FIC: The Wild Solstice (Jon/Val) for coaldustcanary
Recipient: coaldustcanary
Title: The Wild Solstice
Author: luna_plath
Rating: R
Pairing/Characters: Jon/Val, Melisandre, Devan Seaworth, Mormont’s raven
Word Count: 5,600
Summary: Jon hoped that he would be strong enough to keep her, because if not, he had nothing but enemies in an unforgiving land with winter finally upon them. Weakness would mean his death.
Warnings: violence, sex, spoilers for ADWD
AN: This is set right around the end of ADWD and follows canon pretty closely. Coaldustcanary, I hope I included all the elements you were looking for!
I. Val
Melisandre startled Val without even making a sound.
“Sorry, my lady. I didn’t hear you come in,” Val said, glad that she hadn’t put the baby down yet. The Monster, as she’d started to call him, tugged on a loose strand of her golden hair while the red priestess adjusted her robes.
“Please, I am no lady,” Melisandre said, showing the trace of a smile. “I only wished to know of the health of the babe.”
“He misses his mother,” Val said, stroking the downy hair on the child’s head. A servant had just added more wood to the fire, causing the flames to jump and crackle more than usual, making strange, long shadows to dance about the room.
One of the child’s nursemaids entered the chamber, taking the bundle out of Val’s hands and humming a tune for him. The Monster gurgled and grasped at nothing with his small, pudgy hands.
“Such a happy child. It’s good that he has not suffered during these dark times,” said the red priestess. Melisandre stood and made as if to leave, stopping short of the door. “Lord Snow will see you now.”
----
The sounds from the training yard echoed against the icy façade of the Wall, making it sound as if a true battle were taking place instead of just a skirmish. Val squinted against the bright reflection of the freshly fallen snow and spied Jon and his direwolf standing separately from the new recruits. Judging from their nervous expressions, the men hadn’t expected Jon to take an interest in their training.
“I think you’re scaring them,” Val said, absently scratching Ghost behind the ears.
Jon arched a dark eyebrow, glancing at her out of the corner of his scarred eye. “If they’re afraid of me then they’re even less prepared than I thought.”
One of the recruits took down his opponent by elbowing him in the eye. Val steeled herself against laughing, but Jon, apparently, thought it was more discouraging than amusing. He sighed and turned from the farce of a swordfight.
“I’m sorry I didn’t send for you earlier,” he said. “Something always seems to come up.”
With wildlings, Queen’s men, King’s men, and new recruits for the Watch, Val could only imagine. “The red woman has taken a strong interest in the child,” she said darkly.
“Has she?”
“Yes,” Val confirmed. “But that is not why I came to see you.”
She turned her back on the recruits, making it difficult for him to escape her gaze.
“Why did you turn down the King’s offer?” If his expression was any indication, Jon had not expected her to ask him that. “You could do more good as a Lord than as the Commander of the Night’s Watch, it seems to me.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Can’t I? Do you not want a wildling wife? Are you not interested in saving the young boy from the red woman’s flames? You may think there’s more honor in your choice, but there are those who will suffer for it. The men of the Watch can defend themselves, the North can not.”
Jon’s expression was as cold as the snow that surrounded them, but Val was undeterred.
“Think about it, Lord Snow.”
II. Jon
Jon did think about it. He thought about it as things began to look continually grimmer in the North, as Marsh and other men of the Watch protested at his decisions, and as Melisandre’s predictions began to look less and less credible.
Is this what Stannis relies on? he thought, considering Alys Karstark and the other mistaken interpretations the red priestess had given him. Her warnings about knives in the dark gave him pause a time or two, but he’d always been a strong fighter, quick and merciless when he needed to be, and Jon was reluctant to take Melisandre seriously after investing more than he wanted to admit in her earlier warnings.
Several times he returned to the offer King Stannis had given him-most especially the part concerning Val-as he tried to see the situation from her perspective. Did she want him to steal her? Was it an insult for a wildling woman not to be stolen when he so easily had the chance? Ygritte had never mentioned it, but Jon still felt like there was so much to the culture of the free folk that he had yet to learn, and that he never would. It was Winterfell all over again. With his siblings, with Ygritte, and even now with his brothers of the Night’s Watch he was separated.
Jon dreamed of Val pinned beneath him, not underneath the stars or the lining of his cloak, but in his old bed at Winterfell. He dreamed of her long hair loose from its braid as he’d seen it once, her mouth on his and her skin so close it felt hot beneath his palms.
I want, he started, grasping for her underneath the blankets, desperately searching for the wet space between her legs. I want to be close to you.
She smiled, evading him, her hair twisting between their bodies like flames licking his skin. Not today, Jon Snow.
He woke to an empty bed, with only linens and furs in his arms.
----
The pain in his body was like nothing Jon had ever experienced, not even the pain of Ygritte’s arrow through his leg or Robb’s practice sword to the back of his head when he’d been twelve. Every inch of his skin was on fire, burning, cooling, hardening into the black armor that glimmered and rippled in the embers of the fire.
For a moment Jon wondered if his body was armor, but after his first few agonizing attempts to move he realized that it was merely flush with his skin, a fit so perfect that no master smith could have ever worked its shape. Instead of a helm he brushed miniscule shards of black glass away from his face, shaking away the black sand and feeling, with increasing desperation, for the sword he always wore on his back.
Longclaw. Relief flooded through him as his hands closed around the hilt, shifting smoking logs and embers as he moved. Jon dragged himself out of the smoldering pile of rubble, his hands clenched tightly against the iced-over snow. Peering down in confusion, he barely had a moment to register that he had an intact branch of wirewood in his left hand before the shouts started.
It was night, or early morning, judging from the look of the sky, and the few men who stood around the fire--the fire I just crawled out of, he thought-were now running toward him with swords or away from him, shouting into the darkness. Some were men of the Watch, others were soldiers under the command of King Stannis, but Jon didn’t spot a single wildling among them. He threw off the last of the obstacles in his path and ran for the man closest to him, cutting him down with Longclaw’s impossibly sharp edge. Shock was the only word to describe the man’s expression, whether at Jon for being alive or for the profusely bleeding cut over the man’s chest, he couldn’t be sure.
Taking advantage of the disbelief in the men who were meant to fight him, Jon saved no time in engaging all three. I will have to kill them all, he thought. Or at least injure them enough to keep them down.
Jon focused on one of his attackers while trying to keep two of the others entangled, drawing on all his training as a swordsman. The men Stannis had brought with him were still unaccustomed to fighting in the snow with so many added layers of clothing, giving him the advantage. His sword seemed to move in front of him like a flame itself, curling into the weak spots at his opponents’ joints and flashing upwards into one man’s neck, littering the frozen ground with dark, hot blood.
Eventually he was able to cut through one man, leaving him with two more and the promise of others on the way if he didn’t hurry up. One of his attackers was fading, his movements growing slower from a wound Jon had landed on his leg, but the other man more than made up for it, striking him all the harder with his greatsword.
Despite the frigid cold, a bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face, but he couldn’t let the demands of his body get in the way. The stronger of the two men reared, his sword arm arching backward to deliver a massive blow. Jon ducked to the side and twisted out of its path, watching as one of his opponents took down the other with the force of his swing. All of his lessons about tiring out your enemy came back to him, Ser Rodrick’s voice pounding in his ears.
But Jon wasn’t forced to tackle his last enemy. A massive white shape came bounding forward, diving for the man’s throat. Ghost tore at the exposed skin while Jon took a long, desperate breath, searching for the black cloaks that would signal a further attack. Failing to spot any approaching men, he took in the sight of his direwolf, noting that his fur was singed in places and streaked with soot, giving him a cast that was more gray than white.
Blood dripped from Ghost’s muzzle but he was otherwise unharmed. Even though his direwolf looked like something out of a tale to frighten children, Jon had never been so happy to see another animal.
----
While dreaming, Val looked soft and peaceful, her blonde hair tousled against the bed coverings. She could pass for a true Lady, Jon thought, inching closer as silently as he could. A fire was burning low in Val’s chambers, giving off enough light for Jon to see the babe and his nursemaid in bed with the wildling woman. For warmth, he guessed, though their presence made his objective all the more difficult.
Reaching for the bone knife on the side table, Val’s weapon of choice, Jon steeled himself for a fight, his shoulders tensing. He firmly covered Val’s mouth with his hand, waking her with the added weight of his body as he held her in place.
Even in early waking she was fierce, bucking against his weight as Jon held her as still as possible. He pressed the sharpened edge of the knife against her throat, causing her eyes to widen at the feel of the sharp edge on her skin. In that moment she recognized him, drawing in a breath of air against the hand he still had clamped over her mouth, recognition coloring her eyes, along with something that might have been wonder. She had seen him die only hours before, had watched as he was burned along with gathered timbers. The impossibility of the situation wasn’t lost on either of them.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered, his mouth impossibly close to the curve of her jaw. Jon leaned off her somewhat, freeing her mouth but leaving the knife at her neck while he eased the furs off her body. A look from him rendered her motionless as he padded her down for other weapons, dipping his armored hand over her stomach, hips, and thighs. Her woolen nightgown had ridden up in sleep and it just covered her sex, having bunched closer to her waist.
Jon recognized the silent look in her eyes as he drew back his weapon, the understanding that passed between them. He had stolen her. Not accidentally, as he had with Ygritte, but intentionally. Deliberately.
When he drew the knife away from her neck Jon handed it back to her by the hilt. Val sheathed the weapon and tucked it inside her smallclothes, acknowledging his right to her.
“Come with me,” he whispered, knowing she would follow.
The free folk follow strength, Ygritte had told him. Jon hoped that he would be strong enough to keep her, because if not, he had nothing but enemies in an unforgiving land with winter finally upon them. Weakness would mean his death.
III. Devan
A shockingly strong gust of wind nearly lifted Devan off his feat, blowing snow and ice into his eyes. A storm was churning over the Wall, making it difficult for him to see beyond the length of his arm. A group of Queen’s men had gone out in search for the wildling princess while a group of men from the Watch were looking for Jon Snow, both of which had escaped only two days ago, and in all the confusion Devan had been sent out to deliver a message between the two groups. Unsurprisingly, he had gotten turned around in the abysmal weather, groping his way along what would have been a path in any other season but was now little more than a trench between snow banks.
Somehow he had ended up passing a tree line, the sound of the wind even more fearsome against the naked, ice-laden branches, making him wonder how dangerous it was to be walking under so many massive icicles. Devan had known little of the north until he’d journeyed here with King Stannis, and even less of winter. If he could take back the knowledge he’d earned in favor of more time with his father, who had been missing for many moons, or more time with his older brothers, he would. Worry began to gnaw at Devan as he wandered even further into the trees. How far had he truly gone? Shouldn’t he have seen some sign of the Watch by now?
In lieu of an answer, a branch he had just passed under crumbled beneath the weight of the accumulating snow, bristling the hairs on the back of Devan’s neck.
He could always turn around, but then the men of the Night’s Watch wouldn’t know the land the Queen’s men had covered, and it was agreed among all who still resided at Castle Black that Val and Lord Snow had probably disappeared together. The wildlings who remained after the burning took place, few that they were, had laughed at the implication, but Devan thought there was more to their disappearance than that.
Watching the flames devour Lord Snow’s body had been terrifying in itself. He had spent a lot of time around Lady Melisandre, had seen countless men given to her holy fires, but none of them had burned as Jon Snow’s body had. No one among the Queen’s army kept the Old Gods, and only a few of the Black Brothers would admit to it, so when the wildling princess placed a wirewood branch in Jon Snow’s dead, frozen hands, no one had questioned her actions.
Devan remembered watching Melisandre prepare the fire the way she had countless times, but the moment the flames took to the wirewood, he had known something was different. The fire glowed hotter than he’d ever seen it in the north, the flames climbing in a tall column despite the fierce cold, and then a massive, white shape had crouched out of the woods, steeling the breath from Devan’s chest in his surprise. Jon Snow’s direwolf parted the gathering of men to walk into the flames, his eyes as red as the outer edges of the fire, seemingly unafraid where any other animal would have cowered.
Everything after that had been chaos. The fire smoked like Devan had never witnessed, and the direwolf, who had always been quiet and soundless, gave a low, terrible howl that made his skin prickle just to think of it.
Focusing on his surroundings once more, Devan began to feel jumpy and tense, not trusting the shifting, iced branches that bent and twisted over his path. He tried to disregard his memories of last night but the long shapes of the white flames were seared over everything, like a frightening story that returned to his thoughts every time he was left in the dark.
Stop scaring yourself, he thought, squaring his jaw the way King Stannis always seemed to. There’s nothing out to get you.
If only Devan believed it. The trees had grown closer together as he’d walked, giving him slightly more shelter from the punishing wind, for which he was grateful. Pulling his furs higher to cover his face, Devan crunched through the snow and came around a small bend in what would have been the trail. He stopped and listened for a moment, hoping to hear any sign of the Night’s Watch prowling through the woods. Dimly, it occurred to him that he should have found the Black Brothers by now, unless he was lost. Please don’t let me be lost, he thought.
Leaning against a wirewood to brace himself from the wind, his thoughts began to take on a panicked tone. I can’t be lost. I have to see my father again, and my mother, and my brothers Stannis and Steffon. My mother will never forgive me if I die here alone.
Breathing heavily, Devan braced his hand against the trunk of the wirewood, slumping his shoulders. I need to find my way back somehow.
Squeezing his eyes shut, some of his tension and fear seemed to drain from him. If he just turned around and retraced his path he would eventually get back to more familiar territory. He’d just gone too far. The storm and subsequent snowfall had made everything alien and unfamiliar; all he needed to do was work his way out of the forest.
Devan gave one last exhale, his breath shimmering in the freezing air, before he turned back to the trench he’d carved through the trees. He’d taken less than three steps before a coil of pure fear tightened around his chest.
In the middle of the path stood Jon Snow’s direwolf, larger than any normal wolf he had ever seen, red eyes staring him down. Devan didn’t even have time to yell before the direwolf leaped, his jaws barred.
IV. Val
The dim light in the underground cavern came from low torches, each placed against the stone and root walls at regular intervals, like sentinels against the darkness and the cold. Val had shed her outermost layer of furs while she explored the cave, placing them next to a sleeping Jon Snow on their shared pallet. Ghost had crawled out of the rocky passage some time earlier, to hunt, she guessed; Jon assured her not to worry over fresh game, that if there was any to be found close by the direwolf would drive it out.
Val went further into a cavity in the rock, testing each of her steps before she put her full weight on the stones. The men in her village regularly went into caves similar to the one they were sheltered in and warnings about their dangers were an early lesson among the free folk, reminding them that even the Children of the Forest had never learned all the secrets of the subterranean passages.
It had been a blessing to come across the caves. The raven that belonged to the previous Lord Commander had led them to the underground haven, and Val had offered a prayer to the Old Gods for hiding them safely away while soldiers and crows prowled the hills. When a fierce winter storm covered their tracks and squandered any chances of their trail being pursued, Val had finally been able to feel not safe, exactly, but more comfortable in their isolation.
There were healing powers in the red and white roots that were woven between the rocks, but she was more interested in filling the wineskin with water. The Children always picked wirewood root caves with underground streams, and Val knew that further down the sloping gap in the earth the water was clean and warm enough to drink. She listened for the sound of water moving over smooth stones, but instead she heard the sound of footsteps behind her.
Val turned slightly and looked over her shoulder. “Following me, Lord Snow?”
Jon leaned his shoulder against the cave wall, giving her a half-smile. “Yes.”
“You should be resting,” she advised, though Val did nothing to stop him from joining her in the passage.
“It feels like I’ve done nothing but sleep for days,” he said. Jon reached forward and brushed a lock of stray hair behind her ear, something she knew he never would have done only three days ago.
“Not quite,” Val reminded him, thinking of the periods when he would wake and draw her back to their pallet, his warm hands finding their way beneath her layers of wool and fur. At first she had been unsure if Jon had meant to steal her in earnest, or if he only wanted someone he could trust in his escape. After several days with the former Lord Commander she felt that it was a little of both.
Jon ran his thumb over her cheek, his fingers brushing her jaw. His hands were rough from many years of swordplay but the gesture was done with tenderness, a contrast to the harsh, desperate way they had touched each other thus far. Val leaned forward and covered his mouth with her own, biting his lower lip and taking in the spicy hint of wirewood sap on his tongue.
She remembered helping him undress that first night, pulling each layer of clothing from Jon’s body so she could rub the paste of wirewood roots into his wounds, her hands ghosting over his warm skin and the hard planes of muscle underneath. Jon had pulled her on top of him after she’d cared for his injuries, had reached between her legs and made her quake like a brittle leaf in autumn.
Val pressed her body against his in the narrow passage, remembering the feel of him on top of her and the heady rush of his lips on her neck. He snaked his arm around her waist and drew her flush with his body, inhaling, sucking on the soft skin just behind her ear while her breath came in short bursts. She fitted her hands under his woolen underclothes and leather jerkin, finding the smooth skin just over his hip and digging her nails in as if to pull him closer.
A mighty crash reverberated through the cave, stones falling, and the cries of--a boy?
The pair of them wrenched free from each other like a knot being untwisted. Jon slipped through the passage with Val close at his heels, springing quickly from one uncertain foothold to another. The light of the larger chamber swam before her, bright enough to show Ghost prowling in front of the tunnel entrance while a boy-no, not any boy, the kneeler King’s squire-cowered on the earthen floor.
V. Jon
Devan shivered even beneath two extra furs, drawing his hands under his arms for warmth. Jon would have told Ghost to lie next to the boy to keep him warm but the sight of the direwolf terrified the young squire, and he thought it kinder to let boy warm up in his own time than distress him further.
“Eat up,” Jon said, gesturing to the fresh hare they’d split between them. “You’ll get warmer that way.”
Devan looked at the meat for a moment before returning to his meal. His blue eyes ventured to the visible wounds on Jon’s body as he ate, watching Val apply the wirewood paste with measured hands.
“Will that heal you?” he asked timidly, and then Jon saw that Devan Seaworth was almost as afraid of him as he was of Ghost. “I’ve never seen that…stuff before.”
“You wouldn’t,” Val answered, dotting the streaked, pinkish medicine along Jon’s neck. “You’re from too far south to know about the Old Gods.”
Jon’s mouth twisted into the shadow of a smile. The Seaworth boy wasn’t that much older than Bran would have been-on his way to becoming a knight, as Bran had wanted to. The thought made him ache in a dull, half-forgotten way.
“The wirewood trees can heal better than any maester, some say, though most of their abilities are forgotten,” he replied.
Devan hungrily finished the last of his supper, wiping his mouth on a woolen sleeve. “What is this place?”
“Just a cave,” Jon answered, remaining still as Val applied the last of the paste. “The Children of the Forest used to live in places such as this before the Wall was built.”
“The Children of the Forrest don’t exist any more, do they?”
“No more than wights, or dragons, or the white walkers,” Val answered.
At that, Jon had to smile. The curious, slightly fearful look on Devan’s face made him look younger than his eleven years.
“But King Stannis says all those things are real,” Devan hedged.
“And who’s to say the Children aren’t real?” she said, handing the boy the wineskin that had been filled with water. “Just because no one has seen them doesn’t mean they aren’t still there. They know more of the land than we do. Perhaps they’re all around us, without anyone knowing.”
Mormont’s raven chose that moment to flap from one side of the cavern to the other, pecking at the cave floor, calling, “Snow? Snow?”
Ignoring the bird, the boy had nothing to say in reply. Jon could tell he was deep in thought by the way he frowned and stared at the patterns on the rocky cave floor. Ghost rolled on his side and gave a wide yawn, startling Devan in his many layers of furs.
Jon tried to keep his laughter to himself, not wanting to embarrass the young squire, but it proved impossible. He ruffled Ghost’s massive, sleeping head before lying down on the pallet of furs next to Val.
----
Only one torch was left to burn in the night, hanging at the back of the cavern while they slept. Ghost had taken a place at the mouth of the passage that led to the cave entrance, preferring the cool draft present there and watching for danger as well, Jon guessed.
If it hadn’t been for the direwolf they never would have come across Devan Seaworth and they never would have learned the most likely location of King Stannis’s camp, he knew. Jon had a vested interest in finding Stannis Baratheon, understanding that he was one of the few people left in the north that wished to see him alive, and without his assistance the odds were against Val and himself lasting very long.
He was so engrossed in his thoughts that Val’s light hand on his chest nearly made him jump. Embarrassed, Jon felt his cheeks flush in the darkness, inching his head down to look at her as best he could.
“What-“ he started, but she slid her hand over his mouth, imitating the first time he’d intentionally touched her.
Val broke away from him only to pull her shift over her head and toss it aside, climbing back under the furs and dipping her hand into his breeches. She stifled any complaints he thought of sharing with her mouth, her tongue sliding over his, her hands exploring his hot skin. Jon moved to touch her breasts while trying not to think of eleven-year-old Devan sleeping on he other side of the cavern.
He rolled her on top of him, feeling between her legs for the place that would make her wet and needy, finding that Val was nearly there already. She bit his neck, making his eyes close and his hips arch involuntarily.
“Don’t make a sound,” she whispered, her lips against the shell of his ear as she took him inside her.
VI. Devan
Devan woke to the feeling of something sharp jabbing into his shoulder. Shrugging it off as a rock, he adjusted himself beneath his furs and clung to sleep, but the jabbing-no, pecking-continued.
“Corn, corn,” the raven prattled.
Moaning in frustrating, Devan swatted at the bird, only to earn himself a sharp peck on his exposed hand. “Ouch!”
“He means for you to wake,” said Jon Snow, handing him a bit of salt beef and the refilled wineskin. Devan hoped there was more to breakfast, but since the likelihood of finding milk and porridge in the wirewood caves was non-existent, he took the meat and water gratefully.
Val still dozed on the pallet of furs, her long hair streaming over her shoulders in the dim torchlight. Devan had always thought of Lady Melisandre as the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, but the wildling princess was more than comely enough to make him blush. Her shoulders were naked beneath the furs, making Devan feel guilty for even looking in her direction.
Ghost lumbered over to where Jon was sharpening his sword with a whetstone, stilling Devan as he chewed. However, the raven was undeterred by the presence of the direwolf, flapping its way around the direwolf without the slightest hint of fear. The exchanged reminded him of a fly being lazily brushed away by a horse’s tail.
Swallowing the last of the beef, Devan asked, “Where will you go?”
Jon’s dark gray eyes looked up from his work. “I intend to find King Stannis, if he’s still alive.”
“King,” said the raven, much louder than he’d expected. “King, king.”
He watched the bird glide from one end of the cavern to the other, pecking its way around the entrance to one of the tunnels. The raven flapped its wings but remained at the gap in the rock, ruffling its feathers. Devan was prepared to ignore the animal but Jon was staring at it with renewed attention.
The raven fixed its beady gaze on Jon Snow, the two of them watching each other with unusual intensity. Silently, Devan wished for the time in his life when birds were merely birds and men didn’t live through scorching fires.
“Gather your things,” said Jon as he stood to wake Val. “We’re leaving.”
----
The deeper they went into the tunnels, the more wary Devan became. Jon edged in front of them with the raven on his shoulder, Ghost following close behind. Devan and Val brought up the rear, copying the safe footholds Jon pursued as best they could on the slanted, earthen floor.
The roots of the wirewood trees grew thick and tangled along the walls, making the torch cast odd, red shadows. Devan Seaworth had never felt like more of a southern outsider during his time in the north than he did now, but he couldn’t have turned back even if he wanted to. The raven was their true guide, flapping off Jon’s shoulder when they came to a place in the passage that diverged, flying into the dimness as they followed.
Devan could not say whether he was cold or not. They had walked for so long and passed through so many changes in rock, soil, and temperature he couldn’t say where they had ended up. It was possible they had ventured beyond the Wall, but wouldn’t they have felt all that ice, even this far down? It was hard for him to tell if the ground was slanted, bent over as he was, and with Jon holding their only torch he only had time to follow closely.
He watched as his breath rose in a visible cloud, showing just how cold it was in the tunnel. Jon stopped for a moment and ran his hands along the tangle of wirewood roots, his gloved hands breaking off shards of ice that had dripped and refrozen into splinters.
“We’re nearing the surface,” Jon said, more to himself than Devan or Val. None of them had said much once they’d started to follow the raven, completing the strange journey in relative silence, and the sound of Jon’s voice was strangely loud to his ears.
Startling them all, the raven flew from Jon’s shoulder and soared ahead, croaking, “Snow, snow, snow.”
Impossibly, a few glittering flakes of white snow clung to its wings from where the bird had doubled back. A moment of shared, disbelieving silence followed the raven’s return before Jon, Val, and Devan scrambled forward through the passage, dislodging small rocks, dirt and knarred roots in the process.
After what felt like hours of clambering through the narrowing passage, a cold gust of wind sliced through his skin, making Devan yank up his scarf to cover his face and move even faster up the tunnel. By this point the path was so steep he was practically walking on all fours, mimicking the direwolf in his desperation to reach the surface.
Gasping, he climbed after his companions, sure that his fingers were growing increasingly numb from the cold. Even with the pain Devan had never been so happy for a sign of winter. Ice slashed against his exposed skin and the wind at the tunnel opening nearly sent him toppling backwards. Ghost grabbed him by the collar with his massive jaws, dragging him to the surface of the frozen ground.
Devan blinked against the abrasive cold and took Jon’s offered hand, gracelessly rising in his bulky furs. Above them, a massive wirewood tree branched upwards, with the raven perched on one of the pale branches.
All around them was a frozen lake, with the wirewood growing on a small island in the center. Beyond the iced-over shores Devan could spy a formation of tents, along with the smoke from fires and the faded, weathered banners of Stannis Baratheon, his stag surrounded by a flaming heart.
“King,” called the raven.
Fin.
Title: The Wild Solstice
Author: luna_plath
Rating: R
Pairing/Characters: Jon/Val, Melisandre, Devan Seaworth, Mormont’s raven
Word Count: 5,600
Summary: Jon hoped that he would be strong enough to keep her, because if not, he had nothing but enemies in an unforgiving land with winter finally upon them. Weakness would mean his death.
Warnings: violence, sex, spoilers for ADWD
AN: This is set right around the end of ADWD and follows canon pretty closely. Coaldustcanary, I hope I included all the elements you were looking for!
I. Val
Melisandre startled Val without even making a sound.
“Sorry, my lady. I didn’t hear you come in,” Val said, glad that she hadn’t put the baby down yet. The Monster, as she’d started to call him, tugged on a loose strand of her golden hair while the red priestess adjusted her robes.
“Please, I am no lady,” Melisandre said, showing the trace of a smile. “I only wished to know of the health of the babe.”
“He misses his mother,” Val said, stroking the downy hair on the child’s head. A servant had just added more wood to the fire, causing the flames to jump and crackle more than usual, making strange, long shadows to dance about the room.
One of the child’s nursemaids entered the chamber, taking the bundle out of Val’s hands and humming a tune for him. The Monster gurgled and grasped at nothing with his small, pudgy hands.
“Such a happy child. It’s good that he has not suffered during these dark times,” said the red priestess. Melisandre stood and made as if to leave, stopping short of the door. “Lord Snow will see you now.”
----
The sounds from the training yard echoed against the icy façade of the Wall, making it sound as if a true battle were taking place instead of just a skirmish. Val squinted against the bright reflection of the freshly fallen snow and spied Jon and his direwolf standing separately from the new recruits. Judging from their nervous expressions, the men hadn’t expected Jon to take an interest in their training.
“I think you’re scaring them,” Val said, absently scratching Ghost behind the ears.
Jon arched a dark eyebrow, glancing at her out of the corner of his scarred eye. “If they’re afraid of me then they’re even less prepared than I thought.”
One of the recruits took down his opponent by elbowing him in the eye. Val steeled herself against laughing, but Jon, apparently, thought it was more discouraging than amusing. He sighed and turned from the farce of a swordfight.
“I’m sorry I didn’t send for you earlier,” he said. “Something always seems to come up.”
With wildlings, Queen’s men, King’s men, and new recruits for the Watch, Val could only imagine. “The red woman has taken a strong interest in the child,” she said darkly.
“Has she?”
“Yes,” Val confirmed. “But that is not why I came to see you.”
She turned her back on the recruits, making it difficult for him to escape her gaze.
“Why did you turn down the King’s offer?” If his expression was any indication, Jon had not expected her to ask him that. “You could do more good as a Lord than as the Commander of the Night’s Watch, it seems to me.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Can’t I? Do you not want a wildling wife? Are you not interested in saving the young boy from the red woman’s flames? You may think there’s more honor in your choice, but there are those who will suffer for it. The men of the Watch can defend themselves, the North can not.”
Jon’s expression was as cold as the snow that surrounded them, but Val was undeterred.
“Think about it, Lord Snow.”
II. Jon
Jon did think about it. He thought about it as things began to look continually grimmer in the North, as Marsh and other men of the Watch protested at his decisions, and as Melisandre’s predictions began to look less and less credible.
Is this what Stannis relies on? he thought, considering Alys Karstark and the other mistaken interpretations the red priestess had given him. Her warnings about knives in the dark gave him pause a time or two, but he’d always been a strong fighter, quick and merciless when he needed to be, and Jon was reluctant to take Melisandre seriously after investing more than he wanted to admit in her earlier warnings.
Several times he returned to the offer King Stannis had given him-most especially the part concerning Val-as he tried to see the situation from her perspective. Did she want him to steal her? Was it an insult for a wildling woman not to be stolen when he so easily had the chance? Ygritte had never mentioned it, but Jon still felt like there was so much to the culture of the free folk that he had yet to learn, and that he never would. It was Winterfell all over again. With his siblings, with Ygritte, and even now with his brothers of the Night’s Watch he was separated.
Jon dreamed of Val pinned beneath him, not underneath the stars or the lining of his cloak, but in his old bed at Winterfell. He dreamed of her long hair loose from its braid as he’d seen it once, her mouth on his and her skin so close it felt hot beneath his palms.
I want, he started, grasping for her underneath the blankets, desperately searching for the wet space between her legs. I want to be close to you.
She smiled, evading him, her hair twisting between their bodies like flames licking his skin. Not today, Jon Snow.
He woke to an empty bed, with only linens and furs in his arms.
----
The pain in his body was like nothing Jon had ever experienced, not even the pain of Ygritte’s arrow through his leg or Robb’s practice sword to the back of his head when he’d been twelve. Every inch of his skin was on fire, burning, cooling, hardening into the black armor that glimmered and rippled in the embers of the fire.
For a moment Jon wondered if his body was armor, but after his first few agonizing attempts to move he realized that it was merely flush with his skin, a fit so perfect that no master smith could have ever worked its shape. Instead of a helm he brushed miniscule shards of black glass away from his face, shaking away the black sand and feeling, with increasing desperation, for the sword he always wore on his back.
Longclaw. Relief flooded through him as his hands closed around the hilt, shifting smoking logs and embers as he moved. Jon dragged himself out of the smoldering pile of rubble, his hands clenched tightly against the iced-over snow. Peering down in confusion, he barely had a moment to register that he had an intact branch of wirewood in his left hand before the shouts started.
It was night, or early morning, judging from the look of the sky, and the few men who stood around the fire--the fire I just crawled out of, he thought-were now running toward him with swords or away from him, shouting into the darkness. Some were men of the Watch, others were soldiers under the command of King Stannis, but Jon didn’t spot a single wildling among them. He threw off the last of the obstacles in his path and ran for the man closest to him, cutting him down with Longclaw’s impossibly sharp edge. Shock was the only word to describe the man’s expression, whether at Jon for being alive or for the profusely bleeding cut over the man’s chest, he couldn’t be sure.
Taking advantage of the disbelief in the men who were meant to fight him, Jon saved no time in engaging all three. I will have to kill them all, he thought. Or at least injure them enough to keep them down.
Jon focused on one of his attackers while trying to keep two of the others entangled, drawing on all his training as a swordsman. The men Stannis had brought with him were still unaccustomed to fighting in the snow with so many added layers of clothing, giving him the advantage. His sword seemed to move in front of him like a flame itself, curling into the weak spots at his opponents’ joints and flashing upwards into one man’s neck, littering the frozen ground with dark, hot blood.
Eventually he was able to cut through one man, leaving him with two more and the promise of others on the way if he didn’t hurry up. One of his attackers was fading, his movements growing slower from a wound Jon had landed on his leg, but the other man more than made up for it, striking him all the harder with his greatsword.
Despite the frigid cold, a bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face, but he couldn’t let the demands of his body get in the way. The stronger of the two men reared, his sword arm arching backward to deliver a massive blow. Jon ducked to the side and twisted out of its path, watching as one of his opponents took down the other with the force of his swing. All of his lessons about tiring out your enemy came back to him, Ser Rodrick’s voice pounding in his ears.
But Jon wasn’t forced to tackle his last enemy. A massive white shape came bounding forward, diving for the man’s throat. Ghost tore at the exposed skin while Jon took a long, desperate breath, searching for the black cloaks that would signal a further attack. Failing to spot any approaching men, he took in the sight of his direwolf, noting that his fur was singed in places and streaked with soot, giving him a cast that was more gray than white.
Blood dripped from Ghost’s muzzle but he was otherwise unharmed. Even though his direwolf looked like something out of a tale to frighten children, Jon had never been so happy to see another animal.
----
While dreaming, Val looked soft and peaceful, her blonde hair tousled against the bed coverings. She could pass for a true Lady, Jon thought, inching closer as silently as he could. A fire was burning low in Val’s chambers, giving off enough light for Jon to see the babe and his nursemaid in bed with the wildling woman. For warmth, he guessed, though their presence made his objective all the more difficult.
Reaching for the bone knife on the side table, Val’s weapon of choice, Jon steeled himself for a fight, his shoulders tensing. He firmly covered Val’s mouth with his hand, waking her with the added weight of his body as he held her in place.
Even in early waking she was fierce, bucking against his weight as Jon held her as still as possible. He pressed the sharpened edge of the knife against her throat, causing her eyes to widen at the feel of the sharp edge on her skin. In that moment she recognized him, drawing in a breath of air against the hand he still had clamped over her mouth, recognition coloring her eyes, along with something that might have been wonder. She had seen him die only hours before, had watched as he was burned along with gathered timbers. The impossibility of the situation wasn’t lost on either of them.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered, his mouth impossibly close to the curve of her jaw. Jon leaned off her somewhat, freeing her mouth but leaving the knife at her neck while he eased the furs off her body. A look from him rendered her motionless as he padded her down for other weapons, dipping his armored hand over her stomach, hips, and thighs. Her woolen nightgown had ridden up in sleep and it just covered her sex, having bunched closer to her waist.
Jon recognized the silent look in her eyes as he drew back his weapon, the understanding that passed between them. He had stolen her. Not accidentally, as he had with Ygritte, but intentionally. Deliberately.
When he drew the knife away from her neck Jon handed it back to her by the hilt. Val sheathed the weapon and tucked it inside her smallclothes, acknowledging his right to her.
“Come with me,” he whispered, knowing she would follow.
The free folk follow strength, Ygritte had told him. Jon hoped that he would be strong enough to keep her, because if not, he had nothing but enemies in an unforgiving land with winter finally upon them. Weakness would mean his death.
III. Devan
A shockingly strong gust of wind nearly lifted Devan off his feat, blowing snow and ice into his eyes. A storm was churning over the Wall, making it difficult for him to see beyond the length of his arm. A group of Queen’s men had gone out in search for the wildling princess while a group of men from the Watch were looking for Jon Snow, both of which had escaped only two days ago, and in all the confusion Devan had been sent out to deliver a message between the two groups. Unsurprisingly, he had gotten turned around in the abysmal weather, groping his way along what would have been a path in any other season but was now little more than a trench between snow banks.
Somehow he had ended up passing a tree line, the sound of the wind even more fearsome against the naked, ice-laden branches, making him wonder how dangerous it was to be walking under so many massive icicles. Devan had known little of the north until he’d journeyed here with King Stannis, and even less of winter. If he could take back the knowledge he’d earned in favor of more time with his father, who had been missing for many moons, or more time with his older brothers, he would. Worry began to gnaw at Devan as he wandered even further into the trees. How far had he truly gone? Shouldn’t he have seen some sign of the Watch by now?
In lieu of an answer, a branch he had just passed under crumbled beneath the weight of the accumulating snow, bristling the hairs on the back of Devan’s neck.
He could always turn around, but then the men of the Night’s Watch wouldn’t know the land the Queen’s men had covered, and it was agreed among all who still resided at Castle Black that Val and Lord Snow had probably disappeared together. The wildlings who remained after the burning took place, few that they were, had laughed at the implication, but Devan thought there was more to their disappearance than that.
Watching the flames devour Lord Snow’s body had been terrifying in itself. He had spent a lot of time around Lady Melisandre, had seen countless men given to her holy fires, but none of them had burned as Jon Snow’s body had. No one among the Queen’s army kept the Old Gods, and only a few of the Black Brothers would admit to it, so when the wildling princess placed a wirewood branch in Jon Snow’s dead, frozen hands, no one had questioned her actions.
Devan remembered watching Melisandre prepare the fire the way she had countless times, but the moment the flames took to the wirewood, he had known something was different. The fire glowed hotter than he’d ever seen it in the north, the flames climbing in a tall column despite the fierce cold, and then a massive, white shape had crouched out of the woods, steeling the breath from Devan’s chest in his surprise. Jon Snow’s direwolf parted the gathering of men to walk into the flames, his eyes as red as the outer edges of the fire, seemingly unafraid where any other animal would have cowered.
Everything after that had been chaos. The fire smoked like Devan had never witnessed, and the direwolf, who had always been quiet and soundless, gave a low, terrible howl that made his skin prickle just to think of it.
Focusing on his surroundings once more, Devan began to feel jumpy and tense, not trusting the shifting, iced branches that bent and twisted over his path. He tried to disregard his memories of last night but the long shapes of the white flames were seared over everything, like a frightening story that returned to his thoughts every time he was left in the dark.
Stop scaring yourself, he thought, squaring his jaw the way King Stannis always seemed to. There’s nothing out to get you.
If only Devan believed it. The trees had grown closer together as he’d walked, giving him slightly more shelter from the punishing wind, for which he was grateful. Pulling his furs higher to cover his face, Devan crunched through the snow and came around a small bend in what would have been the trail. He stopped and listened for a moment, hoping to hear any sign of the Night’s Watch prowling through the woods. Dimly, it occurred to him that he should have found the Black Brothers by now, unless he was lost. Please don’t let me be lost, he thought.
Leaning against a wirewood to brace himself from the wind, his thoughts began to take on a panicked tone. I can’t be lost. I have to see my father again, and my mother, and my brothers Stannis and Steffon. My mother will never forgive me if I die here alone.
Breathing heavily, Devan braced his hand against the trunk of the wirewood, slumping his shoulders. I need to find my way back somehow.
Squeezing his eyes shut, some of his tension and fear seemed to drain from him. If he just turned around and retraced his path he would eventually get back to more familiar territory. He’d just gone too far. The storm and subsequent snowfall had made everything alien and unfamiliar; all he needed to do was work his way out of the forest.
Devan gave one last exhale, his breath shimmering in the freezing air, before he turned back to the trench he’d carved through the trees. He’d taken less than three steps before a coil of pure fear tightened around his chest.
In the middle of the path stood Jon Snow’s direwolf, larger than any normal wolf he had ever seen, red eyes staring him down. Devan didn’t even have time to yell before the direwolf leaped, his jaws barred.
IV. Val
The dim light in the underground cavern came from low torches, each placed against the stone and root walls at regular intervals, like sentinels against the darkness and the cold. Val had shed her outermost layer of furs while she explored the cave, placing them next to a sleeping Jon Snow on their shared pallet. Ghost had crawled out of the rocky passage some time earlier, to hunt, she guessed; Jon assured her not to worry over fresh game, that if there was any to be found close by the direwolf would drive it out.
Val went further into a cavity in the rock, testing each of her steps before she put her full weight on the stones. The men in her village regularly went into caves similar to the one they were sheltered in and warnings about their dangers were an early lesson among the free folk, reminding them that even the Children of the Forest had never learned all the secrets of the subterranean passages.
It had been a blessing to come across the caves. The raven that belonged to the previous Lord Commander had led them to the underground haven, and Val had offered a prayer to the Old Gods for hiding them safely away while soldiers and crows prowled the hills. When a fierce winter storm covered their tracks and squandered any chances of their trail being pursued, Val had finally been able to feel not safe, exactly, but more comfortable in their isolation.
There were healing powers in the red and white roots that were woven between the rocks, but she was more interested in filling the wineskin with water. The Children always picked wirewood root caves with underground streams, and Val knew that further down the sloping gap in the earth the water was clean and warm enough to drink. She listened for the sound of water moving over smooth stones, but instead she heard the sound of footsteps behind her.
Val turned slightly and looked over her shoulder. “Following me, Lord Snow?”
Jon leaned his shoulder against the cave wall, giving her a half-smile. “Yes.”
“You should be resting,” she advised, though Val did nothing to stop him from joining her in the passage.
“It feels like I’ve done nothing but sleep for days,” he said. Jon reached forward and brushed a lock of stray hair behind her ear, something she knew he never would have done only three days ago.
“Not quite,” Val reminded him, thinking of the periods when he would wake and draw her back to their pallet, his warm hands finding their way beneath her layers of wool and fur. At first she had been unsure if Jon had meant to steal her in earnest, or if he only wanted someone he could trust in his escape. After several days with the former Lord Commander she felt that it was a little of both.
Jon ran his thumb over her cheek, his fingers brushing her jaw. His hands were rough from many years of swordplay but the gesture was done with tenderness, a contrast to the harsh, desperate way they had touched each other thus far. Val leaned forward and covered his mouth with her own, biting his lower lip and taking in the spicy hint of wirewood sap on his tongue.
She remembered helping him undress that first night, pulling each layer of clothing from Jon’s body so she could rub the paste of wirewood roots into his wounds, her hands ghosting over his warm skin and the hard planes of muscle underneath. Jon had pulled her on top of him after she’d cared for his injuries, had reached between her legs and made her quake like a brittle leaf in autumn.
Val pressed her body against his in the narrow passage, remembering the feel of him on top of her and the heady rush of his lips on her neck. He snaked his arm around her waist and drew her flush with his body, inhaling, sucking on the soft skin just behind her ear while her breath came in short bursts. She fitted her hands under his woolen underclothes and leather jerkin, finding the smooth skin just over his hip and digging her nails in as if to pull him closer.
A mighty crash reverberated through the cave, stones falling, and the cries of--a boy?
The pair of them wrenched free from each other like a knot being untwisted. Jon slipped through the passage with Val close at his heels, springing quickly from one uncertain foothold to another. The light of the larger chamber swam before her, bright enough to show Ghost prowling in front of the tunnel entrance while a boy-no, not any boy, the kneeler King’s squire-cowered on the earthen floor.
V. Jon
Devan shivered even beneath two extra furs, drawing his hands under his arms for warmth. Jon would have told Ghost to lie next to the boy to keep him warm but the sight of the direwolf terrified the young squire, and he thought it kinder to let boy warm up in his own time than distress him further.
“Eat up,” Jon said, gesturing to the fresh hare they’d split between them. “You’ll get warmer that way.”
Devan looked at the meat for a moment before returning to his meal. His blue eyes ventured to the visible wounds on Jon’s body as he ate, watching Val apply the wirewood paste with measured hands.
“Will that heal you?” he asked timidly, and then Jon saw that Devan Seaworth was almost as afraid of him as he was of Ghost. “I’ve never seen that…stuff before.”
“You wouldn’t,” Val answered, dotting the streaked, pinkish medicine along Jon’s neck. “You’re from too far south to know about the Old Gods.”
Jon’s mouth twisted into the shadow of a smile. The Seaworth boy wasn’t that much older than Bran would have been-on his way to becoming a knight, as Bran had wanted to. The thought made him ache in a dull, half-forgotten way.
“The wirewood trees can heal better than any maester, some say, though most of their abilities are forgotten,” he replied.
Devan hungrily finished the last of his supper, wiping his mouth on a woolen sleeve. “What is this place?”
“Just a cave,” Jon answered, remaining still as Val applied the last of the paste. “The Children of the Forest used to live in places such as this before the Wall was built.”
“The Children of the Forrest don’t exist any more, do they?”
“No more than wights, or dragons, or the white walkers,” Val answered.
At that, Jon had to smile. The curious, slightly fearful look on Devan’s face made him look younger than his eleven years.
“But King Stannis says all those things are real,” Devan hedged.
“And who’s to say the Children aren’t real?” she said, handing the boy the wineskin that had been filled with water. “Just because no one has seen them doesn’t mean they aren’t still there. They know more of the land than we do. Perhaps they’re all around us, without anyone knowing.”
Mormont’s raven chose that moment to flap from one side of the cavern to the other, pecking at the cave floor, calling, “Snow? Snow?”
Ignoring the bird, the boy had nothing to say in reply. Jon could tell he was deep in thought by the way he frowned and stared at the patterns on the rocky cave floor. Ghost rolled on his side and gave a wide yawn, startling Devan in his many layers of furs.
Jon tried to keep his laughter to himself, not wanting to embarrass the young squire, but it proved impossible. He ruffled Ghost’s massive, sleeping head before lying down on the pallet of furs next to Val.
----
Only one torch was left to burn in the night, hanging at the back of the cavern while they slept. Ghost had taken a place at the mouth of the passage that led to the cave entrance, preferring the cool draft present there and watching for danger as well, Jon guessed.
If it hadn’t been for the direwolf they never would have come across Devan Seaworth and they never would have learned the most likely location of King Stannis’s camp, he knew. Jon had a vested interest in finding Stannis Baratheon, understanding that he was one of the few people left in the north that wished to see him alive, and without his assistance the odds were against Val and himself lasting very long.
He was so engrossed in his thoughts that Val’s light hand on his chest nearly made him jump. Embarrassed, Jon felt his cheeks flush in the darkness, inching his head down to look at her as best he could.
“What-“ he started, but she slid her hand over his mouth, imitating the first time he’d intentionally touched her.
Val broke away from him only to pull her shift over her head and toss it aside, climbing back under the furs and dipping her hand into his breeches. She stifled any complaints he thought of sharing with her mouth, her tongue sliding over his, her hands exploring his hot skin. Jon moved to touch her breasts while trying not to think of eleven-year-old Devan sleeping on he other side of the cavern.
He rolled her on top of him, feeling between her legs for the place that would make her wet and needy, finding that Val was nearly there already. She bit his neck, making his eyes close and his hips arch involuntarily.
“Don’t make a sound,” she whispered, her lips against the shell of his ear as she took him inside her.
VI. Devan
Devan woke to the feeling of something sharp jabbing into his shoulder. Shrugging it off as a rock, he adjusted himself beneath his furs and clung to sleep, but the jabbing-no, pecking-continued.
“Corn, corn,” the raven prattled.
Moaning in frustrating, Devan swatted at the bird, only to earn himself a sharp peck on his exposed hand. “Ouch!”
“He means for you to wake,” said Jon Snow, handing him a bit of salt beef and the refilled wineskin. Devan hoped there was more to breakfast, but since the likelihood of finding milk and porridge in the wirewood caves was non-existent, he took the meat and water gratefully.
Val still dozed on the pallet of furs, her long hair streaming over her shoulders in the dim torchlight. Devan had always thought of Lady Melisandre as the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, but the wildling princess was more than comely enough to make him blush. Her shoulders were naked beneath the furs, making Devan feel guilty for even looking in her direction.
Ghost lumbered over to where Jon was sharpening his sword with a whetstone, stilling Devan as he chewed. However, the raven was undeterred by the presence of the direwolf, flapping its way around the direwolf without the slightest hint of fear. The exchanged reminded him of a fly being lazily brushed away by a horse’s tail.
Swallowing the last of the beef, Devan asked, “Where will you go?”
Jon’s dark gray eyes looked up from his work. “I intend to find King Stannis, if he’s still alive.”
“King,” said the raven, much louder than he’d expected. “King, king.”
He watched the bird glide from one end of the cavern to the other, pecking its way around the entrance to one of the tunnels. The raven flapped its wings but remained at the gap in the rock, ruffling its feathers. Devan was prepared to ignore the animal but Jon was staring at it with renewed attention.
The raven fixed its beady gaze on Jon Snow, the two of them watching each other with unusual intensity. Silently, Devan wished for the time in his life when birds were merely birds and men didn’t live through scorching fires.
“Gather your things,” said Jon as he stood to wake Val. “We’re leaving.”
----
The deeper they went into the tunnels, the more wary Devan became. Jon edged in front of them with the raven on his shoulder, Ghost following close behind. Devan and Val brought up the rear, copying the safe footholds Jon pursued as best they could on the slanted, earthen floor.
The roots of the wirewood trees grew thick and tangled along the walls, making the torch cast odd, red shadows. Devan Seaworth had never felt like more of a southern outsider during his time in the north than he did now, but he couldn’t have turned back even if he wanted to. The raven was their true guide, flapping off Jon’s shoulder when they came to a place in the passage that diverged, flying into the dimness as they followed.
Devan could not say whether he was cold or not. They had walked for so long and passed through so many changes in rock, soil, and temperature he couldn’t say where they had ended up. It was possible they had ventured beyond the Wall, but wouldn’t they have felt all that ice, even this far down? It was hard for him to tell if the ground was slanted, bent over as he was, and with Jon holding their only torch he only had time to follow closely.
He watched as his breath rose in a visible cloud, showing just how cold it was in the tunnel. Jon stopped for a moment and ran his hands along the tangle of wirewood roots, his gloved hands breaking off shards of ice that had dripped and refrozen into splinters.
“We’re nearing the surface,” Jon said, more to himself than Devan or Val. None of them had said much once they’d started to follow the raven, completing the strange journey in relative silence, and the sound of Jon’s voice was strangely loud to his ears.
Startling them all, the raven flew from Jon’s shoulder and soared ahead, croaking, “Snow, snow, snow.”
Impossibly, a few glittering flakes of white snow clung to its wings from where the bird had doubled back. A moment of shared, disbelieving silence followed the raven’s return before Jon, Val, and Devan scrambled forward through the passage, dislodging small rocks, dirt and knarred roots in the process.
After what felt like hours of clambering through the narrowing passage, a cold gust of wind sliced through his skin, making Devan yank up his scarf to cover his face and move even faster up the tunnel. By this point the path was so steep he was practically walking on all fours, mimicking the direwolf in his desperation to reach the surface.
Gasping, he climbed after his companions, sure that his fingers were growing increasingly numb from the cold. Even with the pain Devan had never been so happy for a sign of winter. Ice slashed against his exposed skin and the wind at the tunnel opening nearly sent him toppling backwards. Ghost grabbed him by the collar with his massive jaws, dragging him to the surface of the frozen ground.
Devan blinked against the abrasive cold and took Jon’s offered hand, gracelessly rising in his bulky furs. Above them, a massive wirewood tree branched upwards, with the raven perched on one of the pale branches.
All around them was a frozen lake, with the wirewood growing on a small island in the center. Beyond the iced-over shores Devan could spy a formation of tents, along with the smoke from fires and the faded, weathered banners of Stannis Baratheon, his stag surrounded by a flaming heart.
“King,” called the raven.
Fin.