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Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
ASOIAF and all of its characters belong to GRRM
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 135: The Path of Light Part 2
Bran's eyes were fixed on something beyond the frozen landscape, something that only he could see. "Everywhere," he said. "They are everywhere. Beneath the snow. Between the trees. Behind the shadows. They have been waiting for us."
"This is too much for us to fight." Jon drew Longclaw, the Valyrian steel gleaming in the pale light. "We must run for the castle. The tunnel is beneath the fallen wall. If we can reach it, we can cross to the other side. The Wall's magic will protect us there."
Kára was already moving, her bow in her hand, her eyes scanning the treeline. "Then stop talking and start running. The dead won't wait for us to finish our words."
The snow erupted around them.
They burst from the drifts like demons clawing their way out of hell…they were wights, with their pale blue eyes and their broken bodies.
Some wore the furs of wildlings, their faces frozen in permanent displays of the terror they felt during their deaths. Others were animals…bears with their guts trailing behind them, wolves with their ribs showing through torn flesh, horses with their eyes rolled back in death.
All of them were hungry.
"Hold the line!" Jon shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Protect Bran! Get him to the tunnel!"
The wildlings formed a ring around Bran and Melisandre. Kára loosed shaft after shaft, each one finding its mark in a wight's skull.
But the dead kept coming like an endless tide.
And then Jon saw what rode behind them.
A figure on a horse of ice and shadow. Tall and gaunt, his skin pale as milk, his armor seeming to be made of frozen air. His eyes burned with a cold that was older than the world of humans, and in his hand, he carried a spear of crystal ice.
Jon did not need to be told who this was.
The Night King was here.
Kára saw him too. Her face went pale beneath its weathered tan. "Is that... is that him? The one wolf-boy was whispering about?"
"That is the Night King, yes," Bran confirmed their fears. "He commands the Others, and he is here for me."
Kára's jaw tightened. "Then we are dead."
"No." Jon's voice was hard. "We are not dead. We are not dead until we stop moving. Run for the castle! Get to the tunnel!"
Jon led the way, Longclaw in his hand, the snow flying beneath his boots. The wights poured from the treeline, their blue eyes blazing, their fingers reaching for them with desperation.
The Shadow Tower grew closer with each step. Jon could see it now…the collapsed section of the western wall, a gaping wound in the ancient stone where time and weather had done their work.
Behind the fallen stones, a dark opening led into the earth. It was narrow, barely wide enough for a man to pass through, its entrance half-hidden by rubble and snow.
"There!" Bran shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. "The entrance! Behind the fallen wall!"
Jon looked where Bran was pointing. The opening was small, almost invisible amid the ruins. A low arch of black stone, its edges worn smooth by centuries of use. It looked like nothing more than a crack in the earth, a shadow among shadows.
But Bran was certain. "That is it. The tunnel of the Night's Watch. It will take us beneath the Wall."
One of the wildlings stumbled. A wight's claws tore through his back, and he screamed. His body vanished beneath a tide of pale flesh and blue eyes.
"Leave him!" Kára shouted, her voice harsh with grief. "There's nothing we can do!"
The remaining wildlings pressed forward. Jon reached the tunnel entrance and turned, his blade held high, covering the retreat.
"Inside! All of you!"
Kára and the wildlings scrambled through the opening, dragging Melisandre with them. The entrance was narrow, forcing them to crawl on hands and knees. Bran followed, Summer at his side, his ancient eyes still seeing the battle behind them.
But Jon did not move. He stood at the tunnel entrance, his sword raised, and he waited.
The wights closed in around him. He could feel the cold radiating from them, a chill that seemed to seep into his very soul. And then he saw Ghost.
The direwolf stood beside him, his teeth bared, his red eyes blazing. He had not run. He had stayed.
"Ghost," Jon breathed. "No. Go. Get inside."
Ghost did not move. He stood his ground, his hackles raised, his eyes fixed on the approaching horde.
Jon swung Longclaw, cutting down three wights in a single stroke. He was buying time, giving the others a chance to escape.
The undead creatures kept trying to reach for him. Ghost fought beside him, his jaws snapping, his claws tearing through frozen flesh.
And then Jon saw it.
The Night King had dismounted. He was walking toward them, his spear of crystal ice held low, his terrible eyes fixed on Jon's face. The wights parted before him, their blue eyes watching their master with something that might have been reverence.
"Ghost, run!" Jon shouted. "Go!"
But it was too late.
The Night King moved faster than any creature of ice and shadow should move. His spear came up, aimed directly at Jon's chest. Jon tried to dodge, tried to raise Longclaw, but he knew he would not be fast enough.
And then Ghost was there.
The direwolf launched himself forward; his white fur became a blur in the darkness. He struck Jon's side, pushing him out of the path of the spear. Jon stumbled, falling into the snow, and the spear struck Ghost instead.
It pierced through the direwolf's chest, sinking deep into his heart. Ghost let out a terrible howl…a sound of pure agony that tore through Jon's soul like a blade.
"No!" Jon screamed.
Ghost staggered, his red eyes fixed on Jon. He tried to rise, tried to stand, but his legs would not hold him. Blood was pouring from the wound, staining the snow crimson.
And the Night King raised his hand to deliver the final blow.
Jon rose to his feet, his grief transforming into rage. He swung Longclaw with all his strength, the Valyrian steel meeting the Night King's frozen spear. The blade did not shatter. It cut through the ice like a knife through butter, shattering the spear into a thousand shards.
The Night King stared at the broken weapon, his cold eyes widening with something that might have been shock. He stepped back, retreating into the mass of wights that surrounded him.
Jon did not follow. He could not. He fell to his knees beside Ghost, his hand pressing against the direwolf's wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.
"Ghost. No. Please. No."
Ghost's red eyes met his, and for a moment, Jon saw something in them…a flicker of love, of loyalty, of the bond that had connected them since the day Jon had found him as a pup.
And then the light faded, and Ghost was gone.
Jon did not move. He knelt there, his hand resting on the direwolf's cold fur, his heart breaking inside his chest.
"Jon!" Kára's voice came from the tunnel. "Move already!"
He looked up. The wights were closing in again. The Night King was still watching, his cold eyes fixed on Jon. But the dead did not attack. They waited.
Jon bent down and touched Ghost's head, his fingers brushing against the cold fur.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."
And then he turned and ran into the tunnel.
The wights surged after him, their claws scraping against the stone, their blue eyes blazing in the darkness. Jon scrambled through the narrow passage, his heart pounding.
Kára was there, her hand grabbing his arm, pulling him deeper into the tunnel. "Move! They're still coming!"
Jon ran, his boots slipping on the damp stone. The wights were close behind him, their hisses echoing off the walls. But the tunnel was narrow, forcing them to crawl, slowing their advance.
"Further!" Bran shouted. "We need to go further! The barrier is ahead!"
Jon did not know what Bran meant. He only knew that he had to keep moving, had to stay ahead of the dead.
And then he felt it.
A warmth that spread through his chest, a tingling sensation that seemed to wash over his skin. He stumbled, nearly falling, but Kára caught him.
"What was that?" she demanded. "What just happened?"
Bran's voice was calm. "We have crossed the barrier. The Wall's magic is active here. The Others cannot follow us. The wights may still cross, but they are weaker now."
Jon turned and looked back. The wights were still coming, their claws scraping against the stone. But they were slower, their movements more labored. The magic was draining them, leeching the power from their frozen flesh.
"They're still coming," Kára said, her voice tight.
"They will not stop," Bran said. "But they will not reach us. Not before we escape."
Jon drew Longclaw. He will make sure of it.
The tunnel was narrow and dark, its walls made of ancient stone that had been carved by hands long dead. Jon could see the marks of chisels in the rock, the faint traces of old runes that had been worn smooth by centuries of use. The ceiling was low, forcing them to stoop, and the air was thick with the smell of earth and cold stone.
The wights followed, but they were much slower now, their movements sluggish and uncoordinated. The Wall's magic was working, weakening them with every step they took.
Kára loosed an arrow, and it struck a wight in the eye. The creature crumpled, its blue eyes fading. She loosed another, and another, each one finding its mark.
"Keep moving," Jon said. "I think we're almost through."
The tunnel sloped upward, and after what felt like an eternity, Jon saw a sliver of light ahead. "I can see the end!"
But as they approached the exit, he heard something…a sound that made his blood run cold. A hiss. A scrape of claws against stone.
Kára's bow was in her hand in an instant. "More wights. They've circled around."
Jon drew Longclaw, his heart pounding in his chest. "How did they get ahead of us?"
Bran's voice was calm. "The tunnel has other entrances. Smaller ones. The wights may have found them. They are slower now, but there are still enough of them to be dangerous."
Jon stepped forward, his blade raised. "Stay behind me. I'll clear the way."
The wights were there…a dozen of them, their blue eyes looking at them. They hissed and lunged, but Jon was faster.
Longclaw flashed, and the first wight crumpled. He spun, cutting through another, then another. His enhanced speed and strength carried him through the press of undead bodies, his Valyrian steel cleaving through their frozen flesh like a knife through butter.
Kára joined him, her knife flashing, her movements quick and brutal.
The tunnel fell silent.
Jon stood over the fallen wights, his chest heaving, his blade dripping with frozen blood. He had survived. They had all survived.
But the cost had been high.
They emerged from the tunnel into a snow-covered forest. The Wall rose behind them, a massive curtain of ice and stone that stretched across the horizon.
Jon turned and looked back at the Wall, his eyes searching for any sign of pursuit. There was nothing. No wights. No Night King. Just the cold, empty silence of the frozen North.
Kára let out a long breath, her shoulders sagging with relief. "We made it. We're south of the Wall."
Jon nodded slowly, but he could not find the words to speak. He was thinking of Ghost, of the direwolf's body left behind in the snow, of the bond that had been severed so brutally and so completely.
Bran was at his side, his ancient eyes fixed on the path ahead. "We are not safe yet. The Night King cannot follow, but the war is not over. We must find Joffrey. We must find the Light. That is the only way to stop what is coming."
Jon looked at his brother, his face hard with resolve. "I will make the Night King pay for what he took from me."
Kára grunted. "Good. Then stop standing around and start walking. We still have a long way to go, and I've had my fill of cold."
He turned away from the Wall and began the long journey south.
The war was not over. It had only just begun.
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