m_findlow

Title: A message from beyond
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Characters: Jon Snow
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 1,735 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for orintheus's prompt "Any, any, a light in the dark" at fic_promptly
Summary: Something beyond the wall is calling to Jon

The memory of the dream hit him hard. Try as he might, he tossed and turned under his thick pile of furs, but still sleep wouldn't come. It was just a dream, he told himself, but he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that tried to pull him from his bed. The more he turned it over in his mind, the more it tugged at him, urging him to act.

The snow had been so crisp and white, just as fresh as it had been the day he'd gone out there to burn Ygritte's body. The flames had leapt up high, making the leaves on the old weirwood glow a deeper shade of red, fluttering in the heat and the wind. He'd piled the kindling high all around. At least that one thing Ygritte would have been proud of him for. He could almost hear her as he shoved another handful of bracken onto the pyre.

'You burn me good and proper, Jon Snow, or I'll come back to haunt you every day.'

He'd burnt her just as he promised, but still her memory seemed to haunt him despite his best efforts.

He'd been dreaming of the weirwood, a mile north of the Wall. The one where he'd taken his vows, and remade them the day he burned her corpse. The snow piled high around his boots, a foot thick at the least. Overhead a raven flew round and round in circles. It didn't speak, just hovered without landing, cawing. It wasn't Mormonts's bird. It would have screamed at him, just as it had done that day. 'Burn, burn, burn!'

They'd all burn if he didn't find a way to protect them from the North and what lay beyond the Wall.

Resigned to being unable to sleep, he got up and dressed. He tried to attend to letters, and reexamine the ledgers of their provisions, but still couldn't make ten barrels of apples into fifty. The whole time, the image of the raven flying around the weirwood sang to him. Had he been close enough to see it, he might have noticed the third eye planted in the middle of its head, glistening black and menacing.

His concentration spent, he couldn't put it off any longer. It was probably a bad idea, but the more he tried to push it aside, the more it wouldn't let him go.

He reached for Longclaw, strapping it on, and throwing his thick cloak over his shoulders, stepping out of the room. Ghost had watched him all the while, and at the moment he opened the door to leave, the direwolf was on his heels, following in his wake.

'I need some air,' he told sleepy brother standing by his quarters. Edd was asleep somewhere, leaving the night watch to some of the other brothers. Jon slipped down the wooden stairs, taking note of the yard in the semi dark, a gentle snow falling in delicate flakes. Castle Black never truly slept, a handful of men pottered around, but most of those were atop the Wall, undertaking their watch. They'd see him for sure, but by the time they did, there'd be little they could do but keep a watch.

The black brother manning the gate was one he wasn't particularly familiar with. A man from Eastwatch, he seemed to recall, having brought news and a petition for more men on behalf of Bowen Marsh.

'Open the gate,' Jon said.

'My Lord?'

It was within his rights to deny Jon, the safety of the gate being paramount, but few were going to deny their Lord Commander, no matter how mad the request. He half hoped his brother would say no, sending him back to bed like the child he was. On the morn a rumor might go around that their Lord Commander had lost his mind. Or perhaps tomorrow news would spread that the Commander had gone mad and wandered off into the north, never to return. Lord Commander and First Ranger, both Stark men, and clearly meeting the same fate. Perhaps madness ran in the blood.

'I need to see something,' he replied. 'It cannot wait until morning.'

Come the morning he'd be back to attending the neverending lists of duties that commanded his attention. Men would petition him all day long, and still more lords and stewards would write letters, or folk from Molestown come to complain that Wildlings were filling their underground holds, stealing the very food from their mouths. Food that had come from Castle Black's stores to begin with, providing for them as they always had when crops failed and grain stores ran low.

'I could arrange a pair of rangers to accompany you,' his black brother offered.

'No. There's no need. I'll have Ghost with me. Just open the gate.'

The black brother gave him one final look of concern, and a halting glance at the large white wolf, standing there placidly waiting, before pulling on the lever that would start the giant wooden wheel turning, lifting the gate.

Jon flexed his sword hand before reaching for a spare torch, thrusting it in the meagre brazier until it caught alight, snapping and crackling with flame.

The torchlight cast long shadows across the narrow tunnel that lead under the Wall, the black brother following him in his wake, their footsteps echoing all along the way. The wall sconces were unlit. Since the Wildling raid, Jon had ordered them to be left unlit, not wanting to tempt any rogue Wildlings to venture towards their gates, glowing like a beacon in the night. Only the tiny patch surrounding his immediate person was bathed in a sallow light. Somewhere a few feet behind him, the wolf padded silently.

'You're headed back to Eastwatch, tomorrow?' Jon asked.

'Aye, my Lord.' He said nothing of Jon's offering to send a dozen Wildlings to Eastwatch to help man the tower. Most were young boys or old men, incapable of raising a sword or nocking an arrow, but those who could work would be made to do so. Plus, it was a dozen less Wildlings he'd have to feed. Let Bowen Marsh complain. He'd asked for men, and men would be what Jon gave him.

He said nothing else as they approached the outer gate, waiting for it to slowly slide upwards. The first gust of wind caught him by surprise. It was colder and sharper than he remembered; full of ice and much colder than the other side of the Wall. Winter was coming, and fast.

A flurry of snow swept through the open gate, causing them both to shiver involuntarily.

'Are you sure you won't require company, my Lord?' the brother asked again.

'If I've not returned within the hour, you may send a party of two rangers as far as the godswood. If they don't find me there, they have orders to return to Castle Black.'

'There's Wildlings out there, my Lord.'

There's worse than Wildlings, he felt like saying. If that happened, his rangers wouldn't have to fear finding him. With no one to burn him, he'd as like return to Castle Black of his own accord, a corpse with glowing blue eyes.

'The men on the wall may keep a watch. I'll not be gone far.'

'If you say so, my Lord.'

He did. It was probably a terrible idea, and every chance a Wildling might spot him and put an arrow through him, but now that he was out here, without the Wall standing between them, the pull was even stronger. Something was calling to him. He could tell Ghost felt it too.

He struck out into the wind, torch flickering against the wind and the snow as he ploughed through the deepening drifts, hearing the icy slurry crunch underfoot, slowing his efforts. Atop the wall, he'd be nothing more than a tiny spec of light, disappearing into the darkness. Crossing the barren ground between the Wall and the old forest, he ducked beneath the cover of the trees. No black brother could see him now, and he felt that vulnerability acutely.

The heart tree stood there just as it always had, its weeping eyes glinting red against his light, the craggy face frowning at him and passing its judgment.

The spot where he'd laid Ygritte to rest was no longer blackened and charred, a fresh dumping of snow eliminating any trace of her funeral pyre. Gone from the world without a trace, and no markings to remember her by. Only his own memories to keep her alive now.

The weirwood was eerily quiet, protected from the howling winds and snow. It felt full of ghosts, clutching at his stomach, twisting it in knots. There was a reason he needed to be here, but what was it? What could the Old Gods tell him? What would his father have done in his place? Certainly not sit inside and wait for the Whitewalkers to rain down upon them. Would that he knew what to do. Ygritte would tell him he knew nothing, and she'd be right. What use was he as their Lord Commander?

'Tell me,' he said, to no one at all.

A screech came from over head. He looked up to find a raven perched overhead, looking down at him, black against the pale white wood. He found it odd; ravens rarely flew this side of the wall. Birds of any kind were a rarity. Birds became messengers for foul things.

A whistling and howling wind began to sweep between the trees, creaking branches and rustling leaves. The weirwood itself seemed to groan its disapproval at him.

A gust of icy wind suddenly ripped through, extinguishing his torch with a single blow, like puffing out a tallow candle, plunging him into a blinding darkness. A few yards away he heard Ghost's low growl, feeling his own hackles raising, the scent of all things bad filling his nose. He spun, dropping the torch and heaving Longclaw from its sheath, holding it in front of him, listening for any sound. There was nothing.

Then there was the light of two blue dots right in front of him. The glowing eyes of a Whitewalker. It sent ice through his veins, paralysing him with their closeness. He could smell his own fear through Ghost's nose.

'I bring a message for you, Jon Snow,' came the gravelly voice.