghost's howl in the distance. Then knew only ice and darkness.

"I-I can't remember past being dragged down by that... that thing." Jon whispered.

"That's almost exactly what you said the last time we spoke," said the dark man quietly as he sat by the bed. He looked at Jon with an apologetic expression and continued.

"You probably do not remember me, Jon Snow, but I am Septon Quay. The last two times I've introduced myself I had told you my long winding life story, but I tire of such repetition and today I will only say that I have been nursing you back to health for almost a week now. Your direwolf Ghost is out at the moment, but he returns nightly to stand vigil at the entrance of this room. You had questions last time so I will answer them again: you have ten men still able to fight, the rest have fled or died. Some were in a state of fever such as you, but died and returned to us in that manner."

At Jon's stricken look, Septon Quay added, "We killed them again and burned their bodies above ground. The danger has passed."

So many deaths for those who trusted him. Jon grit his teeth, feeling stupid, weak and powerless. "Which ones? What were their names? "

"The Stranger took their names along with their souls. Four wore the black, fifteen were free men."

Jon tried to stand. He reached out for the post of the bed and forced his legs down the edge, but the Septon held him down, "Don't move too quickly or the stitches will come undone. "

"I have to speak with my men. I have to send a letter-"

"You did that yesterday. To the king at Winterfell, you said. We couldn't find you a horse healthy enough to carry riders back, but you recognized a falcon that lingered by the camp, and it came to your beck and call."

Bran's skin, thought Jon. Bran must have heard of his predicament by now, but he could hardly remember what he had written to him and what they were to do. Jon felt so helpless and lost that he was suddenly angry, "I thought this monastery had been abandoned. How long have you been camped here? Where were you when the Others descended on us?"

Septon Quay was patient, but the hooded Westeros man behind him was wrought with irritation. When the Septon saw his brother's closed fists he stood, "Brother Feral, please do help the Lord Commander up. We will dress him and give him something to eat." When Jon looked like he was about to demand the answers outright, the Septon added, "We will answer your questions as you are eating. It is good that you are well enough to stand. You need to get out and move about-but slowly. I promise you, all will be answered in time."

Jon Snow ate in the middle of a small hall, as bleak and empty as any of the corridors that surrounded it. The roof overhead had weathered, casting warm sunlight from its many holes and cracks. Mildew, mushroom and weeds clung to the walls and floors. A few tree roots hung down from the walls and the ceiling.

Jon ate his gruel heartily, dressed in the simple brown cloak all the other monks were wearing. He had spotted two or three of his own men on his way to the eating quarter, hauling buckets of water and clearing rubble from the more dilapidated areas. It irked Jon to see the men he had trained for battle in the faith's clothes, but he supposed he should be glad they were still alive.

Septon Quay continued their ongoing conversation, "Yes, most of us are Begging Brothers and Poor Fellows, a few are even Warrior's Sons and Silent Sisters, and some orphans, widows, destitute men and women of the seven kingdoms, wildlings. Anyone that had been swept up by the war with no place to go. Once rested and fed most of the brothers move on to other villages and others stay or go as they please."

"And you stay here? In the middle of nowhere?" Jon said, incredulous.

"We have survived."

Jon stared at him. Septon Quay explained that the monastery had been dilapidated even before the war of the Five Kings; but that the ragtag monks had secured the underground granaries and cellars as an inn for weary visitors, especially for the Begging Brothers and the Poor Fellows who were fond travellers. The only requirement for shelter was some means of labour.

Jon shrugged, his brow knotted, "What of the outside? How do you hear of the outside at all?"

"You would think that living underground would render us blind and deaf to Westeros, but it is not so. We have ravens, we have feet and ears and eyes, and a mind to see and feel the wars just as you do. And since we take in strangers as yourself, we've heard more of Westeros than when we were begging."

This piqued Jon's interest. "Like rumours?"

"And all sorts," said the Septon. At Jon's silence the large man continued, "The Others moving south despite the dragons, the wildlings as well, things like that."

This concerned Jon. He knew that during Daenerys reclamation, the dragons had proven the strongest point against any Lannister army. They had burned through factions and scarred the land, and the Dothraki and Unsullied flanked and overpowered the already ragtag armies of any Westeros house. The Dragonfire had kept the Others at bay for a little while, but now they trickled into the kingdom, appearing and disappearing in the mists of cold. Why?

"Tell me bits and pieces, I've probably heard some of them before," Jon said.

"Warbands and outlaws still roam the streets, despite the peace," the Septon noted, as if reciting, "Many simplefolk are dying in sickbeds as well as by blade. A little less cold in King's Landing, so mostly talk of rebuilding. I hear the Silver Queen is nursing a sickness, and that the dragons have sought greener pastures in Maidenpool. We've heard the Cripple King turns into a large wolf-bear when he is upset." He shrugged, "It doesn't startle people as it ought, but I suppose nothing can startle people after dragons."

He stopped, hesitating, then looked Jon in the eye.

"And the queerest talk of all, recently. It comes from the north, from the Wall even, so perhaps you can shed some light to it."

" Castle Black has been abandoned," noted Jon, "The Crows are hunting the Others in the north. I've joined forces with the King of Winter and have been destroying what dark horde I can find. I haven't been to the Wall in years."

But the Septon was shaking his head, "The wildlings have been passing through too, in small groups. It is mostly their news."

Jon lowered his spoon, looking back up to the grave, dark face.

Septon Quay whispered, "Men claim of seeing a woman running naked in the snow, with a gem on her neck and blood spilling down her legs. Some say she runs with beasts; others say she eats them, or mates with them... " the Septon hesitated, "Have you... Have you heard such things?"

The recognition on Jon's face made the Septon's frown deepen. Jon swallowed, "The woman... did any of the men you know actually see her?"

"Many. The wildlings worship her, call her 'Kissed with Fire'. But it turns my blood to ice to hear of her."

It turned Jon's blood into ice, too.

After slaying Drogon and retreating from the war, Melisandre seemed to grow in power. She had been a powerful sorceress, and terrible; but she had bided her time so well that no one had seen her for years. But with these rumours...

Jon shook his head. There was also something else that curled the blood in his veins.

"And the creature that almost killed me? Did no one speak of that?" Jon wasn't sure if he visibly shuddered but he felt the chill all the same. The vision of the creatures' long faces seared into his memory now; black body a solid, heavy weight against him. He had screamed and thrashed and grabbed at it; had envisioned pale, screaming faces jutting in and out of the dark body; and he could distinctly recall the terror he felt when he realized that the shadow creature was made up of black human hair.

The Septon looked away, "That was the first time I had seen it."

Jon closed his eyes, placed his hands on the suddenly searing wound on his chest.

Much to his frustration, they made Jon rest for two more days and it was on the third day that Jon decided he could no longer bide his time. Septon Quay had told him he was to meet with the royal retinue on the Kingsroad near Moat Cailin, and that knowledge only stirred Jon's impatience.

"And if that were the case," Jon said, "Bran must already be on his way. We will have to leave tonight if we want to catch him on the Kingsroad."

It was growing late and except for the Septon and the monk, the hall was deserted; only the dusky afternoon sunlight brought color to the otherwise damp enclosure. The monk named Feral was standing next the Septon, looking gaunt in his hood and black leather mask, saying nothing. When Jon finished speaking however, he noticed that the mood changed.

Septon Quay glanced at the hooded Feral, and then back at Jon. He spoke.

"I'm sorry. I cannot allow you to leave. Your wound- that bite on your chest, it festers deeply. You are getting paler as we speak. We must let you rest until you are better. "

Jon could feel it throbbing as he listened. All throughout the day he found himself plagued with a fever that the monks couldn't soothe. Even now there was sweat on his brow, and his head was swimming. He hadn't the courage to look at the wound yet, but he figured that his allies in Winterfell, especially Jojen and Sam, would be able to do something about it.

"The travelling will be difficult, but I have ten good men and once we reach the Kingsroad my brother will take me the rest of the way."

The Septon closed his eyes for a moment, then sighed. With a hand he signalled to Feral, and when Feral moved, Jon was surprised to see a large mace in the monk's hand, partially hidden within his cloak.

"You will not leave." said Septon Quay quietly.

Jon's hand immediately came to where the hilt of his sword should have been, but he was still in the monk's robe, unarmed. Jon stood up straighter despite the pain, and there was anger in his voice now, "You cannot detain the Lord Commander. I have a duty to attend to, and it involves the survival of the realm."

"How can the realm survive if its own leaders rush on blindly to their deaths? Those creatures took you... The wound on you is not natural, I must find a way to-"

"You? You?" Jon's found himself getting increasingly frustrated, "Holed up in here, finding ragtag orphans to work your labour, you will sit and wait in the dark to figure out what this is and how to stop it? Cravens!" Jon began marching straight for the Septon, "You spout some lectures for the realms' leaders while you hide away in your little monastery gathering rumours and fiddling your thumbs!"

And suddenly Feral drew towards him, swinging the mace. Jon was surprised that a man of the faith was so eager for bloodshed, but not surprised enough to get caught in the attack. He leapt aside, letting the mace miss his chest for a good number of paces. But Feral deftly slid his footing into a half circle, pivoting and bringing down the mace towards Jon's head again with ease.

Jon was a little less ready for that prowess, so his second leap aside made him roll across the floor gracelessly until he hit the foot of the dining table. The wound on his chest burned. He stood up, relying on the tabletop for some of his weight. Sweat started trickling down his cheek, and it was difficult to get enough air into his lungs. He felt so heavy.

"So instead of healing me you choose to kill me?" Jon spat out, trying to stall, to think of a way to escape, and then realizing why Septon Quay's face was taut with determination, "What, is it my wound? Do you think the infection will turn me into one of them?"

For an answer, Feral growled and thundered towards him. Jon barely ducked in time, and the monk's mace crashed into the old table like an explosion, breaking it into planks and chunks. Jon pulled at one of the table legs and feebly got ready for Feral's next strike, but then he heard Septon Quay's voice yelling, "Enough!"

Feral had already arched his mace for his next attack, but at that command he swung it harmlessly to his side and knelt down towards the Septon. Jon stood, breathing hard, armed with a length of wood. He held on to it tightly, knowing he was outmatched.

Septon Quay looked at him, and his dark face was worried, if not stern, "Yes, Commander. I am afraid of your wound, as I am afraid of the world outside."

Jon said nothing.

"And I am afraid that if I set you loose in Winterfell and you die, then Winterfell will die in your footsteps... That wound you bear gives you nightmares, delusions, a fever; and it spreads even as I try to bleed it out. Do you know it's color?"

Jon knew without even looking at it, "Black."

"And it is spreading towards your heart. I don't think you will survive long."

"So you will kill me, here and now?"

Septon Quay shook his head sadly, "Feral may see that as the only option, but I do not."

At that, Feral's masked face looked towards him, seemingly surprised. Jon glanced at him and at the great mace by his side, and then back at the Septon, who began to pace, fingers at the crook of his nose as if deliberating.

"But the Cripple King is a warlock," mumbled the Septon, "or those around him are. And your loyalty to your vows, to your brother... Your virtue is strong. I...I do not wish to harm an honourable man..I do not know the wiser path in this."

"The wisest choice is that we kill him," growled Feral relentlessly, "and we burn his body. The less we have of those Others is a safer world at large."

Jon was about to voice his dissent, but Septon Quay shook his head again, not wanting to hear any more.

"I apologize, Commander Snow. I have wronged you. Though you are feverish and weak, you are very much alive. I cannot kill one on the pretense that he may do a wrongdoing in the future. I must trust you in the same way I trust Feral."

By Feral's posture he didn't seem to agree, nor did he like being compared to. He seemed about to argue, but the Septon raised his dark hand to him, and continued, "Instead, as you leave the monastery, I must ask you to take Feral with you." He gave a pointed look at the monk and continued, "he will watch your back and fight your battles. He will be with you day and night, just like Ghost, a watcher and a protector."

Jon stilled, his face hardening. Being watched over like a babe by the brutish monk who, not moments before, thought it would be a better idea to kill him?

Feral suddenly stood up, tightening his hold on his mace. He took a step forward and looked like he was about to protest, but with one glance from the Septon he hesitated.

Septon Quay looked back to Jon and said, "And when you die and rise again, it will be Feral's mace buried deep into your skull. That is my only condition."

Jon was silent, regarding him with a blank stare.

But Septon Quay left no room for argument, not even after Feral began yelling in protest, or when he smashed his mace onto the broken table until there was nothing left but dust.

They decided to travel early the next morning, with loads of edible weed, a few dried fish and several jugs of water. Jon, Feral, and the ten troopsmen were to walk to the Kingsroad, which would take several difficult days. Ghost had started out ahead presumably to hunt, or check for danger.

Septon Quay had come to him in the morning, waking him from a nightmare before treating his wounds and blessing him with a prayer of faith and vigilance. Jon was never really a man of the new gods, but he let him, just as he let the Septon apologize to him again. The large man had returned Longclaw and all his other belongings to Jon, who took it in grateful silence, although the weight of it bore him no easy trial. Jon was getting feverish again, and although he didn't mention it, he was sure the Septon knew.

The gate of the monastery bustled with activity as the men fitted back into their leather garbs, equipping various packs of food and water. They took with them their ratted cloaks, polished their swords and spun long oilcloths into long wood for torches. Some of the orphaned children who came to see them off were excited and boisterous, yelling loudly to be carried and to be hugged, some even begging for their weapons.

As Jon leaned against a tree, feeling heavy and sick, he saw Feral squatting by a field of flowers, encasing his mace and a bastard sword into self made leather straps. He had donned a traveller's outfit, all leather straps and steel, and now that he had no hood Jon could see streaks of white hair on a slightly balding head. He also noticed that those large hands, calloused and dirty, were also heavily scarred and burned.

The fight in the hall flashed across Jon's mind. Feral's precise steps forming what would be deft, swordsmanship finesse. The large frame and bulk on the arms, the swinging, the speed.

"Where did you learn to wield such things?" Jon asked him when he drew near, "I thought you monks were peaceful by nature." As Feral looked up, Jon glanced towards his mace, clean of blood and looking quite harmless in its straps.

He hadn't seen Feral since after his outburst in the hall. Jon had heard that the monk and the Septon had argued hours after Jon had returned to his room and for a long while Jon thought that Feral would never agree to being his companion. Which was just as well, because Jon never trusted the monk anyway. But Septon Quay must have said something worth hearing, because here Feral was, as silent as the grave. He was under Jon's command now, and although Jon felt that he would be obedient, he also knew he would not always be compliant.

So he was surprised to hear Feral's voice, rough and low and slightly restrained, "I had a life outside of this. Been dying when the monks found me." He gave a disconcerting laugh and added, "Tried to gut a brother with a knife when they were placing me on a cot. It's how I got my name."

Jon's wound began throbbing again, but he ignored it. Getting Feral to speak to him was an accomplishment itself, and may make the monk a little less thorny. Jon continued, "What was your name before?"

"Nothing too different. Wasn't a nice person."

Jon nodded, "Glad you got a new start, then."

Feral only laughed, "I'm still not a nice person."

Jon had nothing to say to that, and Feral didn't seem to want to add anything, so Jon began to move away. But he thought it over again, and turned back to Feral, stating, "You're a sworn brother now too. You have a purpose."

He watched as Feral stood, giving him a look, before taking the sheathed mace in his hand and strapping it onto himself. He stood a foot taller than Jon, and without his monk's garb he looked more threatening, even brutal. Feral didn't stalk towards him, but he did slide off his mask to throw it into the patch of wildflowers.

He looked like a monster of an old man. He had strings of white hair beginning at his hairline, his face was badly burned to one side, his nose crooked. His eyes haunted and angry.

"Names, " Feral snarled, "I had a whole bag of 'em, though granted the lot of them were swearwords. Back then, I was known as the Hound."

Jon frowned, not quite able to place the familiarity. He shook his head, "But that isn't a name. It's a title. Like the Bastard, or the Cripple King."

Feral shrugged, started walking towards the rest of the men, and Jon followed suit. It seemed that the conversation was ending, but then he heard the man growl, "Sandor. My name was Sandor Clegane."