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🕑 Added 2024-08-28 17:22:22 +0000 UTCChapter 16: Under the walls of Nightfort.
The Wall
Daemon Snow
As I approached the Wall, despite trying to be nonchalant, a sense of awe gripped me, taking my breath away. I had seen it before through the eyes of my birds and while my mind drifting beyond the bounds of my body as I tapped into the powers of the greenseer. Those visions had given me glimpses of the Wall—its immense height, its unyielding presence stretching across the northern horizon, a barrier between the known world and the savage wilds beyond. But nothing, not even the experience of seeing the wall in a TV screen, or even the bird’s eye view from warging, could have prepared me for the sheer awe at the enormity of the wall I could feel as I gazed up and saw the wall piercing the sky from the courtyard of Castle Black.
The Wall was a wonder of this world, a testament to the might and paranoia of The Builder regarding the one Other who could have survived at that time. Rising over seven hundred feet into the sky, its sheer scale was overwhelming. My eyes traced the line of the Wall, stretching east and west as far as the eye could see, vanishing into the misty distance. The surface, smooth from a distance, was rough and jagged up close, a mass of ice that seemed to drink in the light of the sun and reflect it back with a cold, blue radiance. As we entered the Courtyard, I actually felt cold for the first time in this life. My own adaptations and Stark blood had given me sufficient Cold resistance that I could always wear the lowest amount of woollen clothes. I never felt the bone chilling cold as described in the books but as I stood under the Wall I could feel the chill slowly crawling through my body and taking hold of my bones.
Up close, the Wall was more than just an enormous barrier. It was ancient, built by hands long dead, its history etched into every icy crevice and shadowed niche. I could see where the ice had shifted and settled over the centuries, where repairs had been made with great blocks of frozen water, adding to the Wall's uneven texture. Each section told a story, whispered tales of battles fought, wildlings repelled, and men who had stood watch here for lifetimes beyond counting. It was a living thing, this Wall—ancient and enduring, a force of nature as much as a creation of man. I knew there was no way the Wall could have stood for eight thousand years without magic. Grandfather had taught me that it was the Stark in Winterfell who controlled the Wall's magical defence. As long as there was a Stark in Winterfell, the Wall would stand.
Even now, with my novice magic sensing, I could feel a strong bond between the Lord Commander and the Wall, as well as between Lord Stark and the Wall. Each brother of the Night's Watch had a connection to it; their oaths powered the magic holding the physical Wall, while the magical defence was controlled by the Stark in Winterfell. Even with my diluted Stark blood, I could feel a small connection to this monstrosity. I had no way to compare the Wall's current power to the ancient times, as I couldn’t use magic sensing in my visions. I wondered if the custom of sacrifices under the Weirwood should be restarted, knowing that even those had been used to power the Wall.
My eyes wandered to Castle Black, nestled at the base of the Wall The castle was a stark contrast to the Wall itself. Where the Wall was grand and awe-inspiring, Castle Black was utilitarian, built for function rather than beauty. Its wooden palisades and stone towers were weathered by the relentless northern climate, but they still stood strong, a testament to the resilience of the Night’s Watch. The castle was a sprawling, mismatched collection of buildings, each one telling a story of necessity and survival. The armory, the smithy, the stables—each had its place.
I sighed in relief as I saw guest rights being exchanged and we entered Castle Black. I was finally sure I could skive off from the punishment, as Grandfather would be busy with meetings and planning. I had been using my birds to find the remaining wildlings as we marched to Castle Black. The Gift was acres of forested land, neglected and overgrown, perfect for wildlings who knew how to hide. I suspected they had their wargs, for no matter what I did, I couldn’t locate the remaining bands of them—only scattered individuals, and no matter what, we couldn’t hunt them down one by one. The surprising snow and storms also made it harder for my birds to fly and observe. The result was just scattered groups of men here and there. I had already reported this to Grandfather, and he grew weary of the upcoming campaign.
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Meeting
I was tasked by my grandfather to observe and learn as he held the meeting between Lord Commander Ryswell, Lords Umber, Karstark, and Lady Mormont, a maester and other senior rangers. Grandfather’s fury simmered beneath the surface as he looked upon the Ranger who led the nights watchmen at Queenscrown, a man I had mentally dubbed Ser Noseless, for he had lost his nose in the same wildling attack.
"I will have the truth, First Ranger," Grandfather demanded, his voice cold and low, yet it cut through the room like a blade. "How did you and only five of your men manage to escape a thousand wildlings while my son perished?"
Ser Noseless straightened, his face as pale as the snow outside. "Lord Stark," he began, "it was Rickon Stark’s bravery and skill that allowed us to escape. He alone held back twenty men while I and my five managed to flee on horseback, so we could inform you and Castle Black about the new King-Beyond-the-Wall. The Crowkiller led the attack, shouting at the top of his lungs about this new king and his seven thousand warriors."
I studied Ser Noseless, picturing my uncle standing his ground, fighting valiantly to the end. He had always been a man of honor, a fool who believed in such things. It seemed Grandfather shared that sentiment. I wanted to question how they hadn’t known there were a thousand wildlings south of the Wall, but understanding the vastness of the Gift and the New Gift, it wasn't so hard to believe. The wildlings needed only patience and determination to accumulate numbers on this side. If they had wargs, like in the canon timeline, it would be all the easier.
"I see," Grandfather replied, his tone sharp. "The wildlings grow bolder, declaring themselves kings when they don’t even have half the tribes united under them. They will regret it. How many are still in the Gift, Lord Commander Ryswell?"
"There are at least five hundred from the group that fought Rickon Stark near Queenscrown." Ryswell answered. "We’ve received reports of another band near Nightfort itself, who somehow climbed the wall there even with all the patrolling near the Nightfort, numbering about five hundred as well. I was going to command my lead Ranger to take our one thousand men and hunt them down when your raven arrived, informing us your army was at Last Hearth. I will follow your lead, Lord Stark."
The rangers in the room, who seemed ready to protest, fell silent under the harsh glares of the Northmen. It was then that I noticed something peculiar—the three rangers present, including Ser Noseless, were clearly men from the South. Their appearance, their mannerisms—they were not like the typical Northmen. Except for Ser Noseless who was young their hair was grayed, their faces old, lacking the wildness and gruffness of the men of the North. I wondered when they had arrived at this hellish place and why.
Grandfather, ever the calculating lord, raised his hand to silence the room. "Our information was once wrong, and it would be foolish to base our plans on it again and split our forces. The enemy is in our land, and they dared to harm a Stark. I will have my share of blood to quench my thirst for vengeance, and it starts with the army near the Nightfort. I will hunt down every single one of them. The wildlings who took part in the slaughter of my men will fear the day my army reaches them."
Lord Commander Ryswell, looking chastened by the rebuke, lifted his head and said, "I will, of course, support you, Lord Stark. The Ranger who was saved by Rickon will accompany you with a thousand of our men to join your hunt. Let him repay the sacrifice of Rickon and brave Northmen, by hunting down the killers or perishing while doing it."
Grandfather seemed ready to reject the offer, but after a moment's thought, he nodded. "Aye, they may join, as it is your duty to hunt down wildlings."
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We were riding down the Wall toward the Nightfort when my birds finally reached the wildling band there. Camps spread out before me, and I immediately realized that the estimate of 500 was far too low. By my count, there were at least 2,000 wildlings gathered there.
It was the third day since we had left the Wall when my birds discovered this truth. Realizing the gravity of the situation, I hurried to inform Grandfather, but he was constantly surrounded by other lords and rangers. Only that night, when we made camp, did I get the chance to speak with him alone.
Grandfather was furious at the intelligence failure.
"Daemon, are you sure of the number?" he asked, his voice taut with restrained anger.
"I am, Grandfather," I replied, meeting his gaze. "All my warged birds are there, and I counted the wildlings. There are at least 2,000 men and women, all warriors, though not well-equipped. They’re armed with rusted swords, maces, and pilfered weapons."
Grandfather’s expression darkened. "I will inform the rest of the commanders tomorrow that we must prepare to battle 2,000 men, not 500."
"Is that wise, Grandfather?" I asked, hesitation in my voice. "The Night’s Watch has failed twice now. Perhaps there’s a betrayer among them. Once is an accident, twice is coincidence, but a third time will be enemy action. Should we trust them again? Shall I keep an eye on the Night’s Watchmen?"
For a moment, Grandfather looked horrified at the thought of such betrayal within the Watch. He was silent as he thought through and planned how to tackle this new possible threat.
"Even if that’s true, Daemon, there are thousand Nights watch men in our army. Who would you keep your eyes on? The eyes you turn away from our known enemy in the open may allow them to flank our position through the forest. Informing my lords and the rangers is not a problem now that we know the wildlings' true numbers before the battle. You said that the wildlings aren’t hiding the bulk of their army and we will see the truth of the matter anyway, when we reach there tomorrow evening. By the time of battle we will plan for the increased numbers, so there’s no purpose in misleading us like this from the start. It is only a failure of the people to do their jobs properly and not maliciously done so."
"It’s not that they’re not hiding, Grandfather; there’s simply no place to hide there," I replied, understanding his reasoning. "Anyway, I will follow your lead."
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Next day night.
The camp was set, and one or two cups of wine along with extra meat were served, as for many, this would be their last meal. Surprisingly, the wine came from the Night’s Watch stock. I kept one eye on the wildlings through my warged birds, as Grandfather had tasked me with monitoring any movement through the forest that might suggest an attempt to flank us during tomorrow’s battle. To my surprise, there was no such movement.
Both armies were positioned on opposite sides of a vast field, and we could see the lights of their torches flickering in the distance. Both leaders knew there would be no parley; tomorrow, there would be battle. 500 of the rangers, familiar with the land, were used as scouts since we left Castle Black, patrolling our flanks for any ambush from the 500 men reported near Queenscrown or any other wildlings. The Northmen guarded the camp on three sides, with the Wall protecting the fourth.
600 men were rotated every hour to stand guard facing the wildlings fearing sudden attack from them ever since we arrived here in the evening before sunset.
The Northmen and rangers were in high spirits, confident in their numbers against the poorly armed savages. Mocking jeers echoed through the camp as they questioned which fool had planned the wildlings’ defence. I scanned the camps and forest near the wildlings through my warged animals, searching for any hidden animals like bears, mammoth or shadocats or even giants that could turn the tide, but found none. It puzzled me. Was it simply their lack of knowledge in counting that kept the wildlings from scattering into the Gift as they usually did when they know we were coming? Perhaps they didn’t realize just how outnumbered they were.
It was halfway to the hour of the bat after dinner and wine when Ser Noseless, Lords Karstark, Umber, my grandfather, Lady Mormont, and I were sitting around the fire with Aethan and Lyra, sharing war stories. That’s when a horn sounded from the wildlings' side along with rapid movements and noise by jeering and taunts.
I had lost concentration on my birds while listening and eating.
"Daemon," Grandfather called, as they all stood up, preparing to face whatever was coming.
I slipped into my birds and saw the wildlings ready with their substandard weapons, shaking with excitement at the prospect of impending violence.
I opened my eyes to find everyone looking at me.
"Grandfather, the wildlings are ready to attack us. They’re shaking with excitement, and they’ll attack us tonight. It seems they’re waiting for something."
Grandfather frowned, hearing that. "They have no advantage in attacking at night."
"Let them attack; we are ready," Lord Umber yelled with jubilation. "But how do you know?"
"He’s a bloody warg!" Ser Noseless shouted in panic. "A sorcerer, a demon!" he continued, his voice rising in fear.
I scoffed at his outburst.
"Shut your trap, you southern incompetent cunt," Lord Umber roared, infuriated by the insult directed at a Stark by a coward who had abandoned Heir Stark.
"Lords, prepare your men for battle," Grandfather ordered. "The wildlings think we’ll be easy pickings after our march, but they’ll be slaughtered regardless. Prepare!"
"Stark! Stark! Stark!" Umber yelled and the captains who had arrived to check for orders shouted as they left to make ready. Just then, another yelling and sounds of battle were echoed from the forest opposite the Wall.
I, along with Aethan, Grandfather, and Ser Noseless, looked toward the sound as wildlings started charging out of the forest, engaging with the inner guards made by northmen. Fortunately, we were at the centre of the camp, far from the forest, with many soldiers between us and the enemy.
The surprise attack by the wildlings was a success as almost of half of the guards were distracted by the sounds of preparation from the wildling camp.
A group of 20 Night’s Watch men came running toward us, calling for the Ranger Ser Noseless, who was their leader for this venture. I scoffed at their panic; these incompetent fools couldn’t act without their leader's command, even with the enemy at the doorstep.
All the while, Lord Stark was commanding orders, directing soldiers to where they were most needed. The 2,000 wildlings began their charge toward our front lines, and men rushed to reinforce the shield wall, turning it into a deathbed for any of the poorly armed wildlings who reached there, after charging towards them haphazardly in the moonlight. The gap between the camps allowed some preparation, but there was no time for archers to get there and be ready to loose arrows to the approaching army.
Cries of pain and the sharp scent of blood began to permeate the camp as the battle intensified. After the surprise was over, for every one of our men that fell, two wildlings were cut down on the sides not facing the main wildling army. Somehow, the wildlings had outmanoeuvred the patrolling Night's Watchmen, reaching the camp’s borders en masse. This unexpected surge allowed them to overpower the fewer guards stationed there before being stalled by the swift arrival of reinforcements.
My concentration was focused on the battle and my birds view of it when suddenly, my hand moved instinctively to my back, stopping a knife aimed at my spine. My palm resisted the surprisingly sharp edge at first, but as I struggled to prevent the blade from piercing my spine, blood began to flow from my hand ,dripping down the knife to the earth as I had to increase my own strength to stop the push from reaching my spine. Due to my hand having resistance to the edge of blade from all my cutting of palms to give my blood it took continued use of force for my palm to be pierced by the sharp edge. I turned towards him all the while holding the knife while Ser Noseless struggled to push the knife in.
"What are you looking at, you fuckers?" Ser Noseless screamed at his 20 subordinates, who were staring in shock at him as he tried to stab me from behind. "Kill this bastard first! He’s a fucking warg who alerted the Northmen to the wildlings' preparation and whatever else he may have seen!"
“Ah!!!!” Suddenly Ser Noseless yelled in pain. I saw his eyes widening in surprise and raising his hand looking at the severed edge near the elbow where the Valyrian Steel has cut cleanly through even the bone all the while I was sprayed by the blood from the elbow as I had turned towards him.
I had felt my own grandfather arriving from sidelines with sword raised to defend me. Even with my enhanced perception I couldn’t see Ice moving and severing Ser Noseless’s hand at the elbow.
I pried the knife from the dismembered hand and tossed the hand away, rage building within me at the betrayal. I looked at Ser Noseless who was rolling around his back all the while pressing a cloth to the elbow while yelling in pain. I realized that this motherfucker had likely betrayed my uncle too. It seems Starks are most likely to die by betrayal.
Before our guards or the lords could intervene, 10 of Noseless’s men raised hidden crossbows and fired at me. Before I could dodge, I felt a sudden movement and push from my side, and I fell sideways as the sound of arrows hitting flesh filled the air.
Horror engulfed me as I prayed to the Old Gods that it wasn’t Grandfather, but when I turned to look, my worst fears were confirmed.
"Nooooooo!" I yelled as I saw my grandfather falling backward, seven arrows embedded in various parts of his body. One had even nicked his neck, severing an artery and causing blood to pour out.
My hand moved on its own as the knife of Ser Noseless embedded itself to hilt inside the left eye of the leading Crossbowmen making others freeze for moments in shock of swift retribution.
Before the other 9 men could reload, the guards and lords fell upon them, swiftly cutting them down.
I immediately kneeled beside my grandfather, shaking him gently. His eyes were wide with shock, and I could see he wouldn’t survive under normal circumstances. Looking around, I saw Lords Umber, Karstark, Lady Mormont, and Aethan standing a meter away, giving me a moment alone with him in his final moments.
I placed my bleeding hand over my grandfather's mouth, but only a few drops of blood fell inside as the wound in my hand had already clotted. Desperate, I reached for Ice, intending to make a larger cut. I picked it up, gripping the edge of the blade, and prepared to slice my palm when strong hands suddenly grasped both the sword and my right hand.
"No..." Grandfather coughed, his voice weak but firm. "No, Daemon," he repeated, coughing again and spitting blood. His voice was barely a whisper, heard only by me. "If you do that now, everyone will know your abilities, and it won't save me. Daemon... one of the arrows has pierced my lung. Even your blood can’t heal me this time. Save your strength for the battle."
"No, you won't die today. We have too many plans. I can do this," I snapped, overpowering his hold.
"Aethan!" my grandfather called out with sudden strength. "Hold Daemon. Stop him."
Aethan moved quickly, gripping my arms with surprising strength. "As you command, Lord Stark," he said.
I snarled, ready to break his hands if necessary, when a sharp slap struck my face.
"I said no, Daemon," Grandfather insisted, the exertion making him cough blood again. His bloody hand cupped my cheek, forcing me to bow so he could see my face. His blood smeared on my skin, but the indifference I had developed toward blood, from sharing it, kept me from feeling nauseous.
"Daemon," he continued, "my grandson... no, my son. I'm sorry you have to see this, to go through this. I've always loved you as if you were my own, and you almost made me forget I lost my dear daughter. You are the best of her, and I’m glad I could protect you, unlike my son and daughter. Don’t pretend you don’t care for others. Do you really want to spend centuries alone, becoming a loveless monster?"
I was stunned by his deathbed confession, numb as my plans crumbled before my eyes. The easy life I had envisioned till atleast 120 AC was over. A man who treated me as his own son was dying, and even with my abilities, I couldn’t save him. I would have survived such huge wounds, but my grandfather couldn't.
He coughed again, blood splattering from his lips.
“Dameon, Here, give it only to Cregan and teach him about the Stark duties, protect him Daemon.” Father whimpered while taking my hand putting it on the edge of Ice. My hand brushed against the sharpness of the blade, and blood flowed from both our wounds onto the steel.
I grasped the sword and nodded in acceptance.
"Promise me, Daemon... promise me," he urged, coughing once more.
"I promise, Grandfather... no, Father," I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
A smile of true peace crossed his face, one I had never seen before. "I love you, Dae..." His voice faltered, and his hand slipped from mine, falling lifelessly to the ground.
For a few heartbeats, nothing happened. Then, reality sank in.
“NOOOOO…” I yelled again as I almost cracked my throat by the volume and Ice fell on the ground as my strength left me making me sit on my ass in the snow.
Aethan and the other lords shouted something, but their words were meaningless to me. The sounds of battle echoed around us, yet all of it felt distant, irrelevant. I knew I would outlive them all, destined to be alone for centuries, and now I had lost one of the pillars I had relied on so heavily in this life. A man who loved me as a son, and yet, all I could think about was the loss of his protection and how my plans were unravelling, not the loss of the man himself. I cursed myself in that moment for my selfishness, even as I knew it was necessary. Rage enveloped me again, now directed inward—for my failure to save him and for the traitors who caused this.
"AHHH!" I screamed, slamming my right hand into the ground in pure fury. Ice lay beside me, faintly glowing. I struck the ground again, and after the third hit, I froze as something caught my eye. There, on the Valyrian steel, was a single, clear drop of water. The fires around us reflected through it, casting rainbow colors. I knew it shouldn’t be there. It was then I realized that my eyes were watering. Swiping a hand across my face, I found teardrops on my palm.
"Tears?" I murmured in absolute shock.
For a moment, my rage vanished, replaced by bewilderment. It returned swiftly, more intense than before.
"Why am I so affected by him calling me son?" I yelled to the heavens. "Why am I feeling this? Why am I feeling so much rage at his death when I have the next Lord Stark in my pockets?" The question echoed in the silence of my mind.
"I’m not supposed to care. I accepted the fact that my life as a caring family man was over long ago, and yet I care. What does this mean? Why am I feeling like this? I know they will die someday, and I will outlive them all. I accepted that, but why now? Why am I crying, but still unable to feel sorrow when I see my grandfather—no, my father—lying dead? What is happening to me?" My voice snarled against the cacophony of the battle and cries.
The answer came from one of the few people I realized I actually cared for, not just for their talent or position.
"Even with all the words you like to say, Daemon, he loved you, and you loved him. You're crying because you loved him enough that your control over your emotions has shattered. The indifferent mask you always had for others from the first moment I saw you had finally shattered. You do love others, like all humans in this cursed world, even though you pretend not to. Even the greatest monsters love something in this world. He knew that from the beginning and understood it, Daemon," Aethan said softly from my side.
I accepted that I loved people in this life too, and I cursed myself that he had to die for me to realize that. I sat there on the bloodied ground and cried my heart out, not caring for anything else.
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Omniscient POV
Aethan Reed knew Daemon was devastated, but feelings had to be set aside. He watched as Daemon sat beside Lord Stark’s body, still crying. His face cycled from sorrow to hateful rage, a stark contrast that mirrored the twisted faces of the weirwood trees. The tears on Daemon’s blood-streaked face mixed with the crimson, eerily resembling the red sap of the ancient trees.
Lord Umber, consumed by fury, had just killed another Night's Watchman who attacked them. The soldiers who had reached their position fought off the attackers, but the northern men were now fighting on both sides, the initial surprise assault by the rangers having claimed the lives of many of their own. Umber, seething, moved towards Daemon, intending to pull him away, but Aethan stopped him with a firm hand.
“No, Lord Umber. He might attack you, not recognizing friend from foe in his state.”
“Reed, you have to get Snow out of here. The situation is spiralling out of control. The damned rangers have betrayed us. We’re outnumbered, surrounded inside and out. Lord Stark is dead, and I will not see another one of Stark bloodline die in front of me. You must retreat now with him, and I’ll find a way to fight our way out.”
Aethan nodded in acceptance but before he could anything more, the battlefield fell into a sudden, eerie silence as a scream, primal and filled with unimaginable anguish, pierced through the cacophony of battle. Aethan Reed’s heart skipped a beat, and he froze in place, his body betraying him as the terror clawed at his insides. Even the bloodthirsty Umber, who moments ago was a whirlwind of rage and steel, stood paralyzed, eyes wide with confusion and fear. It wasn't just them—every soldier, every Night's Watchman, and every wildling within a 500-meter radius felt it, their instincts screaming at them to flee, which their bodies refused to obey.
The air around them seemed to thicken, becoming suffocating, and even in the biting cold of the North, sweat began to bead on their foreheads. Breathing became a struggle, each gasp of air feeling like a desperate fight for survival. Aethan’s mind raced, struggling to comprehend the source of the terror that had gripped them all. He knew that voice, that presence—it was Daemon. But this wasn’t the Daemon he knew. The calm, composed young man he considered a brother was gone, replaced by something far more terrifying.
He saw Lord Umber’s eyes widen in confusion as he wrestled with his instinct to move and kill the frozen Night’s Watchmen. Aethan tried to shield himself with his own presence. As a warg, Aethan was aware that all wargs emitted an aura that calmed animals; it was something; a presence, that every warg uses instinctually, especially around horses. One of the first lessons he learned as a warg was never to enter the mind of a human—it could drive you mad. Since the aura could never influence people as even the most powerful warg, had an aura too weak to do so, Aethan wondered whether Daemon had become the greatest warg since the Age of Heroes. Any normal man will have trouble increasing his warging and presence beyond a limit, making sure humans never felt this, yet here was Daemon, doing the impossible by freezing hundreds of people at once.
“I have no limits, Aethan. I can increase any ability as long as I work hard enough.”
That boast, which Aethan had once dismissed as mere bravado, now rang in his mind. Aethan wondered just how much time Dameon had spend training, as even he lost count how many animals or hours Dameon spent using his greenseer abilities to watch various events through weirwood.
To exert such fear in his surroundings, Daemon’s hatred and rage must have flooded his presence, transforming it into a monstrous killing intent. The sheer scale of it, left Aethan in awe of his brother-in-all-but-blood's magical prowess.
It was this awe that allowed Aethan to break free from the paralyzing hold. He slapped Lord Umber to snap him out of it, and together they turned to see Daemon holding Ice in one hand, clutching an arrow in the other—a stray shaft that might have struck Lord Stark’s body. With a roar, Daemon hurled the arrow back at its origin, and Aethan followed its path as it embedded itself in the neck of a wildling archer who had likely aimed at Daemon’s half silver hair.
Umber, the other Northmen—and even the nearby enemies—understood immediately that Daemon was the source of their fear. Aethan saw tears streaming down Daemon’s face, but there was no sorrow, only murderous rage. Daemon blinked and he wiped his eyes with the back of the hand, looking at the tears in his hands in surprise for a moment.
And the rage becomes an inferno and Daemon moved with a roar of anger.
And with that rage, the fires around the camp flared. The small flames grew into towering bonfires, their heat and light so intense that night turned to day. As Daemon tightened his grip on Ice and approached the first Night's Watchman in his path, Ice ignited with blood-red fire, turning the camp as hot as the Dornish deserts in a heartbeat before shifting to a cold blue fire. The blue flame flickered like ordinary fire, but it radiated no heat—it consumed it. An unnatural chill spread through the camp, as though winter itself had descended down on them, making everyone’s breath visible in the air. The sudden drop in temperature, even as the flames continued to burn with the height of a giant, caused the fighting to cease in the camp. The once unbearable heat gave way to a spine-chilling cold that triggered everyone’s fear.
Aethan, who had witnessed ancient battlegrounds of the epic wars of the Age of Heroes in his visions, withstood the immense pressure, perhaps because of his bond with Daemon. He realized that Daemon's killing intent had overflowed, and the Ice had amplified it with powers accessible only to those of Stark blood, making everyone in the entire camp to freeze in terror.
The frozen wildlings, who had seen enraged giants, scanned with their eyes for a giant in their midst. The Northmen, who had witnessed dragons, looked to the sky in terror, expecting death to descend upon them.
But there was neither a giant, nor a dragon. There was only Daemon Snow.
The greatsword, as tall as the person wielding it, moved so swiftly it was invisible to the naked eye. Only the aftermath of its deadly arc was visible—a Night’s Watchman’s head flying through the air before crashing into the face of a frozen wildling, snapping him out of his terror. The wildling stared in horror at the severed head lying on the ground before him, then let out a panicked scream that shattered the stillness.
“STARK!” Kill the traitors! Umber’s roar echoed across the battlefield, powerful enough to nearly shake the nearby Wall. He charged after Daemon, slaying a treacherous Night’s Watchman who stood paralysed in his way.
“STARK! STARK! STARK!” The cries spread like wildfire among the northmen, snapping them out of their paralysing fear and stupor. Even those unaware of what had happened at the center of the camp felt the palpable panic of their frozen enemies and immediately launched into the attack to exploit the advantage. Within moments, hundreds of traitors lay dead, struck down by the Northmen who were the first to break free from the paralyzing fear that had gripped their bodies.
Daemon was a silent, relentless force of death as he tore through the camp, cutting down every black-clad man in sight. There was no shouting, no grunts of effort—only the whistling of air as Valyrian steel sliced through flesh, sending limbs and heads flying. Any Crow who saw the blue flames and the cold aura that accompanied them tried to flee, but Daemon moved faster than even a charging knight.
Aethan had always known Daemon was faster and stronger than any ordinary man, but he hadn’t realized just how much his powers and constant training had elevated him. The lethality was only increased by the Valyrian steel, which moved like a artists brush he had seen in White Harbour once.
Only difference was Daemon was not painting a picture on canvas; he was painting himself in blood. Killing was his only focus—there was no wasted movements, no words of triumph or condemnation when men tried to defend themselves, just annihilating anyone wearing the Black. He darted among the men, dodging and weaving with surefooted ease, showing the results of hours of parkour in godswood and the trees. Above him, birds circled, and Aethan realized Daemon was using their vision to guide his movements so that no friend was harmed in his rampage.
As Daemon picked up speed, he became a blur to all those who watched him. The only evidence of his passage was the split body parts flying in every direction and the death left in his wake.
Aethan remained still, guarding Lord Stark’s body, with two soldiers flanking him as he had ordered. By this time, nearly all the traitors in their midst were dead, and those who weren’t were desperately trying to escape into the forest.
Nearing the shield wall that guarded the camp from the 2000 wildlings, Daemon leaped over the column guards, using the shoulder of a Northman in the middle of the ranks as a springboard. His momentum carried him over the entire contingent, landing him atop a wildling who was hacking at the shield wall in search of a gap. Even before the wildling could react, Daemon’s greatsword, Ice, flashed, and a head flew over the shield wall. He jumped again, his powerful kick shattering the wildling’s shoulder, and landed amidst the enemy, fifty meters from the Stark shield wall.
Before the wildlings could even comprehend the fiery terror and freezing dread in their midst, Daemon tightened his grip on the flaming sword, spun 360 degrees, while extending Ice and holding it parallel to ground. The enhanced strength and reach of Ice cleaved through men as if they were nothing. A wildling had tried to slash at Dameon’s right side, but the attack never reached him. The wildling was already bisected in the spinning attack by the time the mace reached anywhere near Daemon’s body.
Daemon cackled as the wildlings around him descended into panic, their fear fuelled by the sight of his inhuman strength and the impossibility of a flaming sword that radiated coldness like the Wall itself. Nearly a dozen men had fallen in a single rotation, the long blade of Ice cleaving through two wildlings at once when they stood close together in the chaotic mob. Even those further away recoiled in terror, retreating several steps from the sword that burned with an unnatural fire, the cold it exuded seeping into their very bones.
Then, the wildlings made the greatest mistake they could have in that situation—they moved away from Daemon, their terror evident as they screamed and scrambled to escape the flaming sword. Their haphazard retreat created large gaps in their already disorganized mob, a vulnerability the Stark shield wall was quick to exploit.
Seeing the wildlings in the center faltering, the Stark soldiers began to press the attack with their spears, taking advantage of the distraction caused by Daemon's fiery onslaught. It was at this moment that Lord Umber arrived, his booming voice cutting through the chaos and taking control of men.
"Stark men, our enemies are dying by the dozens, slain by a boy! He’s shown more courage than you lot, leaping into the midst of our foes and creating a red mist of death!" Umber shouted, his voice filled with both awe and determination as he watched blood still spraying from the bodies Daemon had bisected in his deadly spin. He marvelled at how the blood flowed freely, even when the flames should have cauterized the wounds.
Energized by Umber’s words, the soldiers let out a rallying cry. "Stark! Stark! Winterfell! Winterfell!" they yelled, their spirits lifted by the sight of the carnage wrought by Daemon.
"Push for two steps, you bastards! Push and then retreat—let the swordsmen attack!" Umber bellowed as he snatched a shield from a nearby soldier, throwing his weight against it to shove the enemy back. The entire Stark front line surged forward, driving the wildlings off balance. As the wildlings stumbled and fell back, the shields pulled away, allowing the swordsmen from back to charge and engage in the melee.
Daemon pressed forward, gripping Ice with his right hand while taking his knife in another. He advanced on a wildling wielding a crude wooden club with a stone tip. The wildling barely began his attack when Ice flashed through the air, slicing through his neck. Daemon followed with a powerful kick to the man's stomach, sending his lifeless body crashing into three more wildlings, who toppled backward, causing further chaos.
From that moment on, Daemon was an unstoppable force, cutting through the panicking wildling line like a knife through butter. His speed was blinding, his movements a blur as he bisected men, severed limbs, and parried any strike aimed from his left by the knife. The occasional blow that glanced off his body was shrugged off, his durability and enhanced healing rendering the wounds non-threatening.
His speed allowed him to plough through the wildlings so much that by the time anyone from side or behind could slash at his back, he was past their reach. The scattered mob nature of wildling army made it possible he could move forward without any problem. His eagles were keeping their entire eyes on him from air and when he was going to be swarmed by some brave fools from the side or back, he just rotated 360 degree in his feet keeping Ice parallel to the ground, making short work of the wildlings trying to flank him. The only reason they were not able to stab him from behind was his own speed and their fear due to his inhuman feats they just witnessed.
The wildlings screamed in terror as they saw an inhuman boy with a grin and white-black hair turned red by the blood spilled by him. Adding to the blood was the fire sword. Fire has always been a terror for man from the ancient times and when it is used against him, they always try to avoid it. But there was no refuge for the rapidly retreating wildlings.
Heads, hands, torsos—Daemon’s blade cut through them all, scattering body parts and creating a red mist of blood that began to rise around him. The wildlings’ will to fight was broken, replaced by a desperate urge to flee. Daemon reached the far side of the mob, his eagles showing him from above the red mist that had formed in his wake in the mob of men, resembling a man cleaved in two.
By then, Umber and the soldiers had reached the halfway point of the battlefield. Umber grinned with an insane gleam in his eyes as he saw the red mist slowly settling to the ground in almost a straight line in the middle of the battlefield. A invisible line made by dead bodies and the still falling red mist by the passing of Daemon. As it cleared, a figure emerged at the end, standing at the end of a clear path through the wildling lines, holding the Stark sword, Ice. For Umber, it was a scene straight out of the stories from the Age of Heroes, he used to like when he was younger;
Daemon stood there, bathed from head to toe in blood and gore, with entrails draped around his neck like some macabre trophy. His silver half of the hair was now a mixture of red and black, stained by the blood of his enemies.
As Daemon looked up, he saw the Northmen advancing, nearly reaching the halfway mark. He noticed the wildlings fleeing towards the forest on the left side of the field, trying to escape, and he knew the battle was already won.
But Daemon was not finished. He started moving again, cutting down anyone in his path. It was the hour of the eel when the fighting finally ended, with the Northmen victorious and the birth of a legend.
Aethan watched as Daemon approached Lord Stark’s body. As his face came into view, Lord Karstark, the Mormonts, and the soldiers nearby saw a continuous clear track of running tears under the eyes in the red painted face. Blood was still dripping down Daemon’s body and he was still crying when he finally reached near the body and collapsed in exhaustion.
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Authors note: yeah that happened. I feel like I am some Lannister stan like GRRM or a Targaryen stan that killed off starks every chapter. But sorry, this is Planetos and death is around every corner. Daemon being an unstoppable force is a one off here for now. he will of course reach there, but the feats of killing hundreds here is because of rage along with hysterical strength and the specially made Valyrian Steel Sword Ice boosting him along with physical advantage of its length and sharpness. If it was a regular sword, the edge would have given away, along with getting stuck in one of the dead body.
If anyone felt the scene of Daemon asking why this rage is similar to one Nolan had in thraxa in Invincible. Then it is not a coincidence. Ever since I read that in comics it was in my mind and I wanted to pay homage to that.
Also I need a nickname for Dameon with ref to this chapters action… suggestions please.
I have one in mind, but if I liked any of the suggestions more, I will go with the suggestion.
Comments
the batman
well, even the northerners is spooked by this feats of daemon.. no one other than benjen and aethan, understood that daemon's blood is also slowly enhancing them.. the people only knows of some healing done by daemon, but even then half the people scoffs it as rumours... bloody bastard, is pretty generic and could be even an insult when hearing first time.. so no...
Rick Malone
I thought the northerners might use it just to tweak southerners noses, but you’re right. How about the bloody bastard?
the batman
Butcher of Queenscrow/ nightfort has potential......
the batman
good suggestions, though blood warg cannot be used... it will be foolish to proclaim himself as warg..
Rick Malone
The red wolf, the blood warg, the wrathful wolf
Rival
Daemon the Red. Daemon the Bloody. Daemon the Butcher / Butcher of Queenscrow. Wrathful Daemon?
