A song of Ice and Fire / Game of Thrones Fan-Fiction – Awakening

Adult Fan-Fiction © Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved
Revision 1.09 :blush:

created thanks to http://awoiaf.westeros.org/
Included artwork used with permission,
visit http://redan23.deviantart.com for the high quality original.​

Further Artful Life-Giving​

Thanks to Yvonne Bentley, another real fan of ASOIAF, the once-unnamed protagonist received a defined face. Even better than just allowing me to use her portraits in my PDFs, Yvonne as well has drawn portraits of many official characters from ASOIAF – Game of Thrones. To see them in full quality visit: http://yvyb13.deviantart.com

I wrote this in Pietroschek Prose, not US-English, nor British English. Pietroschek Prose is something like unintentional, imbecilic-moronic violation of the two English versions to which it is often accidentally compared to. ​

Adghul Moonfox - Awakening​

It was a cold and preternatural moment to me, Adghul Moonfox. A timeless moment at the threshold from the lands of the dead to the lands of the living. It could have been just one instance, or half an eternity. I am not sure, and neither do I suffer the hubris of the kneelers. Though that is a half-truth.

A legitimate half-truth, as this is my tale, and half my ancestry stems from each side of the Wall! My mother was wildling, my Father a kneeler. I memorize these comments, for my body is still in icy cold stasis. I know I can write them down later. Yes, I am partially educated. Sometimes I tell them at a campfire, or to a woman who decides to stay for breakfast, the feasting at daybreak. With our Clan, Tribe, or Ilk, being known as the Graverobbers that is rare indeed. Many suspect us to feed on the flesh of the Dead. In truth we actually preferred the flesh of our competitors in certain harsh times. Our lands are always in winters white. Cold, Storm, Hunt, and Ancient Magic our heritage.

Some revere the Old Gods here, others, like our Tribe, chose to respect only what benefits them. For now this is futile dabbling, as I am trapped in darkness. I am lying upon cold stone, which is suspicious. I am no leader, and no honored warrior either, I am just … one of my kind. It worries me deeply, as a selfish Necromancer, or those who chant for the Dead, both would mean the presence of light-sources. I know only one other return from the dead, and that would be dire news for me. Slain by a White Walker..?

Weirwood and Heart-Tree, I feel my heart pumping, and my body suffering from the cold. That means I am not what I feared, just in even more lethal danger. Old instincts awaken, as my arms search for my weapons. Needless to search for my gear, I can feel it is not, where I had carried it. My arms circle, touching each part of the stone. My knife and Ax are not where I sheathed them either.

When instinct fails, its time to use the mind – a wildling point of view. The old incantations never suited me much, were more habitual than true witching anyway. Yes, I listened, and learned, even from grandma and mum. The witching which is a living scenery to a real Demon-Bride is only a short flickering to me.

Accursed half-blood, a title I earned in my younger years. One upon which wildlings and kneelers agreed, though I guess they did not know the full implication. Entombed in a man-made grave, surrounded by icy cold. Yes, we were on an expedition into the Frostfangs. An expedition of survival, not arrogant sage posture of the kneelers.

Paradoxically it is I who kneel and kneel again. It is a gruesome ordeal to plunder this hall of the dead in chilling darkness. When I am lucky, then it is just a test of my abilities. Lucky for it would mean I would only need to worry about a mortal witch or warlock. No, that sounds far too easy for the harsh truth of life in the North.

I coughed and spat some mixture of my own blood with some weird black oil that moment. Saw it via the witching, just thought it would disgust bards of the kneelers too easily, squeamish fops! I would give much for a campfire, a frying pan and a kneelers brain right now. Oh, see, that is the stuff I should not bring into detailed prose or the kneelers start calling us monstrous savages once again. Spices, fork, knife and spoon for the civilized brain-eaters then.

The earth trembles and with it I realize that I am inside a cavern or cave. Something shatters on the ground and an even icier gust of wind assaults my unprotected skin. Light! My eyes closed in surprise, headaches jam my petty witching. Light, I can see my prison and a way out of it.

I had been moved. Unknown by whom. I was one of eight grave-robbers who invaded this tomb of an ancient warrior. I remember vaguely. Yes, an avalanche or similar had us entombed here. Then magic had finished us off. Well, seven of us. By right of survival I am the worthiest.

Ugh Ugh, me big boss of icy tomb now... well, starving and freezing boss of an icy tomb. I plunder my fallen brethren and search the tomb with the witching sight and instincts of a thief. A handful of nuts and berries become my meal. As the corpses of my former companions radiate something too unhealthy to feed on. I dress in stitched sheep-fur and add armor parts I am used to. Two belts hold three long knives and two axes now.

It will be a fierce and risky test of my stamina and skills. The Frostfangs have enough predatory beasts of the wild to kill an entire army. Rumors say some of the toughest tribes dwell here hidden from sight.
And our land has even fiercer killers than just that. I speak my thanks into the emptiness of the tomb, has it been a mysterious womb to me after all.

My steps are clumsy and painful, I had been off my feet for a while. One knife gives me hold as I hack it into the ice of the tunnel which leads upwards. Westeros has me back again and I feel life within me. Life driving me on, life disagreeing with whatever tribes and kneelers think of me!​

The Magic of the Land. Or was it the Kiss of the Ice Maiden? Some night long, long ago I heard my Grandma whisper it to my Mother. So supposedly a witch or druid could make the cold not harm her or him. Somehow they could bewitch the land, making them walk faster than the best riders. I felt the magic surge before I had time for my own little witching.

In the bardic tales of the kneelers it will be like that: I did a mighty witching, wrested compliance from the Frostfangs themselves and was carried by the gorgeous spirits of our fallen yet gorgeous warrior maidens of legend! In truth my idiotic attempts to walk with closed eyes due witching had made me stumble and slip. I did gain much tempo, just that I was actually sliding on ice with nearly no control of my movements.

I learned from it and turned a wooden shield and my backpack into a sledge. I dared another ice-ride and soon found the deceptive joy it brings to barbarian souls. Deceptive for accidents out here are utterly lethal. It makes no sense to me. If one is awakened by some kind of witching, then there should be some kind of witchcraft to do. Until now it was all more the kind of test which our warriors would 'invent' during a drunken stupor.

Witching and spiriting work differently than that. Magic is strongest where the realm is untouched by the usurper-kings. Untainted from their madness that man-kings could replace gods! Well, that is the womanish sermon. Stems mostly from those who did not dare to take a weapon and fight. Raw witching in raw lands. I must find a solution on my own.
A bark reaches my ears. I free the two long-knives I am wielding from the ice into which they were stuck to slow my ice-ride. I search my surroundings in a crouch, using the sledge to guard my back. The barking creature circles me and I can feel its presence in this bleak and frozen landscape.

With a growl the small, dark-furred head comes up. I sniff loudly, hoping the animal would distinguish curiosity from hostility. Growl. Sniff! Growl. Sniff! Finally a bark. The small snow-fox has decided not to be my foe. I try to meet its eyes, ask its permission for the witching. And again one brief flickering where a campfire tale length of information would be available to true witching.

Exhausted and frustrated do I start to build a wind-blocker by taking coats and blankets from my backpack and tightening them between small tress. Meanwhile the snow-fox feasts on whatever prey it had protected from me. I chew a nut and two berries. Short before I prepare my rest the fox understands the idea and comes closer. Vigilance and distrust still in its beady eyes. I wrap myself in a blanket, invite the fox to sit on it and cover the little scavenger with a sheep-fur.

Sleep came nearly instantly. Dreams kept themselves from being realized by my mind. Luckily a powerful fox-fart awakens me after a comparably small nap. Luckily for the cold is dangerous, body-parts could freeze-dead before one even notices. It is so beautiful one could proverbially die for it. The stars in the sky and the white-blue Frostfangs bathed in their subtle lights. With the fox watching me warily I break off some minor tree branches and prepare a small fire.

I cut through snow with my knife, investigating the purity of it. Soon I can fill my metal-mug with warmed water. I warm some in the pan, too. Offering it to the foxy little fart. It is hunger versus the witching. Old codex warns to turn on others of the witching, I just forgot the details. Yet I won't eat a fox who showed me respect. The warm water feels good while it goes through my torso. I take some steps, listen vigilantly and relief myself, as kneelers tell it.

While I gather and pack my equipment the snow-fox gets agitated. I sense no danger and give it a puzzled look instead. It makes some steps then turns around to look at me. I hope that means 'follow the fox'. A small march ensures that my body is fully awake. The snow-fox guiding me to uncharted secrets still. Then I perceive the obelisk, or rune-stone as we call them. Legendary aspects of the witching, not from the Old Gods.

My guide seems reluctant to get closer to the stone and I look at it due lack of explanations. The fox barks, makes some steps back, turns it head to look at me. I smile in gratitude, wish him a honest farewell too. So I do what is known to our tribe as acting in unison. Body and witching mind act one same intent without hesitation or doubt. Magic snatches me away, I can feel it stronger, than anything I encountered in the last ten years of my life.

Again I am convinced, that I am timeless and bodiless for an instant. It feels like such at least. Just this time it causes a nausea which I will never forget. Rapture... a woman once told me such a word would exist. My senses return to me. The scenery was switched though. I am in a small village, it is still icy cold and the night is still crystal clear.

I do not need much thought or deduction to realize, that I am somewhere around 'the gorge'. There is no doubt remaining for I stare at the structure evidencing it. The Wall! If I use the witching I can even make out the spot called the Tower of Shadows.

Yet for now, there is a village around me. One full of curious eyes and alerted shouts. That is wildling tongue. Hopefully not another wise-woman who had certain dreams about somebody stepping out of the stone to rescue their incestuous tribe or such. I must face it, unwelcome as it is.​

The salty waves surprised me. Four days and nights had we been on ice. The dire cold giving us an advantage which Chief Grudger Bearclaw had waited for. The fierce and unkempt leader of the village had been a nearly honorable host to me. I had found shelter in the village for the minor price of accompanying the wild ones on one of three suicidal missions.

The Chief's plan had merit though. One mission to appease the old gods, one for supply and one for steel. A resource rarely found in the North, steel could make the difference in decisive battle. The kneelers have a fine saying there in the South: “When you play the Game of Thrones – You win or you die!”. Craven fops they are they forgot that among wildlings such was the truth every day and night of our existence.

Valerian Steel aside the one resource really missing in the North was Soap! Where does odor end and where does stench begin... Adghul Moonfox, my name and title in one. Well, among wildlings. The Chief had assigned the tasks to his sons. Only the third task, the spiritual quest for the village-wise-woman, Magdaia Wytchscar, was free from that. Henceforth we had the smallest yet fastest boat. And only four warrior-guards.

We were beyond complaining as wildlings considered that a lack of faith in the old gods. The ambition of Grudger Bearclaw was great, yet he was not unprepared to reap the rewards those risks offered. I would have been more worried otherwise. Our boat did cut its way through the occasional ice-shells in our path. The wood had been reinforced with a mixture of bronze added grind-iron. Iron Powder added to give strength and stability to the soft metal base.

Such wedges were crafted for all three boats and wisely we had practiced nightly for one week, how to cut through ice with it. That drill raised the confidence for all of us. It gave us a benefit and faith in our own abilities. Just like the dire cold gave us excuses for drunken excesses. I was thrown upon the fur only one time. One warrior-woman had decided to gift me the pleasure of her company. An ordeal I felt in my muscles and abdomen for two painstaking days.

Yet she was wise. If she would have a child with me there was a fair chance it would have the benefits of her reckless courage and my witching inheritance. Trained properly such children would become formidable war-band leaders, hunters with a kind of sixth sense or, with lots of study and meditation, even decent witchdoctors. Women of inner-strength always raised their children without the father. More than a warrior tradition.

Our journey was hardest for the guards, as we who are gifted with witching struggled against the soul-storm, were useless for work. Down in the ocean there are creatures powerful in the witching. Few knew this, yet I felt an onslaught of power which I could harshly blend-out. Shielding my mind took heavy toll on m stamina and I noticed, that similar was true for all except the guards.

One night we had luck though. A clearer sky and comparably calm waves allowed us an extended meditation to draw energy from our surroundings. While our bodies still hurt we were ready for our own need of witching again. The raw beauty of Westeros, it is a gift rarely appreciated...
When I looked-up from my slumber-crouch, I watched Magdaia Wytchscar do an intense witching. Prudent woman, she had ensured the guards were all busy with some duty. Regular wildlings can panic or frenzy as side-effect of witching. The Curse of Fox and Wolverine.

I learned a lesson on witching as I watched her while feeling the energies which remain unperceived by all lacking the gift or heritage. Magdaia ordered discipline and the guards kept their faces stern. To me it is a weird and somewhat intimidating experience to feel the witching when it impacts life. The feeling was more intense than the shaking of the boat when the Octopus, bewitched by Magdaia Wytchscar, grabbed our boat and started to drag us towards our destination.

That powerful Kraken kept itself mostly under the waterline and still the giant beast had a force in those tentacles, that I understood now, how the legend of Sea-Hags had possibly been spawned. The boat reached a tempo only known from strongest optimum wind. Once I felt its gaze upon me and wondered, if for such a beast, the witching would simply be one more asset to overpower its prey. There is a majestic beauty to certain savage creatures and sometimes I think, that humanoids hurt them more often motivated by envy than by hunger or hatred.

A while before dawn the Octopus stopped, calmly holding itself in the Water obviously breathing and resting. Magdaia proposed the guards to rest then and I started to ensure, that sail and oars remained secured. I know that during physical exertion few feel the need to eat food. Maybe the Octopus found that true too. Or it may be cause of the witching which called it upwards from the deep.​

Warriors look at us, contempt and spite said to shine from their eyes, when we make the mistakes our ilks are so notorious for. Busy with the big magics we are foolish and ignorant to more mundane threats occasionally. A bitter truth, as any focused mind is as well oblivious to other aspects of the surroundings.

In retrospective it was nothing special. We had just reached the shore and investigated our surroundings in a first scouting phase. Still that simple summary fails to express the intensity and outright complexity of meeting and surviving danger.

IF any of us would have been more vigilant to mundane threats, we might have been able to face or flee the threat indeed. We were simply so happy with the convenience of our magical success, that we indeed had forgotten, that outside of the spell-weaving and chanting the world went onwards on its own.

Pirates! Not even the fierce and legendary ones united under House Greyjoy, just greedy criminals who had gotten themselves a ship. Our guards were busy watching us and henceforth had their backs turned to the sea. Stupid mistakes, I cannot remember a single campfire with the elders, at which the classic warnings against our spiritual hubris were not spoken in well-meant worry about our survival.

Magdaia must have known it in her own way. She had made me a witness of her path's ending. The chosen few Kneeler occultists worthy of mentioning all had titles for and lore about it. Rumors had it, some believed stealing the soul would fruition in such moments. Others suspected, that secret spells could only be learned by those who handled such witnessing properly. As the rules were completely unknown, nobody knew for sure.

My luck was, that I scouted farthest away from the angle of attack which felled my companions. I was forced back into solitude by the first pirate attack. Usually our world had no place for easy ways out. Even a veteran witch was not able to bewitch or banish the inevitable.

Brutally the thought, if I will face my end so death-defiant and tradition-honoring, blasted through my personality. Ego-Crushing and Soul-Shattering in a way, which we of the witching learn to recover from during our adolescence. The pirates intercepted on a quite straight course half between our boat and the location of Magdaia's group on the beach.

The most bloodthirsty stormed forwards through the knee-high waters, while the more cunning ones prepared missile weapons. I was still befuddled by overuse of my witching, walking instead of running back towards my companions. Yes, my intuition may have known the outcome already. Still many underestimate that our will itself is rightfully brother in arms to our warriors.

I did not shun bloodshed or death, I just sensed properly, that dying a futile death myself would not turn the tides either. Further my companions were not of my tribe. Magic seemingly lost against a brutal onslaught by iron and steel. Yet not without leaving a proverbial scar upon the souls of those who dared bringing its death.

Magdaia was felled by three crossbow bolts in the middle or at the height of her incantation. I was unable to do the witching that soon after overuse again. I felt the energy it released though. Flesh was magic-stripped from mortal bones and even the smallest insects in the area were warped into monstrous punishers. Energy so vile, sickening and baleful that not even the White Walkers could frighten me more.

I had no more need to choose between flight and fight, as within one gruesome instance, I was the only living left in the vicinity. I will never know for sure, if I fantasized or really perceived it as real. To me it looked, as if Magdaia's final magic had made skeletons jump straight out of the bodies of the pirates as those who got murdered by them. Skeletons which looked unreal and ravening in fury, with black vapors or clouds, steam-like, rising from their bones.

Horrors from the Realms of the Dead, having come to take the marked ones with them. Some pirates fought, nearly like warriors, others just screamed or gasped until their life was bloodily forfeited. Or my mind conjured such a feverish dream to explain the truth. Alone in unknown Lands. Well, it was still somewhere on Bear Island.​

I awoke with the typical nausea, enervation and confusion which is the traditional punishment for overuse of the witching. Lying upon a bed myself, I quickly registered the female form at my side. Many theories, when contemplated beyond the literal, agree on a fierce and costly aspect common to all magic. Actually, I as a lesser talent on the way, would advise to consider, how few of all the greedy and ambitious ever had the idea to pay back the boons granted by magic.

Wrapped in superstition, wildling temper and cultural folklore as it may be, magic is a force very aware of who treats it well and who goes abusive. Many remember phrases, like the personality of a spell-weaver being reflected in his or her magic. Yet did they ever contemplate that to the result?

Magic is a personality influencing force, among others, therefor one could get the idea, that such is rooted in an important truth about our way to handle what life unleashes against us. Kneelers, in context, are often victims of the Maesters. Maybe deservedly so. Sometimes the end of academic truth is simply based in a simple wisdom: The answer of a Maester is not necessarily the same as the answer of a Lord or of the Smallfolks.

To balance that, as the Valerian Steel Ring by their tradition reminds us, that Maesters are forced to define all magic via the quite extensive and unique approach from an old high-culture which is heavily glorified and imbued with legend and pseudo-religious mysticism. That seems like foolish Adghul Moonfox as described by the Elders. In bed with a woman and the best idea he gets is contemplating magical theories which nobody will ever need..? On the contrary.

Sermon: “Any wolf, stag or hound stands a good chance to survive a fox-frenzy pretty unscathed, yet not even the toughest of them could rightfully state that about fox-folly too.”

Gyno-Phobia, as well as venustraphobia, is exceptionally rare among barbarians and wildlings. I, Adghul Moonfox, am no exception, more an occasional moron due whim or lack of stamina. My host was in no need of anything, like a broomstick, which just symbolized masturbation anyway. And still the stereotypes remain a truth with their own time and place. Often they are simply known as spoilers, as it needs successful witching and skill, to make anything better of them.

Mutual witching is both, an ordeal to reach when it is wanted and otherwise a persistent and ever-lurking spoiler to sexual endeavors. While mad barbarians jump around, often howling due the rush of the moment, the wise-folks or magically sensitive can actually really benefit from the use of those moments. In nearly all cases it is one of the few real chances to work magic greater than the own potential and grow stronger from it.​

Wildling Campfire Chant
Deceitful Kneelers ride into our Lands again,
We freefolk are to them more beast than men.
They spill the blood and call forth the hour,
Madly they flee instead of facing the Power.​

As I awoke I realized the position I had slumbered in. My right arm was between the legs of my host and she seemingly managed, to wrap her legs around it without squeezing off the bloodstream. Thanks. I kissed her belly by reflexive kind of urge, An urge known to all who learned to handle the witching. It started with a gentle push, yet would become more forceful, if not enacted. Basically the message was a traditional kind of: “Hurry up with the carnal part, there is magic to work.”

We both did feel it. Though my host was at a minor disadvantage as my touching and kissing of her body made her wake-up a little bit after me. Sex as a normal urge is mostly unknown among kneelers. Maybe there is so much rape, incest and homosexuality among them because of that? Suppression of a natural urge can twist it into a fiendish mockery which destroys the toughest sooner or later.

Yet we both were distracted. Something decisive had just happened, the witching was humming like a swarm of angry wasps, the tingling in my body becoming a burden no sex could relief me from. I guessed my host felt similar her own way, otherwise she mayhap just did not find my too attractive.

We used our sexual position to focus on the witching henceforth. It would have been futile to blend it out anyway. Mance Rayder, the King beyond the Wall, had been defeated and captured. His scouts had not judged properly, how strong a force Stannis Baratheon had brought northwards and the wildlings, my people, paid in blood for their hubris. A cruel proverbial way to express it, lovely to me.

Beyond that, I got only one more vision. An elder woman, seemingly being called the Mother of Moles, prophetic about wildlings having to search the sea. I was a wildling who had just done that during the last weeks. Yet I was as well magician enough, to be alert, as impulses of the witching can result in echoes which frighten the cats, attract the White Walkers and inflict weird delusions in less sensitive minds. It often makes people feel destined or have pseudo-visions without the skill to handle them.

Witching done, I finally could start talking to my host. The woman who gave me shelter when I was overwhelmed by magical burnout called herself Svenya of the Nightbat tribe. Just to keep it noted properly, even combined witching does not make one friends. It can be expected, that both of us held back some secrets and suspicions. Yet we both agreed, that the king beyond the wall had been defeated and imprisoned.

That had to mean, that either the Crows or King Stannis kept him prisoner now. We as well agreed, that it meant kneelers and free folk were butchering each other in a time, when our true enemy, the one who flays kneelers and wildlings as if there is no difference, was already growing stronger. Deep in the South people explained a lack of talent or a lack of demand with magic dying off. In the North, especially north of the Wall, such delusions were brutally removed ages ago.

I shared one suspicion with Svenya for I enjoyed her company. Since my awakening she was the first woman and witch I had encountered in a pleasant way. Her eyes watched me intensely, the scrutiny of the witching people, she had to check for lies, misconceptions and madness while I spoke. The moon and the ocean seemed to wax and wane, to ebb and flow in their intensity. Magic did not. Neither was magic one form of energy, as the magic we learned was far from the magic of the Others (Others or White Walkers by faction) or the abusive sorcery visions had shown us from southron lands.

I was convinced that certain powers called themselves gods, or deities. I was comparably certain that many ambitious or powerful wielders of magic influenced mortals, kneelers, and wildlings alike for their own agendas and schemes. It needed no trust in Svenya, as telling her so was my free decision. Mad Kings fighting Mad Gods, Westeros had been plagued by that before. And I told her that I was not eager to depart so soon either. I wanted her company, and the opportunity to practice some witching and some martial arts.

From the fact that she rejoiced, and kissed me passionately, I concluded, that it may be a mutually shared feeling.​

It was in the early morning hours. A damp, cold and foggy circle outside of Svenya's homestead. I was still remembering the posture, formally called a fighting-stance, as the weapon-grips, when I already got smacked into my belly and my head.

Quarterstaff is an underestimated weapon. Especially as picked-up rod of raw wood is the desperate version. A real quarterstaff is hardened and wrapped in bandages. Or, for richer wanderers, metal wraps instead of leather bandage. Further the process of wood-hardening, by nearly roasting it into charcoal, yet skilfully stopping when the time is right, was known among wildlings for decades.

A real quarterstaff could deflect a sword, though a full parry was still a risky and usually last-resort type of reaction. The quickest form of attack with it was the stab, usually only good against lightly armored foes. Bashing with it was brutally efficient. The benefit of training with those staffs lay in the fact that even with minimum strength it easily became a full body workout.

From the muscles in the toes to the crouched holding of the head, it was an interplay of every body part. Even when standing on one spot the staff could outreach any longsword, broadsword or ax. Deceptive in nature to barbarians it was a useful blend of tool and weapon among journeymen of our times.

Beyond my drill and lore though, Svenya had just opened with a double-combination which had hit me twice. Tasting my own blood I spat sideways. Such a little clubbing was not enough to make me stop. It just warned me, that my practice partner was more competent than anticipated.

I adapted to a more dynamic approach. The staff used with agility instead of brute force, to become swifter and ready to parry her counters. Actually, in the chosen few moments within which we really can afford to blend out the witching, we feel the rapacious bloodlust so often associated with barbarian raiders.

We went through the chores of survival together for quite some time. When staffs became boring we tried the long-knives and some brawling. Yet we both as well were feeling the wake of our stomachs. The feasting at daybreak began to appeal to us, even though we did barely sweat and pant from the physical efforts yet. Honey-Bread with fresh berries became our meal. For a moment all risks of witchlings acting like a regular couple seemed mutually forgotten. Maybe that was even true.

For a while we had lived with each other and learned from each other. Yet it is part of wildling nature, to feel an indomitable urge for freedom and independence. Sooner or later we all roam the world and if only, to break out of any routine. So I prepared my departure and circled her homestead, ritually doing the witching so I could send a message via raven or nightbat. A precaution in case one of us was not ready or willing to use the witching way of messaging.

When we embraced the final time during our farewell, all I could tell her was:

“Thanks, for making me, Adghul Moonfox, feel at home in this world.”

A kneeler might have realized the chance of marriage. Wildling blooded though the best I could do her was to respect her freedom and independence, even when I sure would feel the longing to be with her in future moments.

I had needed that rest after the turn of events which proved my expectations to be wrong. I felt guilty for I had not told Svenya of the Stones. I felt encouraged, for I had traded one ax and one knife against an obsidian dagger. Some called it dragonbone, yet it was just a black stone of sorts. I was not sure, if real dragonbone could kill a White Walker as well. Yet having one of the blades which would allow self-defense could prove wiser than lacking it.

Free folk lore was quite accurate on most of the Others being simply called the hungry dead for a rather true reason. Among those with the witching there were alternate theories though. Problem was, to test them out one had to risk being torn to shreds or being eaten alive.

END for this WIP as needed. WIP is Work in Progress shortage. FEEDBACK and constructive criticism welcome.​