Shrouded Destiny

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

Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka

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

***

18th Day of the 4th Moon

Somewhere in the Northern Mountains

Jon Snow

As the sun crawled towards the western horizon, a grey owl hooted from the nearby pines.

This part of the mountains had grown wild, and there was scarcely a trace of human activity; the roads had all narrowed and were covered in bushes and weeds. The fertile parts of the gift had long grown fallow, and the forests had slowly begun to reclaim them. The part with the northern mountains reminded Jon of the Haunted Forest, albeit more lively. They would have been nearly at the Wall by now if not for his sore side. The wound was fast to heal, even by his standards, but he did not want to risk pushing too much and making it worse, so they barely rode more than six hours a day at a leisurely pace.

They had stopped at a small clearing to rest for the night.

A small brass cauldron slowly bubbled above the campfire, letting out the alluring smell of rabbit stew. Both he and Duncan had caught a rabbit earlier. Red Jeyne and Ghost were both peacefully curled by his feet. The reddish hound was surprisingly well-behaved and affectionate, not what he would have expected for one raised by the bastard of Dreadfort.

Helicent was content to be sprawled to his right, snoring softly; Maude and Willow were at the edge of the camp, gnawing on the bones of a mountain goat that Ghost had killed earlier. The hounds oft followed his direwolf in the forest and were fearsome hunters with him at the lead.

With six garrons, three without a rider, they could carry a wide range of tools and supplies that a lone man with a single horse could not, including a large bag of salt Jarod had decided was essential.

The old clansman slowly stirred the cauldron's contents with a wooden ladle before filling it with stew, bringing it to his mouth, and taking a tiny sip.

"Tis almost ready," Jarod said with a smile. "Keep bringing me game every eve to save our supplies for Beyond the Wall. Who knows if we'll be able to hunt anything over there?"

"Or find wild herbs and roots," Duncan added.

"The lands Beyond the Wall are not lacking food if you know where to look for it," Jon stated absentmindedly as he scratched behind Ghost's ear.

"How do you know?" Duncan curiously asked, and Jon stilled.

"I asked Uncle Benjen about it," he quickly lied. "When I was a child, I dreamed of joining the Watch and endlessly pestered him for details."

"Why didn't you join?" Big Liddle leaned over and asked curiously.

"I don't think I would fit in very well," Jon slowly explained. And it wouldn't, not anymore. "But if I do join, I wouldn't be able to assist my family if they need me."

"True," Duncan thoughtfully agreed and tossed another branch into the cackling fire.

"Ha! You've got the right of it, but forgot the most important part! I told Dunk here that he was crazy to think swearing off women so young," Jarod slapped his grandnephew's shoulder before looking at the stew. "It's ready, methinks."

The old man grabbed a strip of linen, took the brass cauldron off the fire and placed it on a nearby rock to cool.

"To be fair, the vows only forbid you from taking wives and siring children, not bedding women," Jon coughed.

"Eh, tryin' to bed a spearwife will get your balls bitten off. And the pox-ridden whores in Mole's Town don't count," Jarod waved dismissively. "Why pay coin when you can find a willing woman?"

"Uncle, I always wondered how an old lecher like you never sired a dozen bastards of your own or had not taken a wife," Duncan clicked his tongue.

"Look at your pa, he has you four devils, and his hair's going grey at forty. I have Torren's patience, so I give moon tea to my lovers," Jarod said with a lusty smile. "Old Lena is generous enough to supply me when I ask nicely. And if I swore myself to a woman at the heart tree, I'd be stuck with her for the rest of my life."

The old man grabbed and filled a few bronze bowls from their bags.

"Having a direwolf with us is mighty convenient," Duncan noted as he fondly looked at Ghost. "Him marking around the camp, and nothing dares approach."

"And they would sense intruders long before we do," Jarod added, handing them a bowl of stew each. Jon could sense the scent of sage, rosemary, and garlic, making his mouth water.

And it was true. Ever since he came back, Jon never had to worry at night. Ghost would wake him when anything came near, even before he had taken in the hounds.

"But are direwolves supposed to grow so fast? Your Ghost has visibly grown in just a sennight," Duncan pointed out.

"I… don't know," Jon shrugged. It was true that Ghost was growing faster than the previous time, but he wouldn't complain. A fully grown direwolf was a fearsome foe and a trusty companion.

He had far more important things to worry about, so Jon put the thought out of his mind and focused on the hot stew. It was not Gage's cooking, but still far better than the pitiful slop in The Night's Watch. Once it was empty, he handed the bowl to Jarod.

"Another."

"You are almost as insatiable as the old Wull," the greybeard chuckled as he returned a filled bowl.

"Jon needs plenty of meat to heal," Duncan objected. "And at only six and ten, he can grow a bit more, methinks."

"He's nearly six feet already," Jarod snorted. "If he keeps shoving food down his throat like this, he will not become a giant but a merman too fat to ride a horse."

The image of him looking like Wyman Manderly made Jon laugh, and Duncan quickly joined him. But he was not worried about gaining in girth. The harsh lands beyond the Wall did not allow for excess.

"So, how are we going to cross the Wall?" Duncan idly asked, and Jon raised an eyebrow. They had yet to ask a single thing about their destination and mission the last three days and were content to let him lead the way.

"At the Shadow Tower," Jon said. "Commander Denys Mallister has little reason to bar our passage, but if he proves stubborn, we can sneak past Westwatch and the Bridge of Skulls at night."

"The old Eagle might grumble, but he'll let us pass," Jarod chortled. "The clans, the Umbers, and the Starks give far more aid to the Watch than anyone else."

Willow and Maude suddenly started barking northwards, quickly joined by the now awake Helicent and Red Jeyne. Ghost was up on his feet as well, teeth silently bared.

All the men instantly stood up. Jon had grabbed his sword, which always rested within a hand's reach, while Duncan had hefted his greatax, and Jarod had his sling in hand, ready to pelt any intruders with stones.

"We're surrounded," Jon said as he squinted his eyes; he could feel Ghost sense many foes.

"Fuck!" Jarod swore under his nose. "How many?"

Even with his sharp senses, the direwolf struggled to feel anything but danger and the faint scent of leaves and trees from every direction. The hounds were no better; they could feel that there was something, and they did not like it. How did they sneak up upon four savage hounds and a direwolf?!

"Near half a hundred," he uttered as he picked up his shield from the nearby log.

"Then it's time to meet our ancestors," Jarod grunted savagely as he started to whirl his sling. "Let us prove ourselves worthy!"

Jon's heart was thundering like a drum as his body tensed, he did not like the odds with his side not fully healed, but he was not going to go down without a fight either. He took a deep breath.

"SHOW YOURSELF, CRAVENS!"

Only the whirling sling, hound's growls, and leaves rustling restlessly in the wind could be heard for a few tense heartbeats. Jon quickly glanced at the tree where the horses were tied and noticed they did not seem uneasy or bothered.

"We come in peace," a melodic voice spoke. A woman's voice. It was high and sweet and felt like music to his ears. But it carried a tune of profound sadness that made him want to weep.

"What do you want from us?" Jon asked suspiciously while signalling Jarod to lower his sling and nudged the dogs mentally to sit down. He was still ready to rush into action with his sword, though.

A short figure with a cloak made of red leaves emerged from one of the bushes ahead, and Jon and his companions gasped. A pair of golden-green slitted eyes belonging to a small two-legged creature with nut-brown skin similar to a deer, along with pale spots. She had two large ears; her hands had three fingers and a thumb sporting black claws instead of nails. Vines, twigs and withered flowers were woven into her hair, a messy brown, red, and gold tangle, reminding Jon of autumn leaves. She was beautiful in a raw, primal way that Jon could not deny, despite the strangeness of her features.

"We are here to return something to its rightful owner," She gently said.

"What are you?" Duncan hoarsely asked, and Jon could see his knuckles turning white from gripping the greatax.

"In our language, we're called those who sing the song of the earth."

Something in Jon's mind clicked.

"You're the Children of the Forest," he stated as Duncan and Jarod silently stared at the legend come alive. Ghost and the hounds, however, seemed vigilant and ready to pounce at his command.

But Jon had seen more than enough legends and myths in person and liked them little.

"The men call us that, yes," her catlike eyes squinted in displeasure. "But we have been here long before the First Men crossed the Arm of Dorne with their bronze spears and axes. Men, they are the children."

"Apologies, earth singer," Jon conceded with a light bow, but he did his best to keep an eye on the so-called singer. "You said you're here to return something."

"Yes," at that moment, another child, no, earth singer with darker skin and snow-white hair, came from behind a tree, carrying a lengthy fur-wrapped bundle. The singer slowly approached under the men's vigilant gaze and placed the bundle in front of Ghost and Red Jeyne before swiftly fleeing into the nearby shrubbery.

He squinted his eyes; she was almost as fast as the Others. The first earth singer gazed at him expectantly, and he cautiously kneeled to pick up the wrapping. Ghost felt no maliciousness from the small being or her companion, so Jon found himself easing up.

He stabbed his sword into the ground so both hands were free. The package was light, and he quickly discarded the furs, only to reveal a pitch-black scabbard, a gaudy hilt wrapped in black leather rested at the mouth, encrusted with a ruby on the gilded crossguard. He recognised it. While fighting the Others, he had memorised every Valyrian Steel sword in Westeros and their characteristics and whereabouts. A pity it had been for nought, as no bearer of such blades was willing to lend them to the North or aid them in person.

There was a familiar feeling in the back of his mind, and he slowly released the blade from its prison and stared. Dark grey steel, with black ripples gracing the length of the longsword, which had a single fuller incised along the blade.

It felt right in his hand. He could feel his blood boil in excitement.

Jon Snow twirled the blade, and it made the familiar whistling sound of unparalleled sharpness of a sharp edge cutting through the air. He slashed towards the thick log where he sat, and the longsword sunk halfway with nary an effort. With a light pull, the blade was free and up in the air again.

This changed everything!

To the side, Jon saw that Jarod had finally lost his composure, and his eyes were as wide as saucers, while Duncan was rubbing his eyes and pinching his arm as if he wanted to wake up.

"Dark Sister, the blade of the Sorcerer Queen, the Rogue Prince and the Dragonknight," he declared with amazement before gazing at the earth singer and bowed deeply. "A priceless gift. Do you have a name?"

"My name is long and too cumbersome for your tongue, but you can call me Leaf," she provided.

He had contemplated going to Castle Black and trying to acquire Longclaw, but he doubted that the Old Bear would bequeath it to him if he did not take the Black. There was always the option of trying to steal it, but it was too dangerous, and too many things could go wrong. It did not help that the seat of the Lord Commander was full of unpleasant memories and faces he would rather avoid.

Death? It was a long time since he feared dying or failing, so it bothered him little.

Gifts like this were too precious to be given for free. But first-

"I am Jon Snow, and this is Jarod Snow and Duncan Liddle," he introduced his companions with a nod. "The sword was lost with Brynden Rivers Beyond the Wall. How did you get it? Why would you bring it to me, Leaf?"

Now that he got his hands on Valyrian Steel, he'd never let it go, but it was important to know what the other side wanted.

"Nearly a moon and a half, things changed. The Three-Eyed Crow suddenly expired, but not before bidding us bring the dragonblade to the blessed direwolf and aid him," she explained in her sad yet melodic voice, and Jon had to fight not to weep again. "And the blade belonged to the Three-Eyed Crow."

This was the first time one could speak so ethereally, yet with such tangible sadness.

But Leaf's answer only raised more questions. The blessed direwolf to those who worshipped the Old Gods could only be Ghost with the colouring of weirwood. If the blade belonged to the Three-Eyed Crow, was he the notorious Brynden Rivers? Or maybe his son or grandson, as Bloodraven would have been nearly a hundred and thirty, long dead. But that was not so important right now.

"How did you find me?"

"You and your white wolf are touched by the Old Gods, shining with power like a sun in the darkness to us Singers," Leaf unhelpfully provided. "There's ice and fire in you, the Last Hero come again."

"I'm no hero," Jon grunted sourly.

"As you say, Jon Snow," Leaf bobbed her head with amusement, and it took him a few moments to push down his irritation.

The implication that these singers could easily find him did not sit right with him. He hated magic with a passion; it reminded him too much of the accursed Red Witch. Wait, if he was so easily found-

"Can others find me as you could?"

"No, the Old Gods guard their champions jealously from errant gazes."

Well, that was a relief!

He took his time to study the so-called Earth Singer. She was no bigger than Arya but spoke with a grown woman's voice and wisdom. Indeed, not a child. Her calm voice, peaceful words, and graceful movements spoke volumes. After many bitter lessons, Jon could tell there was not a single drop of deception in her. Nor any animosity.

"You would offer your assistance at the words of a dead man?" He found himself asking.

"Yes, the Three-Eyed Crow was our last greenseer, our elder and leader, and his words are heavy even in death," Leaf's voice grew forlorn. "Without him, the protections that hid us began to wane, and we could only wait for death. The age of the Singers of the Earth had long begun to dwindle, and we are its final remnants. There is no room for us in the world of men, and the Singers of the Ice would eagerly hunt us down to the North."

Singers of the Ice… what an apt name for the Others. Jon Snow carefully appraised the sad Earth Singer in front of him once more. She had not lied a single time; he could feel it. Even Ghost was amiable towards the so-called earth singer. The being in front of him was simply pure and straightforward. Could he even afford to refuse freely given assistance?

"Tell me, Leaf, what exactly can you Earth Singers do?"

***

The Lord of Winterfell

"I've finished preparing everything for the welcome feast, my lord," Vayon Poole reported dutifully. "Lady Sansa's assistance with the decorations, arrangements, and singers was much appreciated."

Eddard Stark was baffled. That was the job of the Lady of Winterfell, not her daughter. Another problem for later. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and shook his head before focusing on the task at hand.

"Can our larders survive the royal appetite?"

The worries of feeding the royal court in his halls had become fleeting in contrast to everything Jon had revealed, but he could not afford to ignore them. He remembered the feast at Casterly Rock after the Greyjoy Rebellion all too well, where every knight and lord gorged themselves as if it was their last meal. At least he had time to prepare - the royal retinue was anything but fast, and by the last account, they had not even crossed half the distance to Winterfell from White Harbour yet.

"The long summer has made our harvest generous, but with the additional guardsmen and three hundred men with the King, we might have to cull one of our larger herds."

And together with the exotic fruits from the far south and Essos, the royal visit was shaping up to be an expensive venture. Nearly two and a half centuries had passed since Winterfell had been graced by royal presence. Some might say it was an honour, but any joy that Ned had initially felt at the prospect of seeing his childhood friend had grown cold, especially after reading Jon's bloody warning. Damn him!

Damn Robert and his royal hide!

Ned had more than enough trouble brewing on the horizon without dealing with the petty Southron games.

"Use the feast to start emptying our larders and granaries of everything that cannot last more than a year and start filling them up with only lasting foodstuff," Ned ordered while rubbing his brow.

"But my lord, it's still summer, there's still plenty of time to prepare for winter."

"This summer won't last forever," he grimly reminded. "Better to be prepared now. Winter is coming."

"It shall be done," Vayon vowed solemnly.

"And send for my lady wife," Ned added before dismissing the steward.

He did not begrudge Catelyn from grieving about their son, and he never barred her from worshipping her rainbow statues. But there was only so much she could shirk her duty in sorrow. Ned had scarcely seen his wife outside the family meals, where she had mostly remained silent or focused her attention on Rickon. Most of her day was spent praying at the sept, clad in black mourning clothes.

The minutes flew by as he focused on the ledgers, and eventually, the solar's door opened, and Catelyn entered.

Dressed in a plain black robe with no jewellery, one could mistake her for a woman of the Faith. Her fair skin looked paler than usual, and her beautiful face was beginning to look gaunt, and her figure slimmer.

Between sparring, training Winter, his lordly duties, Robb's lessons, and his long planning sessions with Howland, he seemed to have neglected his lady wife.

"You summoned me, Ned?" Her voice had grown raspy.

He grabbed two chairs, placed them facing each other near the hearth, and sat on one of them.

"Come here, Cat," he said with a sigh, and she joined him with a small smile.

"Did you know that Sansa has taken up almost all of your duties?"

"Gods…" his wife paled even further, her face heavy with guilt and shame.

'Twas a shameful thing to be a lady of the House, yet have no idea what is happening in her household.

"Indeed. I know it's hard, but it's been nearly a moon and a half, and you've grieved enough," Ned curtly said. "Cat, I love you dearly, but I married a lady of the realm, not a septa. You have three more children that need you just as much as Rickon does."

"But what if he also starts climbing-"

"No, Cat. I've always indulged you, but too much coddling will not do Rickon any good. The wolfsblood is strong with him. It's time for him to start training under Rodrik."

"He's only five name days old," she vehemently objected.

"What of it? Robb started as soon as he could walk, and Rickon is older, wilder, and more restless. Better to have him busy and tired than always looking up to run around with mischief," Ned reasoned with a sigh. "That's far from the only problem, Cat. You look like you've begun to waste away."

"I…" his wife trailed off, unsure what to say.

The loss of Bran had devastated her far more than he thought.

"From now on, you will attend every meal with us in the Great Hall," he ordered sternly. "And you will eat, or gods help me, I will feed you myself in front of the children and the servants," Catelyn reddened, and her lips twitched. "And if I hear you visited the Sept more than once a moon, I'll personally tear it down."

Guilt and love warred in her blue eyes, and she eventually let out an amused huff, stood up from the chair, and curtsied.

"I shall do as my lord commands me."

She stiffened as Ned abruptly stood up and pulled her into an embrace before she could sit down. He grimaced; Catelyn had indeed grown thinner. A yelp escaped her lips as he sat down and pulled her into his lap.

"Should I get the servants to bring you a meal here and now?"

His wife shook her head and melted into his embrace. "Not now, I shall join you at the Great Hall at luncheon."

At that moment, Winter stirred from his resting place near the corner. The silver-furred direwolf stretched lazily and trotted over to them with a wagging tail, making his wife stiffen in his arms once again.

"Give him your hand," Ned whispered in her ear.

Catelyn hesitantly reached out her arm, only for the direwolf to inspect her carefully with his muzzle for a short few moments before curling down in their feet.

"He's bigger than Shaggydog and Grey Wind," she observed. "They are sweet and obedient little things as pups, but are you sure they will stay as such when grown?"

A loud knock on the door stifled his reply before it left his tongue, and saw Winter jump warily, facing the entrance.

"What is it?"

"My lord, we have caught a raper in Winter Town," Walder's voice rumbled through the door.

"I'll be in the yard in a few minutes," he replied and mulled over an errant idea for a short moment. "Send for Robb, Sansa, and Arya to join me."

"At once, my lord!"

"Ned, why would you summon for our daughters?" Cat asked cautiously as she stood up.

"It is time they see northern justice," the Lord of Winterfell replied curtly, and his wife's face twisted in horror and recoiled as if struck.

"This is not a woman's duty!" Her voice was shaky. "They are to be ladies of the realm, and they've no need to see that… ugly butchery!"

"Septa Mordane has done her best to turn them into ladies, true," he conceded but steeled himself. "But closing your eyes does not mean the bad goes away, Cat. Our children are of the North. Winter is coming, and it does not suffer the green boys and the maidens of summer."

"Damn you Starks, and your winter!"

Much to his pain, his wife looked furious, like a shadowcat ready to pounce on her prey. But he had hardened his heart. Eddard Stark had shielded his children from the ugliness of the world as best as he could for a long time, but in the last moon, he had come to realise that it might have been a grave mistake.

"You are a Stark too," he reminded her as he grabbed his fur-lined grey cloak emblazoned with the sigil of his House from the hanger and draped it over her shoulders. "Come, your daughters will need their mother."

Catelyn deflated, and the anger bled out of her.

"Yes, my lord," she acquiesced with a tired sigh.