Wildling Warrior

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The Following EIGHT Chapters are avaliable for Patrons.

Chapter 25 (A Lone Wolf), Chapter 26 (Passion Under The Stars), Chapter 27 (The Truth), Chapter 28 (The Winter Dragon), Chapter 29 (Return to Winterfell), Chapter 30 (Dragon Dreams), Chapter 31 (Reunion with The Starks), and Chapter 32 (Night at Winterfell) are already available for Patrons.

Jon Snow

The feeling of the gentle breeze against his face was calming, his hair flowing with the wind, harsh eyes looking forward, feet landing roughly against the snow; he felt the tension; it was hard to breathe. Mance had been furious about what happened to Tormund's group.

Jon didn't know what would need to happen now; he assumed Mance would start a war with the Thenn clan, a war they couldn't afford to start now, they had attacked his group, and Jon had concluded that they all would prepare for war.

Mance had received a message from one of the Thenn clan, telling him they would have a meeting in The Fist of The First Men, a place where presumably he would give him back his little group in exchange for a fight with their strongest warrior, Qringaomnon.

After the message was heard from everyone, the messenger had been allowed to return home. Hearing the message, everyone had been silent, waiting for Mance to speak and decide the best course of action. Rattleshirt had been first to voice out that this was an excellent opportunity to have the Thenn clan with them.

"The majority of Free Folk follow the strength, especially Thenn's clan; they had always been known to follow strength above all else; if you crush Qringaomnon's skull, they will be in our side," Rattleshirt suggested with a booming voice, his armor made of bones ringing as he moved.

Mance paused for a moment, thinking about it before coming to the same conclusion. "You make a good point, Rattleshirt, and I think this is why they attacked our group in the first place," Mance spoke; everyone listened to him, hearing every word.

Silence fell over the tent, Mance eyeing everyone, wanting to see if anyone would object; his eyes briefly glanced at Jon, who was mostly quiet.

"Tomorrow morning, we ride to The Fist of The First men," Mance's voice boomed like a bell.

Now, Jon was riding Ghost, and following him were two Elks; Mance was riding one, and Val was riding the other; Varamyr was riding his own Elk beside Mance, speaking in hushed tones; the bastard couldn't hear them but didn't care.

His eyes looked over the trees around them; he had never been at the Fist before.

"Why is called the Fist of The First Men?" Jon questioned the rider beside him, a hoodie covering most of her beautiful hair, unlike Jon, who wasn't wearing a hoodie to his face from the gentle cold breeze around them; it hadn't been snowing for days, but the wind blasted off the snow from the earth, small sparkles of snow hitting his face, yet Jon never shivered, his hands holding the fur of Ghost, but not hard enough to hurt, Jon could somehow feel the frozen layer of snow beneath Ghost's paws.

"It is said that The fist was built by the first men a long time ago; some say it was before the Wall was even built, but no one really knows," Val explained, keeping her face hidden, in her waist a hidden bone dagger.

Her eyes watched as Jon didn't as much as shudder from the wind mixed with snow around them, preferring not to use a hoodie.

"You're something else, Snow; anyone in your situation by now would have either died from cold or shivering like a madman. You aren't doing any; what's your secret, Snow?" She asked with a little teasing in her voice, her elk walking a bit closer to Jon's Wolf, her walking pace a bit slower to keep up with him.

A chuckle escaped Jon's mouth, a smile forming on his face as Ghost walked closer to her, now only two feet apart from each other.

"I don't know, Val; I thought you from beyond the Wall were snow made men. I thought you loved the cold," Jon replied with the same teasing tone, patting Ghost in the head.

"This is the true North, Snow, we are free here, but this place is not made for living; here in the True North, we wait until a baby reaches two name days for the parents to give them a name, no point in giving a name only for them to die hours after they are born," she spoke coldly but truthfully, Jon wondered if what she said was true, even South of the wall were still cases with the child dying during the birth or a few hours after they are born, he had read about House Targaryen, Rhaella Targaryen had lost seven children until Prince Viserys was born.

Jon pursed his lips into a thin line; it sounded wrong, not at least to give them a name. To remember them somehow, even if they existed for a short moment.

"What do you think the South of the Wall is like?" Jon asked, wanting to change the subject; he didn't want to discuss the failed pregnancies.

Val paused for a moment before shrugging her shoulders. "Don't know, never been there, All we know is from words we hear in the wind, Mance had told us what it was like, we know House Targaryen rules the South, a House that has long lost their power, beyond that, I don't know anything else," Val replied with a blank tone before turning to Jon.

"Have you ever been beyond the North?"

Shaking his head, "No, never been past the Neck,"

"If you could, what place would you like to visit?" Val asked, interested, her voice a little excited.

"DragonStone above all else, only heard about it; the rumors say it is a castle with Dragon statues, a big castle made of special stone from Valyrian itself; I would want to see the Cursed Castle Harrenhal as well," Jon replied, glancing at her before turning his eyes forward, the trees looming over them, a shade of grey at the top, as if the forest itself would swallow them hole.

Jon could see trees as far as the eye could see and a crow's cry above him; he looked up quickly but couldn't see any crow. Am I imagining it? He questioned himself. Ghost stopped abruptly, bearing his teeth, a growl escaping his mouth; he felt as if he was drowning, sudden pressure on his chest, he shuddered from the cold, his teeth chattering all of a sudden, a dark figure standing at the end of the Forest...

"Jon," a voice shouted in his ears, causing him to turn towards the source only to see Val looking at him with concern, a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright?" She asked, her voice quieter knowing Jon was listening to her, his breathing heavy; Jon turned to look at the figure only to see that nothing was there.

Breathing slowly, he nodded his head, not trusting himself to say anything right now. Soon they joined the others; Val was relieved to see Jon returning to his normal self in no time. Handing him a leather bottle, he thanked her before gulping down water as much as he could, feeling better already.

"You didn't answer my question," Val soon said, looking at him, a hand holding the reins of her Elk.

"Question?" Jon turned to her with a raised eyebrow.

"Why is this Harrenhal called the Cursed Castle?"

"Ohh," Jon looked down, slightly embarrassed, understanding he hadn't heard anything, yet still trying to understand what just happened to him. Was I daydreaming somehow? What about that crow? He thought before deciding to ignore it, it was nothing, and he didn't need to dwell too much on it.

"Harrenhal is the largest castle in Westeros, but its history is quite brutal. That's why many refer to it as a castle full of Ghosts,"

"Why?"

"The seat of Halleck Hoare, King of the Isles and the Rivers was a modest tower house at Fairmarket on the Blue Fork. His son, Harren, the Black, wanted more than that. He built Harrenhal along the Gods Eye as a monument to himself, intending it to be the greatest of all castles in Westeros and for it to dwarf any other. The construction of Harren's dream took forty years. Thousands of captives died in the quarries chained to sledges or laboring on the five huge towers. Men froze by winter and sweltered in summer. Weirwoods that had stood three thousand years were cut down to provide rafters and beams. Harren beggared the Riverlands and the Iron Islands alike to ornament his dream. Upon its completion, Harren boasted that his new fortress was impregnable. However, he did not account for Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons invading Westeros. On the day Harren took up residence, Aegon came ashore at what would become King's Landing. Aegon flew his dragon Balerion, the Black Dread, above the high walls and forbidding towers and then roasted Harren alive in the tallest of the towers, now known as Kingspyre. Harren and all his line perished in the burning of Harrenhal. That castle is still standing, but many fear its history," Jon explained; Val's face turned furious when she heard that the Weirdwood trees were cut down.

"It seemed the Old Gods punished them," she commented without a hint of empathy, her voice cold and firm like the North.

"Maybe, or maybe the many people that died to build the damn thing, no one can really know. Despite the rumors, I would like to see Harrenhal from up close, to see one of the biggest structures built from men," Jon said, looking up at Kessa flying above them; they were getting closer to the Fist; he closed his eyes, telling Kessa to scout ahead for any surprises.

Val smiled, pleased, she liked the way he was thinking, she wouldn't mind seeing all those places, maybe one day, she and Jon could travel together, but she understood her duty as a free folk, she needed to ensure the safety of her people, of her sister.

As long as the Others existed, there would always be danger and death; her eyes lingered on Jon, who closed his eyes.

Soon they left the forest, reaching a wide field of Snow; Jon opened his eyes, telling Mance that a group of people were just beyond the small hill; the King nodded; as they reached the top, Jon's eyes quickly found the group waiting for them at the clearing just in front of them.

The clearing with no sign of trees except the strange giant fist made of Rock at the center; the fist stood three meters tall and five meters thick, carved in various places to make it look like a fist, the stone itself darker than the night, Jon couldn't understand what kind of stone that was, but he heard Ghost growling as they got closer to the clan.

Riding closer, Jon saw the group they had captured; looking closely, they didn't look as if they were hurt, except Tormund, who had a few small cuts and bruises on his face.

Jon's eyes quickly found who he presumed was the leader; to call him a big man would be an understatement.

The man was so tall that he made Tormund look small, his eyes looking down on Mance, who didn't look intimidated, letting out a huff; the man was wearing boiled leather, the area around his chest covered in thick bones, on his waist tightened a sword, much to Jon's surprise who had not seen a single wildling with a sword.

The blade looked old, with several cracks across the blade, and the tip was missing, but everyone knew a big man like him didn't need a sword to kill someone. His biceps almost as big as Jon's head, his legs long and full of muscles, just like every other Thenn, his head was as bald as an egg, a long white beard reaching to his collar bone, his eyebrows white as well, yet the man wasn't old, his left cheek had a dark-grey color as if the skin was rotting, half of his right ear was ripped out, most likely from an animal, getting closer, standing three meters away, the smell of rotten flesh reached them.

Jon stopped himself from vomiting; the smell was terrible and was coming from the big guy.

"Mance Rayder, I heard you are creating an army to reach beyond the wall," the man spoke, getting straight to the point, his voice loud and firm, yet Jon noticed him putting his right hand on his chest as he talked and adding a bit of force.

Mance didn't speak for a moment; instead, his eyes checked on his group before turning to the leader. "I see you're still breathing, Rotten Flesh. I figured you would be dead by now," Mance said with a hint of sadness in his voice.

Jon thought the man would be insulted by Mance's words; instead, he put his hand on his chest yet again before bursting into laughter, his mouth letting out a terrible smell, reminding the bastard of the canels of Winterfell, where the rats would usually feast on corpses.

Jon caught a small glimpse at his teeth; half of his teeth were no more, terrible cut marks around his flesh; the bastard figured the man had most likely used a bone knife to pull out a rotten tooth, causing wounds on his mouth as he did.

"Hahaha, I'm still standing, Mance, but I would like to know if the rumors are true," the man said, holding his chest a little tighter, his other hand grasping the handle of his sword.

"I'm, The Others are moving, and when they do indeed attack, I would like to be on the other side of the Wall," Mance explained, straightening himself up, keeping his chest high as he talked.

Qringaomnon's eyes showed no real visible reaction; his eyes turned to Jon, mainly to the sword strapped to his waist.

"You're southern, aren't you, boy?" The man questioned, but more like a statement; hearing those words caused the other Thenn to look at him suspiciously, but the big man raised his hand to stop them from perhaps attacking.

Jon opened his mouth to talk, "Don't try to deny it, boy. You won't see a wildling carrying that type of blade around here, a sword forged by the flames themselves," the man interrupted, holding his chest a little tighter.

His words caused Jon to narrow his eyes; the knowledge of how to make Valyrian steel was forgotten a long time ago. Second, how did a Wildling even know what Valyrian steel was?

"What's your name, boy?" Qringaomnon questioned with a sharp tone; his strange eyes looking at Jon made him feel uncomfortable, as a cold shiver went through his body. His eyes were a strange grey mixed with violet.

"Jon Snow," he answered a little too quickly. The man murmured Snow, under his breath with a sour taste. Spitting, the spit had a darkened red color; the man turned to face Mance, perhaps challenging him and starting the duel.

Jon suddenly heard a crow cry, looking at the Fist of the First men; on top of it, a crow left out another cry looking straight at Qringaomnon; turning his attention to the big man, Jon saw him suddenly stumble back, his hand holding his chest tightly.

Standing up again, the man shook his head slightly, as if his head was in pain; but the man ignored it and decided to talk.

"Mance, I had decided to challenge you in a duel; Thenn only follows strength; if you defeat me, then Thenn will support you in the wars to come, but now..." his words trailed off, turning to face Jon fully, his hand slowly unsheathing his sword causing Mance's group to tense up, especially Val who grasped one of her bone daggers, wanting to gut him.

Jon wasted no time unsheathing Dark Sister, grasping it with both of his hands, Thenn people looked surprised that their leader wanted to challenge a child; Val expected Mance to tell them to interfere, but instead, he raised his hand, causing them to stop.

"Don't interfere under any circumstances," he ordered, looking at them in an odd way; Val was about to protest, Jon was still only eleven name days, but Tormund beat her to it.

"Mance, what the fuck are you doing?" He shouted, still no sign of anger in his tone, when the sound of steel hitting steel reached all of them.

He barely had time to raise Dark Sister. There was no warning and he didn't roar as he attacked. The sword's blade slashed against the Valyrian steel, and Jon grunted.

The Qringaomnon growled, not pausing for a second, "You are a boy, Snow. You believe that you can help anyone. Do you really believe that you are worth this much?"

His blade whirled. It had a nasty blade. Jon had to parry because he couldn't dodge quickly enough, but the sword was so big and strong that he could hardly stop it. The bronze sword head was chipped off each time Dark Sister collided, but the Qringaomnon didn't seem to mind.

As the blows knocked Jon back, he gasped. His hands were hardly able to keep up.

The man yelled, "If you want to save anyone, you should first save yourself.

The Dark Sister cut. After dodging the blow, the Qringaomnon turned his sword around and swung it from the side. Jon stumbled over his leg as he narrowly missed reversing in time. Every strike made by the Qringaomnon, who was still swinging, swept far and swiftly.

The only sound in the eerie silence was the ringing of the blades. Both groups observed in silence.

Jon grunted as he swung between swipes and charged. The Qringaomnon swung his sword toward Jon's leg as he jerked to one side. Jon felt the edge brush past his knee because it was so close.

If Jon had lost an inch, he would have lost a leg. Nothing is off limits for the Qringaomnon. The fear struck Jon, and he noticed his hands shaking. that sense of impending death you had when you realized your enemy was more powerful.

He has never encountered a man who compares to Qringaomnon.

"Snow, fight!" Indignantly, the Qringaomnon. Jon cursed, Can't dodge him forever, need to get close. Every step forward came with a limb-loss risk. "Fight!"

The sword's hooked end was so close to cutting his fur open that he just barely managed to deflect it with his blade. Jon muttered. Even stopping the sword from cutting him struggled his arms, and then-

The dull of the sword's butt striking his chest caused him to gasp. He almost fell over. Once more, Qringaomnon struck out, but he was able to dodge just by instinct. The first blow, which he narrowly missed, was followed by the Qringaomnon's fist slamming into Jon's jaw.

His teeth were rattling, he noticed. In his mouth was blood. His head was spinning so fast that he was unable to feel the pain.

Jon didn't hold back, though. As he slammed forward, a wordless cry erupted from his lips. He charged forward while swinging Dark Sister as the sword was deflected. In order to prevent Jon from slamming his other fist into the man's nose, Qringaomnon caught his sword hand with one arm.

A loud thud could be heard. Naturally, Jon had been anticipating the man to recoil or roll backward.

The Qringaomnon hit Jon's knuckles instead.

He screamed in agony through clenched teeth as his knuckles cracked. The Qringaomnon's nose started to bleed, but he didn't even appear to notice.

Qringaomnon struck his chest with his knee. The man was struck in the chest by Jon's shoulder. The older man fell before giving him a direct forehead headbutt.

Jon faltered. His upward slash with his sword caught Qringaomnon off guard. The man's arm was slashed with blood, but the raider didn't even flinch. Is the man even sensitive to pain?

When the sword of Qringaomnon slashed, Jon was cut across the thigh. Jon screamed and he was unable to stop it.

Everyone was watching him. Even though he was in pain, he continued to stutter upward.

"Do you believe you can triumph like this, Snow?" Despite having blood pouring out of his nose, the Qringaomnon grunted. "I've been around longer than anyone else. You cannot imagine the things I have seen. You should become a man if you want to accomplish anything."

Jon grit his teeth as his head throbbed. His brow was covered in blood that was dripping from his forehead. His grip on the sword was so tight that it hurt.

As he stumbled forward while Dark Sister slashed, Jon growled. Although the sword cut against his shoulder, Jon continued on in order to draw nearer to Qringaomnon.

They fought each other, trying to dominate the other. Jon retaliated in kind.

"Weak!" While Jon's elbow slammed into his jaw, the Qringaomnon howled and kneed him in the chest. "Useless! Weak!"

Jon exhaled heavily. He was covered in blood, but so was Qringaomnon. However, the wildlings present weren't gazing at him as if he were helpless.

The sword's butt cracked against Jon's head. He stumbled but didn't stop as he raised Dark Sister.

Despite the fact that the Qringaomnon was triumphant, Jon did not have to concede victory to him. Don't falter, not even for a second, he reasoned. Never give up.

"You are a summer boy," The Qringaomnon quarreled. "If you can't beat me, how do you think you'll win that battle!"

Before Jon's strength ran out, The Giant of a Man was briefly forced backwards and the sword nearly tore open his chest.

The Qringaomnon's sword grazed across Jon's chest as he fell backwards, but he continued to groan. Jon stumbled. Swords collided. Before the sword ripped Jon's sword out of his trembling hands, he took a few blows. Jon almost fell over, gasping feebly as he hit the ground.

Qringaomnon walked up to him before putting both of his hands tightly around his neck, no longer being able to breathe as he desperately tried to, rising him up, adding strength, causing him to start choking; he caught a glimpse of Val desperately looking at him.

Mance looking at him with a blank look, as empty as a void, Jon felt his vision getting blurry, clenching his teeth in anger, he left a cry before looking straight at Qringaomnon, his right eye rolling behind his head; this caused the man's strength to weaken, the bastard took the opportunity to hit him across the jaw, kicking him in the stomach, the man let go of him as he fell, before vomiting grey liquid from his mouth, blood mixed on it.

Jon saw the man was on the ground, quickly grabbing the sword, with all the strength he had, plunging it down to his heart, the blade cutting through his ribs, coming out the other side red like blood.

Jon saw the man's eyes cloudy now, his face showing no fear but ... confusion; the bastard was silent as the man's eyes faded like a fire from a candle, and his body stopped moving; grabbing the handle, he pulled out the sword, turning to look at everyone else.

"His sickness got him!"

"He Won! HE Killed Qringaomnon," The Thenn people spoke; it seemed no one had noticed him... Jon almost fell when he felt a sharp pain on his head, as if someone was carving on his head, a pair of soft arms not allowing him to fall roughly, the ground now spinning...

"You did it, Jon. You can rest now,"

Val, he thought before everything went dark...