Chapter 69 - Hunting Wildlings 02.

 

[Chapter Size: 3600 Words.]

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Third Person POV

North, 105 AC.

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"A village in the distance," said the same warg among the wildlings, looking at the group, who immediately turned their attention to him.

"Great. We have prey ahead of us," said a woman in the group with a smile, showing her exposed teeth and the ones she was missing.

"Let's go. It's time we get our first reward from these southerners, this time!" said the one who seemed to be the leader, a huge red-haired man, both in height and build.

The wildlings nodded and quickly began to move. What they did not expect was that, as they approached the village, while still walking carelessly through the forest, several men emerged from among the trees with bows and arrows aimed directly at them.

The first volley struck them before they could even react.

"Now!" Rickard shouted.

The arrows cut through the air. Several wildlings were hit, some falling dead immediately, while others writhed in agony on the ground. The rest ran to seek cover among the trees, while around twenty Stark men advanced to catch them before they could reorganize.

"Kill the southerners!" shouted one of the wildlings.

Despite the ambush, they still held the numerical advantage and quickly drew their bronze weapons. The fighting began almost immediately.

Jon and Rickon were also in the midst of them. The sound of swords, axes, and bronze weapons clashing echoed through the forest, accompanied by the cries of men. Some wildling archers quickly readied their own bows and began firing, hitting some Stark men.

Jon found his first opponent amid the chaos. The wildling looked at him and broke into an almost toothless grin.

"Oh... Look what the kneelers sent to fight me. A pretty little girl who has barely left her mother's breasts," the wildling mocked, baring his teeth. "If you're this pretty, I can only imagine your mother. Maybe I'll take her with me when we're done here."

"..." Jon did not answer.

Around them, men killed and died. The wildlings were certainly not easy opponents. They knew how to fight very well individually, even if they were terrible as an organized army.

Because in a war, a disciplined force from the south could defeat several times their number simply by maintaining formation, but in that chaotic fight among the trees, the individual ferocity of the Free Folk made them extremely dangerous, even with their more primitive weapons.

It was no wonder that Stark men were falling as well.

That wildling charged at Jon with a bronze axe. The blow came directly at his head, but Jon raised his sword and blocked it.

The clash between the two weapons made the man's eyes widen as he felt himself being pushed backward merely from the impact of their blows. Jon's blade was no ordinary weapon. It was made from a metal he himself had created and forged on the anvils of Winterfell.

"Runes..." the wildling murmured in the Old Tongue as he noticed the symbols engraved upon the blade; they almost seemed to glow.

"So you know them," Jon replied in the same Old Tongue, holding his sword firmly before him.

The smile began to disappear from the man's face.

He probably expected to find someone in the south who might know a few words of the Old Tongue, but Jon was far beyond simply knowing that language. His knowledge went beyond the language, beyond runes drawn to make something look more beautiful; it was about magic, magic more powerful than what the children of the forest could practice. He had runes and metallurgy from the memories of his previous life.

That very sword was proof of it. The metal had been created from a technology developed in his other life, called Eldenmetal. Jon had personally produced and forged it in Winterfell, adding magical symbols to the blade itself.

The wildling attacked again, now much more violently, seeming even a little desperate. Jon breathed calmly before the man who looked like a wild predator, analyzing him while his mind could see everything in slow motion. He saw the axe coming toward him and dodged it with ease.

The man attacked again after missing, and Jon was faster. His sword struck the axe, knocking the weapon aside before he advanced against the wildling. Jon was much faster and stronger than any boy his age should have been, even surpassing many grown men.

The wildling had looked at him and seen easy prey. Now he realized that he had chosen the one opponent he could not handle.

Jon managed to throw him off balance and landed a blow just below the shoulder, cutting deeply into part of his arm. The wildling roared in pain, but Jon gave him no time to recover. His sword came back in a fluid motion and sliced through his neck, decapitating him.

Jon turned his head and found Rickon fighting a wildling woman. The boy defended himself with his shield and sword while she laughed and taunted him, but Rickon maintained a steady gaze as he fought.

Jon was about to go help him when he spotted the warg man kicking the body of a Stark soldier after wounding him, before delivering a fatal blow to the man, making his corpse jerk its limbs upward before they fell back down. He was dead.

This wildling held a large, bloodied battle-axe with joy in his eyes, and when he raised his face, his eyes met Jon's at that moment.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then, Jon stepped forward.

The man seemed surprised. In the middle of that entire battle, a mere southern boy was advancing directly toward him. From the expression on his face, he seemed to believe he could slaughter any boy that age without difficulty.

"Oh, look at you... Far too pretty to be in the middle of a fight," the man mocked, baring his teeth. "Prettier even than many Free Folk women. What are you, boy? Some little kneeling lordling? Son of the man who rules that castle? Maybe you're worth more alive than dead."

Jon normally would have answered with some irony, but he was far too angry to joke at that moment. After all, this was the man who had killed his bird.

Instead, he simply raised one hand and pointed at him.

"You know that bird you killed earlier? He was mine."

The man's expression changed immediately. "You're the..." He narrowed his eyes. "Wait. You managed to get out of his head that quickly?"

He seemed genuinely surprised. Perhaps he had realized that Jon had not died as he had imagined and concluded that he had abandoned the animal before the blow.

Jon shook his head. "No. I felt his death too. That bird became one of my animals as soon as I caught him in this forest." His eyes remained cold. "And I intend to make you pay for killing one of mine, don't worry. And my companions are quite vengeful as well."

At that exact moment, a bird flew between the trees above them, carrying something in its talons. It opened its claws and let the mutilated body of another bird fall into the snow between the two of them.

The man's eyes widened. It was his hawk.

The bird had been savaged, its feathers covered in blood and some of its organs scattered across the snow.

"That's my payback," Jon said, approaching. "But don't worry. I also intend to take your life as interest."

The warg remained staring at the corpse of his animal for a few seconds before his face twisted and he looked at Jon with pure rage.

"Damn you..." The next instant, he charged through the snow.

Jon advanced as well; he would not fall behind. The first clash between the two weapons echoed through the clearing. The enormous axe struck Jon's sword with force as the man continued pushing forward, trying to overpower him with his own weight.

Jon immediately realized what he was doing. Instead of competing directly in strength, he took a step back, shifted his body to the side, and let the man's momentum work against him.

His sword cut into the wildling's knee as soon as he had an opportunity to wound him, passing by his side.

The man roared and lost his balance, staggering several steps before looking at the blood running down his leg. Then he turned his eyes back to Jon with even more hatred than before.

"What is it? Surprised you're being wounded by a boy half your age?" Jon asked in a more amused tone.

"Damn you!" the man snarled before charging again.

And at the same time, the sound of countless paws began to echo around the clearing.

The wildlings looked toward the trees, and it was already too late.

Enormous creatures came running between the trunks. Roars and growls filled the forest as the direwolves charged at the Free Folk. Ghost was the first to appear, easily camouflaging himself against the snow; his first target, one of the wildlings, did not even manage to raise his weapon before being thrown into the snow by him.

Other wolves appeared almost simultaneously, attacking from different directions.

The wildlings' numerical advantage began to disappear rapidly.

"WOLVES!" someone shouted.

The Free Folk men looked around in fear as they tried to retreat. Some still raised their weapons to face the creatures, but others immediately began to flee when they realized they were being surrounded and devoured like prey by the newcomers, a horrible death.

Now it was too late. While the wildlings tried to pull away, more Stark archers emerged on the other side of the clearing and began loosing their arrows. There was no longer as much danger of hitting their own companions or the direwolves, since the wildlings were being pushed toward the center.

The man fighting Jon stopped and looked around, frightened. There was fear in his eyes now that he realized he was surrounded.

Jon took advantage of his distraction and advanced. The sword cut across part of the man's chest, causing blood to immediately run down it.

"Don't get distracted, you idiot. Can't you see you're fighting me?" he said in a dry tone.

It was not the first time Jon had taken someone's life today. Nor was it the first time he had encountered wildlings. The first had happened during a hunt two years ago, when a small group appeared in the middle of the forest while Lord Stark was there.

He had quickly commanded his men, while Jon, Rickon, and the other noble children who were together on the hunt ended up joining the fight despite Lord Stark's orders for them to remain behind.

Jon had taken up his bow along with the others and begun striking the invaders while the soldiers fought the men from beyond the Wall; he showed that his skill with a bow, even at 12 namedays, was good for more than entertaining crowds.

Now, even with all that blood around him, Jon did not seem to care. There was a certain coldness in his eyes. That life had also already taught him much about death. Blood was something very common in his memories.

The man looked at him and roared in rage once again. He knew he would probably die there, but he seemed determined to take that child with him.

He charged. Jon watched his movement, anticipated the trajectory, and reacted immediately, thrusting forward before he could bring the axe down. The man had been foolish at that moment and left an opening that Jon exploited with quick steps forward and his sword arm extended.

The wildling was caught by surprise when the sword pierced his neck, cutting halfway through it. His eyes widened as he choked on his own blood and began to fall with his head lolling, held on by only half the skin of his neck.

Jon approached and pushed the sword even deeper, making the tip pierce through the back of his neck.

"That's the only mercy I'll give you," were the last words the man heard before his body died upon the snow.

The battle quickly began to fall silent. Wildlings and Stark soldiers lay scattered across the ground, while the snow around them was stained red.

Jon, however, turned his attention to Rickon. The boy stood before the woman he had been fighting earlier. She lay fallen at his feet, choking on her own blood as she let out one last strangled laugh before finally ceasing to move.

It was the first time Rickon had taken someone's life.

Jon approached. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"I am... I'm just surprised," Rickon replied, still looking at the dead woman as the blood continued spreading across the snow. "It's the first time I've killed someone. And a woman, at that." He remained silent for a few seconds. "But I don't feel anything."

Jon gave his shoulder a small pat. "The first time is always the hardest. At least that's what I've heard."

Rickon stared at him, his eyes still slightly widened. Despite saying he felt nothing, Jon could tell that he was still in shock.

"How many did you kill?" Rickon asked.

"Two," Jon replied. Then he looked toward the other side of the clearing, where Rickard was giving orders to the surviving men, noticing that he was limping. "Now let's go see your uncle. It looks like he was wounded."

The two walked in that direction. The direwolves had blood covering their jaws, frightening even the Stark men as they walked among the corpses and growled at any wildling who still showed any sign of resistance. Their arrival had completely tipped the battle in the Starks' favor.

The clash that had once seemed relatively even had turned into a massacre. Even so, eight men bearing the Starks' direwolf lay dead on the ground.

Rickard looked at the two youngest members of the group as he limped, blood running from a wound on his thigh. He could not help but give a small, somewhat embarrassed smile; they were fine, unlike him.

"One bastard got me, but it's nothing," he said confidently.

"You'd better treat that. You don't want to end up like Grandfather, do you?" Rickon replied, concerned.

"Not yet. Four of them are left, and I intend to execute them first," Rickard said.

"I can execute them too," Rickon added.

His uncle immediately looked at him. "No, nephew. That burden isn't yours yet. Your father certainly wouldn't be happy, and your mother would probably poison me at the next feast," he said with a small smile.

Obviously, he was joking, but Rickon was still only fourteen namedays old. His father certainly would not be very happy if the boy already started passing and carrying out death sentences.

Rickon merely nodded, despite being unhappy because of his pride and relieved at the same time that he did not have to kill any more people.

The four surviving wildlings were dragged one at a time to a large log brought over after being found in the forest.

"Damn kneelers!" the first shouted in the Old Tongue.

Some of the Stark men exchanged confused looks. "I didn't know the wildlings had a language of their own," one of the guards commented with a hint of sarcasm.

"That's the Old Tongue," Jon decided to say, causing several gazes to turn toward him.

"How do you know?" Rickon asked.

Jon shrugged. "There are only two languages truly used north of the Wall: the Common Tongue and the Old Tongue. Many among the Free Folk, especially those from the oldest tribes, still maintain the tradition of passing the Old Tongue down to their children."

It was a simple explanation. No one there needed to know that Jon could perfectly understand everything the wildlings said just from that. It was better to keep that secret for now, although he would break it before the last head rolled across the snow.

The first man was forced to place his head on the log while Rickard Stark stood beside him, holding the sword with both hands.

"Any last words? If you have any, say them now," the Stark asked.

The wildling stared at him. Perhaps he had not understood every word, but he certainly understood what was about to happen.

"Fuck you," he replied in the Common Tongue. Those seemed to be the only words he knew.

Jon almost laughed.

Rickard merely raised an eyebrow and continued. "I, Rickard Stark, of House Stark, representative of Winterfell in my brother's absence, sentence you to death."

The sword came down, and the man's head fell onto the snow.

One by one, the others were brought to the log. The second also hurled a few insults before dying. The third remained completely silent.

It was the fourth, however, who caught Jon's attention.

After watching all his companions die, the man was placed before the log, but instead of begging or insulting his executioners, he began speaking in the Old Tongue.

"You think you're safe on this side of the Wall, don't you, kneelers?" he began.

No one answered. The Stark men merely stared at him without understanding a single word. No one except Jon, and he simply watched in silence with Ghost standing motionless beside him and his other seven wolves nearby.

The wildling gave a dark smile, sweeping his eyes over the kneelers and seeming to delight in their ignorance. "Keep staring at me with those stupid faces. You don't understand a word, do you?" he mocked. "Then let me tell you one thing before you take my head: all of you are going to die."

Jon narrowed his eyes.

"When death comes down from north of the Wall, do you think that damned wall of ice will hold it back?" the wildling snarled. "It will cross the Wall, march across your lands, and freeze those stone castles you love hiding in so much. Your men will die, your women will die, your children will die!"

He gave a cruel smile. "You won't be lords, soldiers, or great men when it comes. You'll just be warm flesh waiting to grow cold." The wildling spat into the snow. "Do you hear me, you damned kneelers? I hope every one of you dies a slow and painful death!"

He seemed amused as his eyes swept over all those faces that could not understand him.

"None of you will survive."

"So they're already on the move... The question is: when?" Jon's voice sounded across the clearing, breaking the silence.

The wildling immediately looked toward the source, stunned.

Jon had not intended to reveal to any of them that he understood the Old Tongue, but after hearing that, he could not stop himself from asking. Even Rickon and the other men looked at him in surprise.

"How do you know about this, about the White Walkers?" Jon asked the wildling.

The man remained staring at him for a few seconds, as if trying to understand what was happening. His eyes moved from Jon to Ghost, standing beside him. A southern boy speaking the Old Tongue fluently, accompanied by a direwolf of that size, was certainly not a common sight even for someone among the Free Folk.

"The shaman of our tribe told us," he finally replied cautiously. "She saw that death will come."

"A shaman... Perhaps that word is wrong, you should use woods witch..." Jon murmured thoughtfully, correcting the words the wildling was using in the Old Tongue. But he soon returned to the main point. "Well, that makes sense. It seems she managed to glimpse something of the future."

If that was true, then perhaps events were already beginning much earlier than he had imagined.

In any case, Jon turned his attention back to the wildling. "Don't worry. When that death comes, I'll be waiting."

The man frowned, and Jon continued.

"I intend to destroy the White Walkers and all the dead who march beside them," Jon continued calmly. "I'll cross the Wall into the north, gather the tribes, conquer those lands, and build beyond it the most powerful kingdom this world has ever seen."

The wildling stood with his mouth open. For several seconds, he merely stared at Jon, as if he were looking at a complete lunatic or trying to decide whether those words were truly serious.

Rickard, however, seemed to grow tired of the conversation he could not understand. He raised his sword and, in a single motion, decapitated the wildling.

The head fell onto the snow.

Rickard turned his gaze toward Jon with a certain suspicion, while the other men began murmuring among themselves. No one had any idea what Jon and the wildling had just discussed.

"What was that?" Rickon immediately asked, demanding answers.

He had not even known that Jon could speak the Old Tongue. And that was after already seeing his friend use magic and even transform into animals. And now, Jon had held a strange conversation with that man.

Jon shrugged. "Nothing important. We'll talk about it in Winterfell."

Rickon narrowed his eyes. "Jon..."

"In Winterfell," he repeated.

Rickon merely shook his head. He knew Jon well enough to recognize when he had no intention of saying anything more.

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