35-The White Winds of Winter

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the Harry Potter and A Song of Ice and Fire universes. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of Joanne K. Rowling and George R.R. Martin, respectively. I make no claim to ownership.

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Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki and Old man of the mountain. I also want to thank my beta-readers nicknm and Bub3loka for helping me bounce ideas around.

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If you're feeling generous and want to support me, you can find me on P*T*E*N under the same name for up to three early access chapters(a week before discord).

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Sarella Sand, six days after the visit to Horn Hill

They had returned to Oldtown. Since the threat of the Ironborn was gone, the easiest way to the North was to sail from the Honeywine, and the closest port was the seat of the Hightowers. But Sam was far more craven than she expected.

"What do you mean you're staying in Oldtown?!"

"I came here to complete my studies as a Maester," Sam timidly replied. "Now that the Ironborn are no longer a threat, there is no point in returning to the Wall before I forge my chain."

"What of the babe posing as your bastard son? Weren't you supposed to bring him North to his true aunt?!"

When Sarella received only silence as a reply, she angrily stormed towards the docks on her own. Mayhaps she could have continued her studies as an acolyte just like him. But the libraries in Winterfell and the castles of the Night's Watch had rare tomes that could not even be found in the Citadel. Ever since she had agreed to go North, the thought of laying her eyes on those precious manuscripts could simply not get out of her head. If Fat Sam did not want to go North now, she would do so without him.

*

Twenty-three days after the visit to Horn Hill/ The same day Daenerys returned to Riverrun

When her ship docked in Sunspear, Sarella decided to visit her cousin and sisters. She had not seen them for almost two years now. Surprisingly, as soon as she stepped into the shadow city, a servant informed her that Prince Doran had requested her to join the Martells at a private family dinner at the small family hall. As usual, the large Areo Hotah stood guard at the door with his enormous longaxe strapped to his back. Inside she could see Nymeria, Obara, Tyene, Prince Doran, Tristane, and Arianne. Ellaria and her daughters were conspicuously absent.

"We're glad to see you're unharmed after the Mad Kraken's Folly, Sarella," Arianne jumped out of her chair and hugged her closely. "You should have sent us a raven!"

Sarella was startled but wrapped her hands around her cousin. Arianne had never been so openly affectionate towards her before. Though, she felt the princess' hand slipping towards her ass and separated from the embrace with a cough. Her cousin shrugged innocently before returning to her seat at the table.

"I had the luck to be out of Oldtown when Euron attacked," she explained after she sat on the only free chair. "And I could not send a raven without breaking my cover. Only the Maesters and the Hightowers can send one without explicit permission."

"Are you here to stay, niece?" Doran asked.

Despite his outwardly blank face, she could spot a slight wince of pain. He looked gaunter than before, his eyes were sunken, and his hair had gone entirely grey. As he slipped a hand out of his blanket to pick up his cup of wine, Sarella instantly saw that the limb was very red and badly swollen. It seemed that his gout had worsened considerably since she last saw him. There was no cure for gout, and it seemed that her uncle didn't have much time left.

"No, I intend to go North and visit Winterfell and the Wall," she cautiously replied and focused on the food. Sarella took a generous bite of the spicy roast boar and a sip of her favourite sour dornish red. She had missed the taste of dragon peppers. The Reachers might have had an abundance of food, but they could not prepare it half as well as the Dornish or the Summer Islanders.

"I thought you intended not to return until you forged your chain at the Citadel?" Nymeria raised her brow in surprise.

"I've forged seven links in less than two years so far," Sarella happily explained. "Most of the interesting reads at the Citadel are in the locked library vaults, and none could access them without the full approval of the conclave. And I won't truly ever become a maester anyhow. Either way, according to a certain night's watchman, Winterfell and Castle Black have many books that even the Citadel lacks. They might even have copies of the works that the Citadel has locked up."

"So, how was the Citadel?" Arianne asked with interest. "Who is this night's watchman? Did you make any friends?"

It took her a moment, but when she realised what her cousin was implying, Sarella frowned. It seemed that her cousin's appetite in carnal matters had changed little.

"The black brother was just an acolyte studying in Oldtown. And I made plenty of friends, ordinary friends."

Arianne pouted in disappointment and returned her attention to the pie in front of her. With a corner of her eye, Sarella noticed that prince Doran's stoic expression had darkened. He picked up his cup of wine with his swollen hand and took a generous gulp.

"Oh, leave my dear sister alone, Arianne. She has always cared about dusty old things far more than men," Tyenne said with an innocent smile. "Have you seen Perros Blackmont lately? He looks dashing with that neatly trimmed beard of his!"

Sarella sighed inwardly and focused on her food whilst ignoring what was most probably a salacious conversation about someone her sister intended to bed. She closed her eyes in bliss as the spicy pork melted in her mouth. When she had finally filled her belly, the table had descended into silence.

"I heard House Martell has sworn allegiance to Aegon Targaryen. Is he truly Elia's son or some impostor?" Sarella couldn't help but ask curiously.

"The boy sure believes he's our cousin," Arianne scoffed. "Methinks that Connington has gone mad in his drunken grief, found some Lysene boy, and filled his head with all sorts of tales. Yet my Lord Father decided to support him!"

"Yet you offer no proof besides idle speculation. Does it matter if he's Elia's son or not?" Doran looked around the table. "You all clamoured for vengeance against the Lannisters, and he was our best chance after Quentyn died trying to claim one of Daenerys' dragons." His heavy gaze fell on his daughter. "You always wanted a worthy match for your hand, but you failed to catch it when it was within your grasp."

"You want me to bed and wed some Lyseni imposter who pretends to be our cousin?" Arianne asked incredulously. "Did you even care about Uncle Oberyn, Aunt Elia, or her son?! Or you just want to marry me off so that Trystane can become the next Lord of Sunspear!"

At the side, Trystane gulped and tried to disappear in his chair to no avail. Sarella watched with trepidation as the ruler of Dorne lost his legendary composure. His red, swollen hands slipped out of his blanket and balled into misshapen fists. If Sarella knew asking that question would set off such a response, she would have stayed quiet.

"Maybe I should!" Doran's face twisted into a grimace and reddened like a dragon pepper. Sarella did not know if it was from anger, pain, or both. "Time and time again, you don't deign to present yourself with the dignity and acumen of the future ruler of Dorne! After all, while Tristane might be young, he is not half as foolish as you are. I'm going to give you one chance to prove yourself. It's a matter of time until the Lannisters fall to Aegon. Go North to Winterfell with Sarella; bring the Starks back into the fold, or I shall disinherit you!"

Arianne stood up and stormed out of the room.

*

Jon Stark, present moment

Winter could fly for hours before getting tired now and was a tad faster than before as well.

Despite having memorised the best map of Westeros he could find, navigation turned out to be harder than he imagined. It often snowed, the sky was almost always covered by clouds, and the sun could scarcely be seen. Most landmarks in the North were quite indistinguishable, especially when covered in snow. One would simply see an endless white blanket in every direction, and there was not much guarantee that the map was fully accurate, or even if it was that nothing had changed since it was drawn.

It was only the morning of the second day since he departed, yet he had already reached the swamps of the Neck. Before, he had thought that he could skinchange into his familiars no matter the distance, but after travelling for hundreds of miles, the connection quickly became distant and muted.

He could still slip into the minds of both Ghost and Bloodfyre, but the strain on his psyche was immense, and the cost began rising exponentially. He calculated and quickly realised that if nothing changed, he would probably be completely unable to sense or slip into the minds of his familiars, no matter how much effort he put in, after the distance increased to around a thousand miles or more.

A fierce blizzard raged in every direction for hours, forcing him to land and wait it out. He would have attempted to push through if his familiar had not been tired. It was the middle of the night when the snowstorm died out and he departed again. As the first rays of the sun were peaking over the east, he finally entered Ironman's Bay, and Winter followed the coastline from above the sea. In contrast with the North, the bay did not have a single cloud in sight.

Jon had every intention to visit Casterly Rock and try to negotiate with Tommen's Regency. He was well aware that Lucion was sent only to check on the situation in his Court and that Cerenna was there to seduce him because neither of them had made any genuine attempt at negotiations. Jon didn't care about the Lannisters at all, but since the fight with House Targaryen looked inevitable, he might as well attempt to get some benefits from the lions first. Because of this, he aimed to avoid the Riverlands altogether, lest he meets Daenerys or her dragons by chance. That meant Jon had to either stick to the coastline or fly over the Iron Isles and enter the Westerlands by sea.

He was faced with a dilemma now. On the one hand, he already had his armour, Longclaw, three daggers, the greatsword he decided not to use, and the trusty bastard sword, which served him well for the last few months. The only other spellforged blade in the North was one-half of Ice in the hands of Brienne of Tarth. While there was plenty of dragonglass at the Wall now, it was far too brittle and did not make for a durable weapon. On the other hand, the North, just like the rest of Westeros, was a place with heavy martial values. A magical blade was ultimately priceless and could not be given out without due reason.

He would not kill people who had done nothing to wrong him senselessly. But having a few more spell-forged weapons on hand wouldn't hurt. And the Ironborn were far from innocent and had much to answer for. In the end, his hesitation was short. He might not get such a chance anytime soon, not to mention that it was a local tradition. It was simply the way of life to kill, loot, pillage, rape, and enslave here. And Jon didn't mind respecting the local traditions. After all, when in Rome, do as the Romans do.

He knew he could afford to spend a few hours while his dragon rested, so he nudged Winter towards the southwest. Every time they stopped to take a break, he felt restless. Logically, he knew that if Daenerys and Aegon wanted to come North and fight, they would have done so in the last month. Still, the possibility of his enemies descending on Winterfell while he was not there made his stomach lurch painfully. This whole trip was a gamble-he gambled that the Targaryens would not prepare to attack before dealing with House Lannisters first. And Casterly Rock would not fall quickly, dragons or not. And even if they abandoned their campaign to the Westerlands, it would take at least a few months before they could move their troops to the Neck to grasp a hold on the North.

Still, nothing stopped the Targaryens from flying northward on their dragons and directly attacking Winterfell. And what infuriated him the most was that there was little he could do to defend his home against dragons without him being there. Sure, they had scorpions, and the marksmen were instructed to aim at the dragon's wings. But how much death and destruction could Daenerys cause before she was taken down? Would his sisters and newlywed wife survive?! But he could not afford to stand and wait for his enemies to make the first move. Even if he was there when she attacked, there was little guarantee that the outcome would not be tragic for him. If any fighting took place on northern soil, it would be far too devastating.

That's why he had taken the heavy decision to move first and fly south-if nothing else; his experience had given him ample proof that letting the enemy strike first would often be painful, if not outright fatal. Jon knew the possibility of any of this happening was slim, but it existed. This uncertainty infuriated him beyond words, as he often went through the worst-case scenarios in his head. It was only due to occlumency that he could keep his face impassive and ignore his anger.

After a little more than two and a half hours of flight, an isle finally appeared in the distance. Soon, the dragon landed on the shore, and Jon quickly dismounted to clad himself fully in armour before mounting the dragon again.

They flew to the nearby keep, and Winter landed directly on top of one of the grey walls. The alarm bells quickly rang when Jon jumped on the stone ramparts and unsheathed his bronze sword. There were a handful of guards present. Most of them quickly scattered away, and Jon chased after them, but one of them had the bright idea to shoot his bow at his dragon. Winter was not amused, and three heartbeats later, the brave yet foolish guard was little more than crisp.

Three tried to attack him simultaneously when he entered one of the towers. Jon was simply too quick and struck them on the temple with the flat of his blade, making them drop like a sack of rocks. At that moment, he sensed someone had sneaked behind him and immediately twisted. A battle axe struck him on the shoulder and bounced off harmlessly. All the fury that he had been suppressing for a month fully erupted at that moment. Jon squeezed his left hand into a fist and smashed his gauntlet in the face of a shaggy guardsman, knocking him back a few yards.

He then turned towards where the last enemy was. A young boy, looking barely older than four and ten, cowering in the corner.

"Mercy, mercy, m'lord!" As Jon looked his way, the boy threw down his sword as soon and scrambled to kneel on the ground. Meanwhile, he felt how Winter outside was setting everyone who tried to flee from the keep on fire.

In his fury, Jon raised his blade but paused for a moment. The boy was probably too young to have done anything. But should he grow up, he would likely become a pirate and reave, rape, and kill. The anger quickly bled out of him at the thought of killing children. It felt too bitter in his mouth, but he would do it if his hand was forced.

"Tell me what I want to know, and I will spare you," Jon said through gritted teeth in the end. He received a vigorous nod in response. "Where is this, and why are there so few guards?" He received a vigorous nod in response.

"This is Blacktyde, m'lord. Lord Daegon took most of the men with him to Old Wyk for the kingsmoot," the boy said hurriedly.

"Kingsmoot?" The word sounded familiar, but even after shuffling through his memories, he found nothing on it. He had not taken much interest in Ironborn culture after confirming that they were nothing but glorified pirates.

"A gathering where all the lords n' captains meet to choose the next iron king," was the shaky response.

This was surprisingly democratic for a bunch of reavers. An idea quickly formed in his mind. Since he was here, he might as well visit this kingsmoot of theirs. Old Wyk should be around an hour away on dragonback. But first, Winter needed a few hours of rest, and Jon had to finish what he had started.

"You can go, boy," he grunted, and the young guard scrambled to get away.

The northern king turned to check on the knocked-out men only to grimace. Even the one that he had punched was dead. The strength of his blow had caved his face in, and the guardsman lay deathly still. He had cracked the skull of another one, and the last two had their necks broken by the force of his blows. Jon had to rein in his anger and knock out his foes with a measured hit by the pommel if he wanted to perform any rituals.

*

Duncan Liddle, Westwatch by the Bridge

He was carefully walking along the rampart, keeping an eye on the bridge of skulls. At its northern end emerged a winding pathway disappearing into the Frostfangs mountains. Occasionally, Willem would walk halfway over the bridge to check the Gorge for anything trying to sneak below before moving back. A cold gust of wind blew, and Duncan felt it even through all his layers of furs and wool. This was already colder than anything he had experienced before, and it did not look like it would get warmer anytime soon.

A loud cracking sound was heard, and Duncan's gaze snapped eastwards towards the Wall. With a mighty groan, an enormous chunk of ice tore from the Wall and fell into the Gorge. A few seconds later, a deafening sound rumbled from below. He frowned at the sight - while it was not uncommon for a piece of ice to occasionally break from the Wall, this was the second time this moon - far too oft compared to before. Duncan did not like that one bit.

He heard a set of footsteps and turned around. Jeffory was already climbing the stone stairs. The man had brown hair with some grey streaking through it, and his eyes were a dull shade of blue. All Duncan knew was that he hailed from the Riverlands and did not speak about his past.

"Was it the Wall again?" the man asked with a heavy frown.

"Aye, another chunk fell into the Gorge. If my eyes didn't deceive me, this one was larger than the last."

"Seven bloody buggering hells!" Jeffory swore worriedly, and it took him half a minute to regain his composure. "Food's 'bout to be done. Go eat; I will take this watch."

"Aren't you hungry?"

"Nay, stomach's feelin' bad today. Just the thought of food makes me sick," the man groaned.

Duncan nodded and rushed towards the small wooden hall. He let out a sigh of relief – without the piercing wind, the inside felt warm in comparison.

A handful of night brothers were already huddled at the long table near the hearth. He nodded as he sat on one of the long benches on the side.

"Stew's comin'!" a familiar voice shouted from the kitchens. Dywan, the steward turned cook.

"Lemme guess," Erwyn whined. "We're having focking fish stew again, ain't we?"

The young blond steward huddled closer to the roaring hearth, weakly warding the cold away.

"Either that or gruel and hard bread," Rory snorted. "Or you can always stay hungry. I'll be glad to have an extra serving."

The only reason they had any fish was that some of the wildlings had settled along the coast of the Bay of Ice and were sending them a shipment of fish as tribute every fortnight, as per the agreement with the former Lord Commander.

"Stop this whinging, boy. Be glad there's anything at all to fill ye' bellies. If we were not close to the Bay of Ice, you might not have gotten to taste any meat for moons," Duncan grumbled in annoyance.

Some of these recruits were barely worth the food to feed them. Especially the westerlanders, arrogant cunts, the lot of them.

"Why don't we just collapse the bridge of skulls and return to the Shadow Tower or Castle Black?" Erwyn grumbled again, and Duncan had to resist the urge to reach out and strangle the life out of the southron blonde shit.

"Because the Lord Commander ordered us to stay here and guard it, not destroy it, boy. Do you want to lose your head?" Rory asked with a frown.

As if the bridge was easy to collapse. It was built sturdy on purpose and served as an easy vantage point over the whole Gorge.

"Why would we follow Jon Snow's orders when he's a Lord Commander no more?" the westerlander asked.

"Lord Commander Tollett has not recalled us, so Jon Snow's orders stand," Duncan replied. Couldn't the blond cunt just shut up and eat his fish stew like a normal man? "And it's King Jon Stark now. The man is still the Watch's only hope."

"Bah, all of you superstitious fools being afraid of grumpkins and snarks. The Others are nothing more than a fucking tale. Ordinary men like us would get the block for desertion. Instead, the Stark bastard got to become a king," Erwyn spat down, but it landed on Duncan's right boot.

This little shit dared! Blood rushed in his ears as he stood up, and a familiar redness crept within the edges of his vision. He did not fight it, and everything became covered by a crimson curtain.

"-Stop, stop!" Rory's voice was too loud, making Duncan's head pulse painfully. He tried to move, but all of his limbs were restrained. He looked around, only to see five brothers holding him down. Near the wall in front of him lay a body with a bloody face. The sight made his gut twist uncomfortably.

He had given into battle frenzy again. Every time he got furious or fought for a long time, Duncan lost control. He had almost killed his younger brother Morgan while sparring once. It's what spurred him to join the Night's Watch as the eldest son of The Liddle.

The body shuffled and groaned painfully. Thank the old gods he was alive. Despite the heavy dislike for Erwyn, the cunt was a decent sword, and the Watch needed every man it could get. But the westerlander shouldn't have insulted The Jon. The smashed nose and bruised cheek were more than earned.

"You can let me go now," Duncan coughed, and his brothers released his limbs. He turned to the moaning figure at the stone wall. "Listen here, you southron cunt. The Watch may take no part, but the only reason there is still a Watch at all is that Jon Snow picked the Order back up when it was broken down and did his damned best to piece it back together. And the dead and the White Walkers are very much real, whether you want them to be or not. Pray you don't get to see any soon."

He spat at Erwyn and went to return to his seat on the table. Only to find it overturned, some of the bowls were littered across the ground, and the stew spilt on the cold floor.

Duncan sighed and was about to run his hand tiredly through his hair, only to see it covered in blood. It seemed that he had hit the little shit more than once.

"Now we have to carry the green boy to the Shadow Tower for the maester to patch him up," Rory groaned. "And this was all of our stew. What do we do now?"

"Get Dywan to make some gruel," Duncan said with a sigh and sat on one of the wooden benches. Why did Jon Snow have to put him and Rory in charge of the small garrison at Westwatch?

Oh, Duncan knew why; he just didn't like it. Nobody else had leading experience in the handful of black brothers manning Westwatch. He had expected not to deal with leading anything again when joining the Watch. Nobody else had leading experience in the handful of black brothers manning Westwatch. But it seemed that the gods had other plans for him.

At that moment, the door opened with a bang.

"THE DEAD ARE COMING!" Jeffory bellowed as hard as his lungs allowed him. Everyone else in the room froze.

Duncan grabbed a nearby torch and rushed towards the northern wall. Within half a minute, he was atop the rampart.

Three cadavers were slowly shambling on the bridge of skulls towards Westwatch. One was of a child less than ten name days old. Cold blue eyes were shining malignantly from the young face. That sight chilled him far more than the icy wind could.

"Fuck me," he swore heavily, and his grip on the torch tightened.

If wights could cross this bridge, what was stopping the thousands of corpses from descending the Frostfangs and drowning Westwatch like a rotten tide?! Could the Walkers cross here too? Cold shivers ran up his spine at the thought.

At that moment, five more corpses descended upon the bridge from the north. The dozen night brothers that had hastily arrived along the ramparts were frozen in shock. A cacophony of fearful and angry cursing quickly replaced the terrifying silence.

"F-father above, give me s-s-strength," one of the southerners started to shake heavily while praying. "W-warrior, grant me courag-"

"The gods won't help you here, boy," Duncan interrupted with a shake of his head. Half a dozen more corpses stepped on the bridge. "Only fire and strength in arms. Jeffory, string up your bow. You're the finest marksman here. The rest of you fetch more arrows, rags, and tar and reinforce the gates. Make sure you have a dragonglass dagger on your belt and a torch in your arm. Willem, not you! Ride fast for the Shadow Tower and request aid. Tell them to send a raven to Winterfell. The Stark must know!"