Fic Idea

Something to read while I finish up the next chapter for The Son of Ice and Fire and Dragonborn Conqueror.

So, like last month, here’s another fic idea. This one takes elements from Shadow of Mordor and Shadow of War games.

It could explore more magical aspects of the world, even venturing into Essos and beyond.

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Men poured from the surrounding keeps and towers—Northmen, free folk, and queen’s men alike, their shouts echoing through the frosty night.

“Form a line!” Jon Snow commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Keep them back. Everyone, but especially the queen’s men.”

The dead man was Ser Patrek of King’s Mountain. His head was mostly gone, but his heraldry—a blazing starburst on a field of blue—was unmistakable. Jon could already see the anger in the eyes of Ser Malegorn and the other queen’s knights. He could not allow them to make things worse by avenging a man who was already beyond saving.

Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun let loose another bone-rattling howl and yanked at Ser Patrek’s other arm. The sound of tearing flesh and the spray of bright red blood made men stagger back in horror. Like a child plucking petals from a daisy, Jon thought grimly, his mind racing.

“Leathers!” Jon barked, turning to his steward. “Talk to him. Calm him down. The Old Tongue—he understands the Old Tongue. Keep back, the rest of you! Put away your steel, you’re scaring him!”

Couldn’t they see the giant was wounded? The gash on Wun Wun’s chest oozed thick and sluggish. If this madness didn’t stop, more would die. Men had no idea how strong Wun Wun truly was.

A horn. I need a horn, Jon realized desperately, scanning the courtyard. He caught a glint of steel in the corner of his eye and whirled toward it.

“No blades!” he screamed. “Wick, put that knife—”

The words died in his throat as Wick Whittlestick lunged at him. The blade slashed across Jon’s neck, a shallow cut that sent hot blood spilling down his collar. Instinctively, Jon clapped a hand to his throat. Blood welled between his fingers. He staggered back, his mind racing. He cut me.

“Why?” The word came out as a rasp, filled with disbelief.

“For the Watch,” Wick hissed.

The knife came again, but Jon twisted, catching Wick’s wrist in a steel grip. With a snarl, he bent the arm back until the dagger clattered to the ground. Wick stumbled away, hands raised in surrender, his face pale with terror. Men were shouting all around, their voices a blur in Jon’s ears.

Jon reached for Longclaw, but his fingers felt stiff, clumsy. His hand fumbled at the hilt, refusing to obey him. He turned, seeking allies among the chaos, and found Bowen Marsh standing before him. The First Steward’s face was wet with tears, his voice trembling as he whispered, “For the Watch.”

The dagger plunged into Jon’s belly, a sharp, searing pain that made him gasp. Bowen pulled back, leaving the blade buried deep. Jon dropped to his knees, his hands scrambling to the hilt. He yanked the knife free, and the wound hissed in the cold night air, steam rising as though the blade had been forged in fire.

“Ghost,” he whispered, the word barely audible. Pain roared through him like a storm. He tried to rise but felt the third dagger drive between his shoulder blades. The impact sent him sprawling forward, face-first into the snow.

The world grew quiet around him, the shouts and screams fading into the distance. The cold embraced him, deeper than any he had ever known. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold.

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Jon awoke to darkness.

Icy winds howled around him, carrying whispers that echoed in the void. His chest burned with pain, his breaths shallow and labored. He clutched the spot where the knives had pierced him, his fingers brushing the cold, wet stickiness of blood.

“What is this place?” he murmured, his voice hoarse and trembling. Each word vanished into the void, swallowed by the endless black.

In the distance, faint visions began to flicker—images of weirwood trees with their blood-red leaves and carved faces, their eyes seeming to weep. Small figures darted between the branches, their strange golden eyes staring at him with equal parts pity and fear. Then came the cold—the unmistakable, deathly chill. Shadows loomed, forming figures wrapped in frost and ice, their blue eyes burning like twin stars. White Walkers.

Jon staggered back, his boots crunching against the unseen surface beneath him. The shadows swirled and shifted, and he could no longer tell where he stood. It was neither solid ground nor air but something in between, weightless and unsteady. The cold deepened, cutting through him, yet it was not the same cold he had felt as he bled out in the snow. This chill was alive.

A sudden, brilliant light flared behind him. Jon spun around, shielding his eyes. The light emanated from a figure—bright and ghostly—walking toward him. Jon stumbled back, afraid, his hand still pressed to his chest.

The figure came closer, its form sharpening through the haze. It was not a man of flesh but something otherworldly. The armor it wore was ancient, adorned with the sigils and markings of the First Men. A cloak of fur draped its shoulders, shifting like smoke in the windless void. The face beneath the helm was featureless, glowing faintly, as though a soul were trapped within the shell of the figure.

'Where am I?' Jon thought.

“See for yourself,” the figure spoke, its voice echoing through the shadowy plane he found himself in.

Jon hesitated, his legs trembling. The light grew brighter, and the shadows around him peeled away, revealing where he stood.

The Wall. He was atop the Wall, its sheer height dizzying as he looked over its edge. Below, Castle Black stretched out, torches flickering against the snow-covered grounds. Jon staggered to the side, gripping his chest. The ache where he had been stabbed flared with every movement.

“The Wall,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the rising winds. He turned to the figure. “They killed me… How? What has happened to me?” His words spilled out in panic, his breaths quick and shallow. The pain in his chest grew sharper, as though the daggers were still lodged in him.

“You are banished from death, Jon Snow,” the figure said, its voice calm, almost mournful. “Cast adrift between the worlds of light and dark. Cursed to be bound within the walls of this world.”

Jon shook his head, stumbling back. “How? Who are you?”

The figure hesitated, its glowing form flickering as though it struggled to find an answer. “I… do not know,” it said at last, its voice tinged with uncertainty.

Jon turned away from the spirit, his gaze fixed on Castle Black below. The memories of betrayal flooded back—the knives, Bowen Marsh, the words For the Watch. His hand clenched into a fist. “I was betrayed. They… they tried to kill me.” he raged.

“I know,” the spirit replied, stepping closer. Its presence felt heavier, colder. “Their treachery cuts at me as well, for some reason..... You were Lord Commander, were you not?”

Jon nodded slowly, the weight of the title pressing down on him like a chain.

“Then it is time you dispensed justice,” the spirit said, its voice hardening. “The punishment for mutiny is death.”

Jon stared down at the shadowed figures moving below, his breath visible in the icy air. His chest still ached, but this time it wasn’t pain that fueled him. It was rage—cold and sharp, steady as steel. He nodded, his gaze never leaving the grounds of Castle Black.

“They will answer for what they’ve done,” Jon said, his voice low.

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What do you think

Yes or No