[Chapter Size: 3400 Words.]

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Third Person POV

Beyond the Wall, 298 AC.

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The footsteps of a man approaching echoed loudly through the area, while the men seemed relaxed, accustomed to the rather tedious life of guarding Fort Craster, only to warn if any wildling group was approaching — or even a Night’s Watch patrol. Their other activities were farming and hunting to feed their families.

They soon noticed the figure approaching. One of the guards nudged his companion with an elbow.

“Look at that,” he said, pointing to the man who had stopped about thirty meters from the walls.

“Who are you?” he asked, staring strangely at the well-dressed man clad head to toe in armor. His eyes fixed on the metal, the brightest he had ever seen in his life. Not even those men who had passed by from the south in an army of more than fifteen thousand people over two years ago had armor as gleaming as that one.

That armor looked as if it were made of diamond with the morning light reflecting off it — obviously, none of them knew what Valyrian steel was.

Jon wore a bear cloak draped over his shoulders, with a sword strapped to his waist. One of his hands was free, while the other held a large shield made of Valyrian steel.

“CRASTER!” Jon shouted, with a piercing sound, making the guards recoil from the sudden volume that reached the entire area with that scream.

Craster’s men atop the walls also became alarmed, hands going to their bows and readying arrows, startled by someone yelling like that. Still, they didn’t shoot. Instead, they shouted, calling for their lord, who quickly emerged from his house, irritated by his name being shouted loudly enough to be heard inside.

Upon hearing there was someone outside the walls, Craster immediately climbed to the top of the small wall. His fort had a main house, where he kept his wives and daughters. Along the same wall, there were several smaller houses where his men lived with their families, like a tribe.

He finally caught sight of the stranger — a man in full armor. He observed Jon through the slits of his helmet, trying to see better, but even through the gaps he could see the man’s eyes. Eyes that burned with pure rage, directed straight at him.

“Who are you?” Craster muttered, a bit cautious. He wondered if the man was alone, but couldn’t see anyone else while looking over the lone man — only empty trees — just that strange figure in armor and shield in hand.

“Craster, I know of the sin you committed against our gods,” Jon said, wasting no time on formalities.

Craster raised an eyebrow, surprised by the direct accusation.

“What sin? Who are you, really? Answer before we start firing arrows. And I doubt that armor of yours will protect you from hundreds of them,” he threatened, angered by the stranger’s words.

Jon wanted to mock that statement, but simply kept his steady gaze. Those men didn’t know the power of Valyrian steel. And that’s why he had come alone — confident in speaking directly to the man and in his armor’s ability to protect him from any attack.

More and more soldiers from the fort were approaching the wall, preparing arrows in case a confrontation occurred.

Jon felt no fear, holding his position. He didn’t bother introducing himself, only said, in a firm voice directly to Craster,

“When I was coming here… I found two White Walkers with a baby.”

He hadn’t even finished the sentence, but Craster immediately turned pale. His face lost all color upon hearing those words.

“We killed the two White Walkers with ease. And when we went to check the baby — who is the son of one of your own daughters or granddaughters, which is repulsive — he had already transformed, and we had to kill that White Walker in the middle of its transformation,” Jon growled each of those words, making Craster freeze for a moment.

His men looked at each other, then at their lord, seeking an explanation for what that all meant. Some, however, clearly knew. After all, he would disappear on nights when newborns came into the world, and his wives always exclaimed — between screams and tears — that they had sacrificed their children in hysteria, but many didn’t care as long as it meant keeping everyone safe within the fort.

“You are the worst kind of person I’ve ever met in my life, Craster. You give your own newborns to those things,” Jon said, still staring at the old man.

“What you did…” Craster murmured, dragging out the words for the first time. He leaned further on the wooden parapet of the wall, pale.

“What you do… Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

Craster didn’t know how Jon had discovered all of that, but if it were true… if someone really knew, it could bring about his destruction. He feared the vengeance of the cold gods, as he called them.

“I killed two White Walkers and a child who met a cruel fate, precisely because his father handed him over to humanity’s enemies. Don’t be surprised. We’re at war with the White Walkers, and we’ve already killed many of them. That’s why we consider what you did an abomination,” Jon declared, his voice firm.

“You’ve just doomed us! Shoot him! QUICK! Kill him!” Craster shouted in fury.

Immediately, his men obeyed. They grabbed their bows, pulled the strings back, and fired a rain of arrows at Jon, who remained standing there, unmoving, watching the attack as if he had already expected it.

He merely raised his shield, anticipating the movement. He was well protected — none of those arrows could seriously wound him. All he needed to do was cover the holes in his helmet and keep the shield in front.

The arrows struck hard against the curved blade of the Valyrian steel shield. Most bounced off, shattering upon contact with the enchanted metal. Some hit his legs, but didn’t even pierce. It was as if the magical steel absorbed the impact.

Despite the earlier anger, Jon remained calm. He lowered the shield firmly, while his eyes observed — through his birds in the sky — everything happening around him. He looked down at the arrows at his feet, thoughtful for a brief moment.

The ability of his armor to destroy any weapon — except obsidian and Valyrian steel — upon contact with the flesh of White Walkers… was fascinating.

But he soon put that thought aside. He fixed his eyes on Craster again, with rage burning in his chest.

“Very well… Kill them all,” Jon ordered in a grim voice, still surrounded by broken arrows — without a single scratch on his body.

Men quickly began emerging from behind the trees, grabbing Weirwood bows and aiming toward the wall. In the next moment, the arrows of the archers of Artica flew forward, catching everyone by surprise.

When Craster began looking around, he saw several of his men dying from accurate shots, even from over a hundred meters away. Those men were the elite of Artica’s army. They quickly eliminated the fourteen archers who had gathered around Craster, nearly making him fall where he stood.

He wasn’t hit, but he was desperate, and Craster began running along the wooden walkways of the wall, shoving others still in the way — some of them agonizing, with arrows pierced through their throats, begging for help in vain.

“Quick, defend the walls!” he exclaimed, stumbling as he searched for cover, seeing that half of his men had simply died within seconds.

Jon watched it all with an indifferent gaze, seeing no one else appear atop the walls. He then ordered:

“Kill anyone who appears above the wall. We’re bringing this gate down.”

Jon returned to his men, who were now beginning to approach him. Basilisks started to emerge from the forest along with Ghost, while Jon made his way to the gates of the place, still closed.

The structure wasn’t very large — made of planks and rustic beams — and since it was wood, it would be easy to bring down. Jon, along with a few men accompanying him, began tying a reinforced rope to the planks of the gate, connecting it to the harnesses of the animals. Ghost kept the line tied around his neck, along with the eight basilisks reinforced with armor, led by Jon’s trusted wargs.

In the next moment, the animals began to pull, forcing themselves against the light snow on the ground with the intent of breaking through the entrance.

“Get ready, everyone!” Jon ordered, as he drew Blackfyre, keeping his shield in the other hand to protect himself from any arrows flying his way.

His men did the same — drawing swords and shields — while behind them, a line of archers provided cover, eliminating any enemy that appeared on the walls trying to stop the entry.

The structure of the gate began to crack. Soon after, it started to lean forward, with several creaks and groans, until it finally collapsed before the horrified eyes of those still alive inside the fortress.

The sound of wood breaking and the animals stumbling echoed throughout the area.

Jon raised his sword and immediately charged through the breach created by the animals, followed by his men. Ducken was also at his side. Arrows began to fly overhead, striking enemy archers who still attempted to resist.

Jon used his shield to defend against the arrows as he advanced, striking the first man with a fatal blow. Ducken was already engaged in another fight, decapitating an opponent with precision.

The other soldiers of Artica advanced quickly, eliminating the enemies one by one. When only five remained, they dropped their swords to the ground, trying to surrender.

Jon then stopped, signaling for his men to cease as well.

The women, horrified, watched from the windows and doorways of their homes. They witnessed the death of their husbands and companions, but Jon felt no pity. He knew what those people had allowed to happen inside and believed they should have surrendered before the fight even began.

He turned his attention to the men still standing and demanded,

“Where is Craster?”

“He hid in his house,” one of them murmured, trembling.

“Restrain the men and secure the area. Ducken, come with me,” Jon ordered, walking toward the main house alongside his general.

The door burst open with a crash when Jon struck it hard, shattering the wood with ease. Inside the house, female screams echoed, mixed with the crying of some babies and terrified women. He stepped inside right after, walking over the shattered remains of the door.

A narrow hallway was filled with women, who looked at him in horror. The sword remained firm in his hand.

“Where is Craster?” he asked with a hint of fury.

The women hesitated for a moment, frightened and uncertain. But some, with trembling hands, pointed to the end of the hallway, where a closed door stood.

“The bastard is still hiding…” Jon growled, marching toward the door.

He broke it open with ease, splintering the wood with a single blow. Upon entering, he saw Craster lunging with an axe in hand. The attack was quick, but Jon reacted even faster — he grabbed the man’s arm before the strike could land and, with his other hand, delivered a punch straight to his face.

The sound of bones breaking was audible. Craster’s teeth shattered from the impact of the fist wrapped in Valyrian steel, his jaw was dislocated, and he fell to the floor of the room, spitting blood and collapsing unconscious, blood still dripping from his mouth.

“You gave him quite a punch,” Ducken murmured, though there was no hint of a joke in his voice as he looked at the fallen man.

“Can you bring him?” Jon asked.

“Of course. I’ll drag him,” Ducken replied.

Craster was a large man, but Ducken was strong enough to carry him without difficulty.

Jon then returned to the hallway, where all the women were still watching him in silence.

“I honestly don’t know if any of you had love for this man… but he is going to die,” Jon declared bluntly. “He will die because, a few days ago, he gave a child to the White Walkers.”

The impact of those words was immediate. The women looked at each other.

“He… took my son!” one of the women exclaimed, dropping to her knees before Jon in despair. The Artican king recognized her. She was the same one who had cried in anguish on the night he saw the baby offered in the forest.

“Yes. We found your son… and we killed the White Walkers,” Jon replied. He knew what the next question would be, and it didn’t take long.

“Did you save him? Tell me you did!” she begged.

It didn’t matter whether the child was Craster’s son, grandson, or even great-grandson — Jon wasn’t sure. But to a mother, it was her child. Watching her baby taken from her arms to become a monster was a trauma no words could heal.

Jon, with a heavy look, shook his head.

“Sorry. When we found him, he was no longer human.”

The woman broke into loud sobs. The others came closer to comfort her, sharing her pain in some way.

“I never imagined… that after all these years, someone would come seeking justice for our children,” said another woman, her voice choked. Jon could see she was around thirty, though she looked terribly worn.

“I remember the three sons I had… and how I was forced to watch them go. All turned into those… those monsters he said were protecting us.”

She then looked Jon in the eyes, determined.

“Tell me… will you kill him in the worst way?”

Jon observed the woman for a moment. She was surrounded by two teenage girls and a small child — all female. Likely daughters, granddaughters, or even great-granddaughters… all destined to be abused by Craster, like so many others.

He also noticed something else: there wasn’t a single woman there over forty years old. Craster probably disposed of them when he deemed them no longer “useful.”

“Don’t worry about that. This man has done something unforgivable,” Jon said.

“But… even we, who gave our sons to the monsters, still lived in peace…” commented a woman — the oldest Jon could spot among them. Her voice sounded bitter, as if she wasn’t pleased with what was happening, but also didn’t dare oppose it.

“We’ll take care of you later. For now, I’ll deal with Craster. Where is there a weirwood tree around here?” Jon asked.

“A weirwood? You know this place was haunted by the cold gods. Do you really think they wanted the old gods here?” replied one of the older women.

Jon fell silent for a moment, reflecting, though he found it insulting to say ‘cold gods’. But now he needed a sacred place. Perhaps he could find it with his animals, knowing the only weirwood tree nearby was probably closer to the Wall. That was where he needed to judge Craster — before the old gods.

“Alright. I’ll leave some men here. Ducken, let’s put him on the basilisk and head for the Wall,” Jon said.

Ducken simply nodded, dragging Craster’s mutilated body, which left a trail of blood dripping from his mouth along the hallway, passing between the women.

Jon asked them to organize the place. Some of the women cried for their dead husbands, but there was nothing to be done.

“Who are you… stranger?” asked one of the women. It was the same one who had earlier said she had lost three sons. She approached Jon as he prepared to leave with Craster unconscious on the back of a basilisk, his mouth still bleeding.

She didn’t recognize the symbols of the Artican soldiers, and to her, it was surreal to see a hundred men in full armor, riding creatures as if they were horses — giant lizards, with predator eyes. She had never seen anything like it.

“Jon of Artica. The King of Artica,” Jon replied, revealing his name there for the first time.

“Either way, we’ll talk later about what’s going to happen with you all. I don’t intend to leave you like this.”

Jon didn’t blame the women. As much as some may have been complicit in Craster’s madness, he had no proof, especially when it seemed Craster did everything himself.

The woman was quite surprised to hear the name. It was a famous one. The lights in the sky that appeared to the north represented the Kingdom beyond the Wall — as all the wildlings said. Craster, in fact, always grumbled about the Night’s Watch constantly asking questions, trying to extract any information from nomadic wildlings about this “kingdom” of the wildlings.

Jon continued on toward the Wall for about four hours. His basilisk ran steadily alongside the others, traversing snow and uneven terrain. As they neared the base of the Wall, it was already possible to see men walking atop the 210 meters (or 700 feet) height of the gigantic structure, even with the naked eye.

He veered onto a side path, heading toward the weirwood tree — the one where the men of the Night’s Watch made their vows.

It was there, nearly ten years ago, that Jon had the first glimpse of what he was meant to do after passing the Wall and receiving the mission from the old gods. That place was sacred. Returning there now, with Craster as a prisoner, carried symbolic weight. Ducken felt it too — after all, he had been with Jon when the two crossed the Wall coming from the south, a long time ago.

“This tree was where it all began,” Ducken murmured, remembering when he knelt before Jon — that day when the boy had fainted and awakened saying he would build a kingdom beyond the Wall, that he needed to protect the people on this side, because crossing to the south would never bring survival, and the great majority would die.

It was Ducken who knelt first, declaring Jon as king at that moment. Even though it seemed a little absurd — a man kneeling before a boy of 9 namedays — there was no doubt: little Jon was truly blessed by the gods. Everything he wanted to achieve, he did. It was no coincidence that Artica existed today — everything started at that tree.

“Yes…” Jon murmured, his tone a little more distant, remembering that moment, as the basilisks lined up near the edge of the clearing. The soldiers of Artica watched with curiosity, wondering if this was really the tree the king had gone to when he crossed the Wall. They all knew the story, told throughout the city in songs, in theatrical plays in the kingdom’s squares.

Some glances turned toward the Wall, visible in the distance between the trees surrounding the place, searching for any enemy approaching.

“Bring my prisoner and leave him there, in the center of the place,” Jon requested, walking toward the tree and kneeling before it.

He was before his gods. Submission wasn’t a choice — it was a duty for any mortal, no matter their position.

‘This man committed an unforgivable sin by giving his own seed to the White Walkers. Now that we’ve discovered it… what should I do with him?’ Jon asked in thought, trying to draw an answer from the tree.

‘Do it.’

Suddenly, a female voice emerged, as if it came from the depths of the tree. The gods had answered, as they had spoken to him only on rare occasions.

Then the voice continued.

“Do the Blood Eagle.”

Jon rose slowly. The answer had been clear. He looked at Craster, lying on the ground, and began to walk toward the prisoner.

‘This is what the gods want…’ Jon thought.

‘Something I’ve never done before… but I know exactly what it means.’

The Blood Eagle. One of the most brutal forms of execution ever conceived.

A sacrificial ritual where the victim’s back is cut open, the ribs broken and pulled out in the shape of wings, and the lungs exposed.

The condemned is tortured to death, while their organs are spread before the sacred tree — a gift of pain and blood to the old gods.

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Author here: Think the punishment is a bit too harsh?

Jon had that brief thought about the arrows because I had an idea of him creating some kind of magical armor in the future with the same properties a White Walker has — it’s like an idea that just popped out of nowhere.

But that will happen far in the future.

————-Nexts Chapters —————-

Chapter 262 – Events in Arctic.

Chapter 267 – Dealing with Enemies.

Chapter 277 – The Reception of Arya Stark.

Chapter 286 – The Wager Between Arya Stark and Joffrey Baratheon.

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