The Slayer

"Do you have a cock?"

Jon nearly choked on the roasted chicken he was eating at Tormund's unexpected question with some of the wildlings in Tormund's band peaking up with interest. Mance and most of his host were away. Deeper into the Frostfangs and in the opposite direction from the Wall, which made no sense to Jon. There was something that the king was looking for. Mance didn't privy Jon to much information, nor did Jon spend much time with the king since their initial encounter.

He had been tasked to Tormund's warband, nearly 6,000 strong but made up of mostly children and the elderly. Ygritte had left Rattleshirt's band to join Tormund and stay close to Jon who had resorted to using Ghost as a shield.

"Do you still have your cock?" Tormund repeated with genuine concern on his usually jovial face. "I hear that a man must cut off his own cock if he wishes to be a crow."

"That's not true." Jon replied, "And even if it were, I am no crow."

"HAR! Well said, lad!" Tormund cheered as he gave Jon a firm pat on the back before nodding towards where Ygritte and Longspear Ryk where eating. "She'll make a wildling o' you yet, boy!"

Jon swallowed nervously as he understood Tormund's implication. Wildlings would often demand that deserters prove their loyalty by either killing a former black brother or laying with a wildling woman. Somehow, sleeping with Ygritte seemed even more daunting than killing Qhorin Halfhand. The Halfhand died by suicide, Jon thought. Deep down he knew that while it was necessary to prove that he has no lingering loyalties to the Night's Watch, a certain silver-haired beauty would never forgive him if ever lay with a wildling. Daenerys had nearly lost her mind at the Twins when a Frey girl kissed him and he wasn't even awake during it.

"She reminds me too much of my cousin." Jon said truthfully. Ygritte was easy on the eyes, especially since most of the wildling women were as uncomely as the men. But he had met serving wrenches and peasants who were prettier than her. Yet the wildlings believed her to be a great beauty because of her red hair; kissed by fire they had called it and those who had it were said to be lucky. However, her dirty and tangled red locks were nothing compared to the silky and fiery red mane of Sansa and even Lady Stark.

"Well... Best hurry." Tormund replied as chugged down his mead. "See that boy sitting next to her? Name's Longspear Ryk but he don't fight with no spear, you know. Never has. So where do you think he got that name? Har!"

Jon blushed at Tormund's words and looked over at the redhead who gave him a crooked smile. Small wonder that the Seven Kingdoms thought the free folk scarcely human. They have no laws, no honor, not even simple decency. They steal endlessly from each other, breed like beasts, prefer **** to marriage, and fill the world with baseborn children. Yet he was growing fond of Tormund Giantsbane, great bag of wind and lies though he was. But Jon was not stupid. He knew that Mance had tasked Tormund to keep a close eye on him. He may not be in chains and had the freedom to wander about the wildling camp but he was very much a prisoner.

"O' maybe you have eyes for Dalla's lil sister?" Tormund slurred drunkenly as one of his sons refilled his flagon with a thick white alcoholic beverage. "Gotta warn ye, she's as deadly as they come. Jarl is one of the Magnar's best and Val stole him from his previous woman... Though he hardly put up much of a fight if you ask me. Har! Can't blame him. If I was ten years younger I'd ha..."

"You'd what, Tormund?" Val asked, appearing out of nowhere. Val was clad all in white. Her breath was white as well but her eyes were blue, her long braid the color of dark honey, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. It had been a long while since Jon Snow had seen a sight so lovely.

"I was telling the little prince about how we Free Folk take our women. About how I might have stolen you had I been younger." Tormund said without shame. "Maybe the dragon prince wants a taste of the Free Folk princess. Ye won't mind, won't you, girl?"

"Prince Crow is welcome to steal into my bed any night he dares." Val patted the long bone knife on her hip threateningly. "Once he’s been gelded, keeping those vows will come much easier for him."

"Har! That's a true woman of the Free Folk!" Tormund exclaimed as Val gave Jon an icy stare before walking away to rejoin her sister. "Have I ever told you about my woman? The she-bear?"

"Err... Yes you have alrea.." Jon began but Tormund had already started talking.

"Oh, I haven't? Har! Where to begin? A she was fine to lay with that bear! I was in Ruddy Hall with me member shivering from the cold..." Jon rolled his eyes exasperation as Tormund began to tell the tale for the third time.

Later that night. . .

"Ghost, what's wrong?"

on woke up shivering from the cold. He had slept next to Ghost for both warmth and protection but the direwolf was gone. Jon searched frantically, eyes still groggy from sleep until he found the large white wolf standing silently, fangs bared in a silent growl. The direwolf wasn't the only one agitated. All around, the horses and the dogs were restless, the hounds started to bark in the direction of the forest.

"THEY'RE COMING!!! SOUND THE HORN!!!" Came a loud frantic cry from a man that Jon recognised was Tormund's warg. Immediately, the entire camp descended into chaos. Men woke men, screaming and shouting orders to anyone who listened.

And then he saw them.

Blue eyes lit up the darkness as shadows emerged from the forest. Despite their relative disorganisation, the wildlings gave a stern defence, already loosing flaming arrows upon the approaching horde.

"Ghost, to me." Jon commanded, tightening his grip upon Longclaw. However, Ghost ignored him and turned tail in the opposite direction of the incoming threat. Jon stood dumbfounded for a few minutes at the apparent cowardice of his wolf until he felt something else. Ghost wasn't afraid. He was.... cold.

Immediately, Jon felt a shiver coarse throughout his body, draining the warmth from his very soul. A cold like daggers in his chest, making it hard to breathe. And he knew then that the greatest threat wasn't the dead that was marching upon them... It was the dead's masters. And they were here.

Heaving a heavy breath to dispel the cold away, Jon followed his direwolf who had run in the direction of the river. It was isolated from the rest of the wildling camp, made up of cook fires and the camps of the women and children. Shit! Val!!! Jon thought in panic as began to pick up the pace.

Jon charged towards the White Walker, cutting down several wights on the way. With Mance away and Tormund preoccupied, many of the wildlings didn't care about Dalla or even her child, preferring to watch over their own family.

However, Jarl got to the women first. The man fiercely defended his woman against the approaching Other, brandishing a burning log at the surrounding wights but it was all for naught. Unlike the wights, the White Walker remained unfazed by the flames and caught the burning log with one icy hand and with an inhuman strength easily broke Jarl's neck with his other hand.

As soon as Jarl's lifeless body hit the snowy ground, his corpse began to twitch and spasm uncontrollably. Jon knew what was happening and started to run as fast as his legs could carry him, ignoring and dashing past the wights around him. The Other meanwhile slowly advanced towards the defenceless women with Val holding up a bone knife in a hopeless defiance as she defended her sister.

Realising that he would not make it in time, Jon cried out and succeeded in distracting the monster away from the two women. The White Walker's lips twitch into a menacing smirk and reach out for his own sword, a thin blade of ice that singed as it cut through the air. He pointed the icy blade towards Jon in a silent command and Jarl rose up, with his head at an odd angle on his neck and his dull brown eyes now shining with an icy blue radiance.

Ghost jumped upon the undead Jarl, gnawing the arm of the man and without thinking Jon swung his sword at Jarl, beheading him in one fell swoop.

Jon barely had time to react as the White Walker was upon him and he moved to a defensive stance using Longclaw to block the crystal sword of the creature. As soon as the valyrian steel made contact with the crystal sword, instead of the usual sound of clashing steel, a loud thin screech was heard as if an animal screaming in pain. The White Walker was unnaturally strong and easily parried Jon's attack but what he had in strength, he lacked in skill as his block gave Jon an opening. Acting on pure instinct, Jon thrust his sword into the opening, the valyrian steel pierced the creature's armour and dug into its icy flesh with a loud crack!

The White Walker's eyes widened in shock and it emitted a painful screech that was so loud that Jon was **** to let go of Longclaw and muffled his ears with his gloved hand. The Other's armour was running down its legs in rivulets as pale blue blood hissed and steamed around the valyrian steel sword in its chest. It reached down with two bone-white hands to pull out the sword, but where its fingers touched the steel they smoked.

Jon's eyes grew wide as the Other shrank and puddled, dissolving away. In twenty heartbeats its flesh was gone, swirling away in a fine white mist. Beneath were bones like milkglass, pale and shiny, and they were melting too. Finally only the sword remained, wreathed in steam as if it were alive. And just like that, the cold vanished.....