Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

Jarod Snow

Despite doing it a thousand times, stringing his horn and yew bow suddenly became a very arduous task for his shaking hands. After many northern winters, Jarod thought he knew cold.

He was wrong.

The frigid air became heavy, oppressive, and almost painful to breathe. Not even amid the worst winter had he felt such a dire chill. Even he, a veteran of many a battle, felt his stomach turn into knots like a green summer boy. The two hounds on watch, Maude and Helicent, slunk fearfully into the hall, whimpering.

"Six of our best archers to the roof," Jon's steely voice brooked no disobedience as he calmly strode half a dozen yards before the hall's door. Just a little shy of six feet, the young man had a lithe frame that had room to grow still, but his cloaked back looked impossibly large.

For the first time, Leaf's song-like speech sounded dire like an autumn storm as she quickly repeated the words to her kin. Jarod and five more Singers quickly climbed the crude thatched roof and carefully positioned themselves on the wooden beams to avoid falling through the straw. Although it was more about him than the leafcloaks - Jarod reckoned most of the Singers barely weighted more than six stone.

The moon had waned, but no clouds barred the starry sky, shining scarce light upon the haunted forest around them.

"Duncan, hold the entrance," the dragonblade remained on his belt; instead, Jon had a burning torch in his right hand and a leather-bound buckler in the left. "Save the obsidian for the Cold Ones. Wights tire not but are slow and clumsy. As long as you are careful and stay away, you have nothing to fear from them."

Fear wrenched his insides, and Jarod had to push down his desire to flee. Liddles did not flee. The silence stretched painfully as the frigid air stung in his eyes, and every breath bitterly raked at his throat; the only sound that could be heard was the cracking crowns of flame atop the torches. He strained his ears to the limit, and he finally heard them. Footsteps ominously crunched through the snow, and half a minute later, Jarod saw silhouettes approach in the darkness. Next, he saw the eyes shining through the night, all blue like a cold, akin to baleful stars.

True to Jon's word, they slowly approached as if in no hurry at all, and soon he could make out some details. Men and women, garbed in furs and crude leathers, young children and old crones, all came like a slow, tidal wave of rot and flesh towards the hall. Face and skin all deathly pale, with darkened, bloated hands. The sight of a young girl, barely six, with half of her face slashed off and her guts cut open, made his stomach churn.

Jarod's hands began to shake even harder, and he wondered if he had not been a fool to come here. His gaze found the Singers at his sides, and he found them pale and shaking like lone leaves in the wind.

Were they all going to die here? The old clansman bit the tip of his tongue, shook his head furiously and squeezed the bow in his arms with all his strength.

He was no craven!

Below, in front of the hall, Jon Snow stood undaunted. Spine straight like a spear, an icy gale made his cloak flutter, causing the white wolf's sigil to dance amidst the encroaching darkness.

Laughter bubbled in Jarod's throat, but the cold choked it; here he was, a man of nearly one and sixty, feeling fear on the roof, while a lad of six and ten bravely faced off directly against the icy darkness of old on his lonesome.

As his foes approached, Jon Snow did the unthinkable.

He took a step forward, and his body blurred.

The only thing Jarod could see was the torch tearing through the darkness like a falling star across the skies. The flame danced, and two heartbeats later, the snowy clearing was finally illuminated as the corpses began to burn like a hungry bonfire.

Hah, like a kindling indeed!

Jon Snow moved faster than the old clansman thought possible, staying out of reach of his foes while his torch lightly tapped the bloated limbs. Jarod pinched his leg to check if he was asleep, but the pain was very much real as he watched their young leader methodically and ruthlessly eliminate the shambling corpses. Clustered too closely together and pushing against each other, the fire began to spread among them.

A small handful of wights wandered towards the hall, and at that moment, a battle cry tore through the quiet of the night. Duncan slammed his torch in the face of the first corpse before ramming his shield into it, knocking it straight into the two behind.

The flame hungrily devoured them, and his grandnephew struck down the final foe before quickly returning to his post at the hall's doorway.

Less than a minute later, Jon Snow stopped moving amidst a fiery clearing; the snow had melted where the burning corpses had fallen on the ground, and a soft, steamy mist rose in the darkness. In the dark, they had looked like a tide, but his wayward glance told him they were less than three dozen. The hungry flames quickly fizzled out, leaving nought but embers, bones, and muddy ash in their wake. The sour smell of rot and charred meat was heavy in the air.

Jon Snow's torch flickered, and Jarod's gaze was drawn northward into the dark woods.

A weak gasp escaped his lips as he finally saw. A shadow finally stepped into the clearing. Tall, gaunt, as if its limbs had no meat, pale, bereft of any colour. The Other radiated cold, icy hardness and wore an odd, translucent armour that changed colour with every step. One moment, it was black as a shadow; the next - white as snow, dappled with brown and green from the trees and slushy mud. It all danced like a shadow on a moving torch with every step the being took.

Jarod's hands were stiff with cold, and he could hardly bend his arms to reach for the quiver on his belt. With gritted teeth, he grabbed an arrow, but the shaft broke in his stiff grasp. It took him a few precious heartbeats, and a new arrow was finally set on the bowstring. Yet his hands weren't steady enough, and he couldn't aim well enough so far away in the darkness.

The leather-bound buckler was thrown aside, and the flickering torch was sharply stabbed into the slush, and with a single, graceful motion, Jon Snow threw his cloak over his shoulder and unsheathed his blade. Its dark, smokey ripples looked like they sucked in the dancing light as the blade was finally released into the open.

The Cold One had an impossibly thin, translucent longsword as if made of glass in his hands. Its eyes were blue, so deep a blue unlike anything he had seen before; there was something malevolent to them, and they burned like ice. Jarod's heart faltered as one, two, three more shadows emerged from the darkness behind the first. Yet they stood at the end of the clearing like icy statues, looking on with their cold blue eyes and making no move to approach the confrontation.

The one in front swept its cold gaze across the clearing and to the hall before pinning Jon Snow. It opened its mouth, and a sinister, sharp sound escaped akin to icicles escaped its blue lips.

The language was sharp, jarring, unlike anything Jarod had ever heard, but he recognised the following sound.

It was laughing at them mockingly.

Fury awoke in Jarod's veins, and his hands finally stopped shaking. He notched a dragonglass arrow, pulled the string, and aimed at the one facing the young son of Winterfell. He was still unsure about hitting true in the dark, especially as Jon was too close, and he could move too damn fast. And the other Cold Ones were too far for Jarod to aim true in the darkness. He was not the only one, as the Singers next to him had all aimed. Yet just as he was hesitating, Jon Snow raised his hand in a fist, and the old clansman slowly released the tension in the bowstring.

Suddenly they both moved; the dark, smoky blade met the crystalline sword, and an anguished high-pitched sound, as thin as a needle, painfully lingered in the frigid air.

The cold, blue eyes were no longer mocking, only malevolent, and the Other stirred into action, inhumanely quick.

Jarod's heart beat like a furious drum as the pitched, keening sounds rippled in the air, making his head pulse painfully. Both Jon and his foes moved so inhumanely fast that his eyes strained to keep track of them in the darkness of the night. Striking true now seemed impossible, but he still held the black-tipped arrow notched on his string just in case.

The minutes dragged on painfully, and neither figure appeared to slow, yet Jon's lightning-fast silhouette seemed faster and faster. His movements became less and less choppy, and the dragonsword became more and more savage as its fierce slashes cleaved through the air from one strike into the next like a raging river.

Eventually, the icy blade was too slow to parry, and the dark, smoky sword bit into the pale neck.

Something sizzled; the sound of ice breaking clearly echoed in the night, followed by a screech so sharp and heartrending that Jarod dropped his bow, and his gloved hands instinctively covered his ears. Under his surprised gaze, the Other had stilled, and like a spiderweb, cracks quickly spread across his body, which quickly began to melt. Dark Sister sizzled softly as a small, smoky cloud surrounded it. Pale bones, and crystalline armour, were all gone in a matter of heartbeats, leaving only a cold pool of freezing water at Jon Snow's feet.

He had done it!

Yet Jarod's joy was short-lived, as three more pale shadows rapidly moved through the darkness towards Jon Snow, icy swords all drawn. They did not run, yet were almost as fast as a horse, their steps graceful, leaving no footprints in the snow. The young Northerner below turned towards them and stepped forward, sword poised for another fight.

The old clansman cursed and quickly fumbled; thankfully, his bow lay at his feet and had not fallen from the roof. Twangs sang through the air, and the other five Singers deftly began shooting with their weirwood bows, raining black-tipped arrows at the incoming Cold Ones. It took him a moment to join them in the effort as he released arrows as fast as he could at their gaunt faces.

The Others were hardly deterred but quickly slowed down; Jarod could see a spark of apprehension in their cold eyes. Still, they were quick, agile, and hard to hit, and the obsidian tips struck at the glass-like armour, producing a keening sound as if an animal cried out in pain but seemed to do no damage to it. The thin, crystalline swords danced through the air, striking most arrows away.

Yet under the persistent hail, a shard of sharpened obsidian found a piece of unprotected pale flesh. One of the Cold Ones cracked with a pained screech before melting away. Less than fifteen yards from Jon, the last two foes stopped still in their tracks, hesitating, but the rain of arrows began to wane. Jarod reached into his quiver, but his hand found it empty. Alas, the amount of dragonglass was limited, and none of them had more than a dozen obsidian-tipped arrows at any time.

Under the old clansman's surprised eyes, they turned around and dashed away.

Yet Jon Snow charged after them, like a wolf pouncing after its prey.

For a moment, Jarod thought that their young leader had been led into a sinister trap, but then two cracks rang after each other, and a pair of wailing cries tore through the night.

***

The horses were still very scared and neighing in fright, and it was pure luck that they had not managed to tear through their bindings and run away. One of the Singers, with grey eyes and reddish-gold hair, began to sing a slow, peaceful tune that calmed the steeds down.

Jarod couldn't help but whistle; the little Earth Singers proved more and more useful with every passing day.

"Fuck!" Duncan released a sharp, shuddering breath and wiped away the pooling beads of sweat from his brow. "None would believe this. Not without seeing with their own eyes."

They edged closer to the giant bonfire Jon had ordered to be set alight in the middle of the clearing. More than a third of the stashed firewood in the settlement had been spent on it.

His nephew looked as if he had run to Red Hill and back, and Jarod felt the same, despite the fact he had sat still on a wooden beam for the entire battle.

"Indeed," Jarod agreed grimly, "I'm still unsure whether this is some bad nightmare…"

"A few charred bones are hardly proof of anything, nor is a puddle of frozen water," his nephew shook his head.

He looked to the side, where Jon Snow stood placidly as if he had not just slain three foes of legend. There was a deep, purple gash beneath his left eye and another, lesser one on his forearm, and a leafcloak with white hair that Jarod had called Snowy was fussing over his wounds with some dark-green paste while sadly uttering sad words in her quaint tongue.

"She says that both shall leave a scar," Leaf added from the side. He only grunted disinterestedly at the news. "You fight very aggressively."

The old clansman had noticed as well but decided to hold his tongue. The shame of being frozen in fear while a lad scarcely a quarter his age was bravely fighting was still fresh in his mind; it made his blood boil. Not to mention that their chosen leader clearly knew what he was doing even in his daring boldness; two small wounds fighting such mighty foes were a small price for a victory.

"Fear is their greatest weapon, and someone has to break it," Jon hummed. "How much did we salvage?"

Jarod couldn't help but agree; he himself managed to overcome his fright due to the young bastard's unending valour.

"Twenty-three arrowheads and forty-seven shafts," the Singer said. "The rest is too damaged for a proper rework."

"So we lost a sixth of our arrowheads, but we have no casualties," he summarised. "Quite lucky that they attacked a somewhat defensible position. If we are forced to fight in an open field, we'll be hard-pressed to avoid deaths or heavy wounds. And we might need to find a new source of obsidian."

"We know a few deposits of frozen fire around the Frostfangs and the hills and caves of the Haunted Forest," Leaf shrugged, and Jon Snow's head whipped towards her in surprise. Snowy, trying to bandage Jon Snow's wounded forearm, sighed in exasperation. "Why so surprised? The Singers have used what you call obsidian since the Dawn of Days before you men walked the land. We are adept at finding it and even better at working it."

The clearing descended into silence, and the red hound lazily trodded in and curled by her master's feet.

"Can't we catch some of the walking corpses?" Duncan asked hoarsely. "Bring it to the Watch. Let the Northern Lords witness what stirs here, Beyond the Wall. With the North behind us, we shall not lack for swords to aid us!"

"It's far harder than it sounds," Jon's voice was forlorn. "The wights rarely, if ever, wander off without a purpose alone. Their masters always keep them close. Horses can't bear the smell of the dead; even if we capture one, it will forever struggle with its full strength. And the magic that keeps them going fades if you slay their master, so you'd not only have to capture one but either run away or let the Other flee. Not worth the risk."

"Aye, and they were not beyond fleeing when the tide of battle turned against them," Jarod noted. "Even when seemingly outnumbering us, they struck in the darkness of the night. Cunning, yet lacking in courage, just like a band of Dornishmen. If too big a force comes, they would probably avoid engaging in an open battle."

Duncan thoughtfully nodded.

"Even if we capture a wight, what's to stop them from claiming it's just some vile sorcery?" Jon's voice was slow yet heavy and bitter. "The learned men of the Citadel are sceptical of the old tales. Some still believe the Singers, Giants, and Others to simply be extinct wildling tribes," Leaf snorted in amusement while Jarod rubbed his brow tiredly. "And there are plenty of records of sorcerers capable of raising the dead as thralls, and it is not something unique to the Others. A handful of the more arcane sects in Essos can still do it to this day. If the opportunity presents itself, we should grab it, but there is no need to place ourselves at risk needlessly."

The old clansman couldn't help but look at Jon in a new light. Not only was he a fierce and daring fighter, but a man of words and learning. And while his goals and plans did not look very formidable at first glance, he seemed well-prepared to handle all sorts of trouble that came with leadership or fighting in enemy territory.

"Are we still headed for Craster's Keep?" Jarod asked.

"Aye, we're only two days away."

***

3d Day of the 5th Moon

Eddard Stark

He looked through the opened window; the sun was scarcely peaking through the eastern horizon, yet the yard was already buzzing with men eager for the coming hunt. It seemed that time had only made Robert's appetites for entertainment greater, but Ned welcomed the distraction with everything that had happened.

For good or bad, his son was to marry Cersei's daughter, and while he felt somewhat torn about the choice of bride, Ned could find no qualms in the princess herself, nor were there any unsavoury rumours following in her wake. Catelyn was happy with the match; Howland was supportive, but he still held a waning grain of doubt from Jon's letter.

But it mattered not now; the deal was already struck and would soon be sealed in blood.

With a sigh, he closed the shutter and pulled the heavy tapestry back in its place before returning to his bed, where his wife had finally stirred from her drowsiness. It was a surprise to find Cat next to him as he awoke, but not an unwelcome one.

"Isn't it too sudden?" She asked. "Less than a moon! Wouldn't it be better to wait and give them time to know each other? Many lords would want to attend the wedding of the northern heir and a royal princess."

"The king commanded it," Ned shook his head. "I've sent ravens to my bannermen, and it's plenty enough for them to arrive at Winterfell should they wish. Besides, the royal retinue already strains our stores, and you want to wait for moons and invite the whole realm?"

Catelyn finally nodded in agreement before humming.

"Which children shall we take to King's Landing with us?"

The Lord of Winterfell stilled and gazed at his wife. He grimaced inwardly; it was a normal thing for the Hand's wife to accompany him in the capital.

Yet he could not afford to do so.

"All of them shall stay here, in Winterfell, and so shall you," he said.

"No," Cat's face had gone as pale as snow, and her blue eyes shone with fear.

"Yes," he sighed. "The South is too dangerous for us Starks, I'd rather not risk you or our children."

"If you think it so dangerous, why accept?" Her voice was as weak, barely a whisper.

"I'm willing to take the risk," Ned hardened his heart. "But you shall stay. It would be cruel to leave our children without both a mother and a father. Robb would need your experience and advice to govern the North."

"Robb is a man grown now, and he scarcely needs his mother to coddle him at six and ten," Cat softly countered. "You have filled his head with endless lessons, and while he might lack experience, he is more than capable of ruling Winterfell. The princess's wit is not inferior to her beauty. I have little doubt that Myrcella can be a worthy Lady of Winterfell in my absence."

"My decision is final," his wife's shoulders sagged in defeat. "But fret not, I don't intend to linger long in the south."

Or so he hoped. Eddard Stark would do his duty but had no desire to stay in the pit of vipers for too long nor quarrel with his hardheaded childhood friend.

The room descended into silence as Ned stretched his stiff limbs; it was rare that he'd sleep for so long but even rarer to forego sleep for a whole night.

"What will happen to Arya, Ned? Our daughter told Mordane that she shall no longer attend the septa's lessons as you'll find her a different tutor."

He looked at his wife, who gazed at him hesitantly from the bed.

"I have summoned Maege's third daughter; she should be here within a fortnight."

"Lyra Mormont?" Catelyn's blue eyes were filled with doubt. "She's barely a maiden of twenty, and has training at arms, Ned!"

"Aye, the opposite of the Septa in almost every way," he agreed, "Mayhaps she will have an easier time teaching our daughter. And I promised Arya to allow her practice with a bow should she behave during the Royal visit."

"So that's why she's so obedient," his wife murmured quietly. "But training to fight? It will be hard to find her a husband later on!"

"I know," a sigh escaped his lips. "But the wolfsblood is not so easily tamed. She will be quick to rebel against anything she considers injustice. For now, let her struggle with the bow; it is not something easily mastered. If Arya fails, she will have no grounds to complain."

To be a marksman requires a grown man's strength, a trained man's endurance, and years of dull, repeated training. Yet, even if she managed to master it, it would be fine, as fighting foes from afar was acceptable, just like Alysanne Blackwood. But, deep inside, Ned had given up on finding a great match for Arya. He'd be willing to let her take her pick from the North, as long as they were leal and worthy.

"She's soon to grow into maidenhood and find boys more interesting than swords," Catelyn said, sounding hopeful, like she tried to convince herself more than him. Her eyes hardened with resolve. "Ned, I shall teach our daughter."

"When? Your duties are bound to keep you busy, especially with the Royal Retinue here and the arriving guests."

"Arya can shadow me, watch and learn the duties of a Lady of the keep," his wife's voice was soft, pleading. "I can set aside some time each day to teach her the rest."

"Fine," he agreed. "But she's still to attend lessons with Lyra Mormont when she comes. And I stand by my promise; should Arya behave, she can begin training in the bow. But only the bow."

A soft smile danced on Catelyn's face as she put aside the covers, revealing her bare body, and pulled him into the bed.

***

They slowly gathered in the yard before the Hunter's Gate, preparing to ride into the Wolfswood. Only the king was yet to show up, and much to Ned's dismay, if the chatter of the royal retinue was correct, his tardiness was a common occurrence. Alas, his favourite tent was gone, taken by his boy, and now the Lord of Winterfell had to settle for another, lesser one. Ah, that myrish silk cot! He just hoped Jon was faring fine, whatever he was doing now.

Winter trotted faithfully to his side; the Lord of Winterfell wanted to see if the direwolf would follow his commands in the wilderness. The presence of the young wolf seemed to unnerve almost all of the nearby horses.

Ned's gaze slid to the younger group, which was split in two. On one side, there was the Joffrey, excitedly inspecting a gilded crossbow, shadowed by the Hound and surrounded by older squires and younger knights from the royal retinue. The Lord of Winterfell found it odd that the crown prince lacked a Kingsguard, but it was none of his business if the king preferred his heir to have Clegane for a sworn sword over a white cloak.

On the other side was Robb, accompanied by Grey Wind, Theon, the younger Stark men-at-arms, and northern huntsmen. For the first time in a while, his son looked absentminded, even hesitant.

Gods, Ned did not have the chance to speak with Robb since the feast! His son knew he had to marry one day, but probably did not expect to be so soon…

"Jory," Eddard turned to the younger Cassel, that followed him along with half a dozen men-at-arms. "Bring me Robb."

The Captain of the guard quickly spurred his horse towards the younger group, and soon his heir was before him. Winter and Grey Wind curiously began to chase around each other, unnerving most of the Southron horses that were still unused with the scent of the direwolves. Even the northern ones were still eyeing the two wolves warily after more than two moons.

"You summoned me, Father?" Robb's voice was absentminded.

"Aye," Ned nodded with a sigh. "What troubles you so, my son?"

"My wife-to-be," his heir whispered.

"Is she not to your liking?"

"No, it's not that, but, ah…"

"Princess Myrcella is courteous, pretty, with wit to spare, and I can hardly think of anyone better suited to be your bride," the Lord of Winterfell admitted. None of his northern maidens came close to the princess in bearing, grace, or courtesy.

"I shall do my duty," Robb sighed. "I just look at the bitter queen, with her cold eyes and scathing glances and wonder if Myrcella would take after her mother."

"Fret not, my son. Your mother and I were two strangers wed together, yet we grew to love each other."

"How did you do it?"

"It takes time, effort, and understanding, but do not despair; you will have all of a lifetime to know her. Most importantly, do not dwell on things that could have been yet failed to happen. As long as you respect your lady wife, she shall warm up to you. Did you have a chance to speak with her yet?"

"Aye, but only shortly. Myrcella is indeed beautiful and courteous, although a sliver of pride hid underneath," a ghostly smile found its way to Robb's face.

"Pride oft comes with royalty, Robb," Ned chuckled. "But so what? There's no finer match for a princess than my son and heir. The North is as large as the rest of the kingdoms together, and there are no other suitors in Westeros with a pedigree as ancient and mighty as yours nor any other heirs as skilled and well-trained as you. Do not sell yourself short."

Much to Eddard's amusement, Robb's cheeks reddened, and he ducked his head.

A few moments later, his son shook his head and coughed. "Any other words of advice?"

"Well, the wedding might be in less than a moon, but that's plenty of time," the Lord of Winterfell found himself smiling. "After the hunt, court her as is due. Show your betrothed around Winterfell-"

"I know how courting works," Robb interrupted with another cough.

"Well then, I don't have much advice left to give you," Ned snorted.

"What if I make a mistake?"

"Everyone makes mistakes, Robb. It's inevitable. Do not be afraid to make one. Learning from them is what counts," his son nodded thoughtfully, most of his earlier hesitation finally gone. At that moment, Robert finally appeared atop his destrier. "Take care and clear your head from distraction. A hunt is a serious endeavour, not to be underestimated; the cornered animals are the most dangerous ones."