Westeros's Angel

"Arrax, stop," Jon rasped, voice cracking like a branch under ice, "please, enough, we're done here," his plea hanging thin, heavy, cutting through the wind's howl, raw enough to sting.

Behind him, Tormund roared, stump swinging wild, spit flying, "Fuckin' traitor!" voice shattering the dark, "Move, you bastard, or I'll gut him myself!"—his good hand shaking with the sword, rage boiling over, red hair whipping in the gusts, crows fanning out, twenty blades glinting, shouting slurs—"Coward!" "Oathbreaker!"—their steel itching to slice. Jon didn't budge, boots planted like roots, blood streaking his face, cuts lacing his arms, his grip loyal, unyielding, not a scratch from running but plenty from standing firm, a wall between Arrax and his fellow companion, fellow brother within the wall.

Arrax stood silent, steady as ice, eyes glinting dark under the faint moon, knife still, not a twitch, not a word—just watching, like the cold itself, letting Jon's plea wash over him, letting Tormund's slurs bounce off his steel. Ryk slumped nearby, a long gash ripping down his front, blood soaking his coat red, grinning weak through the pain, "Aarax…," voice wobbling, hand clutching the cut like it'd hold him together, and Sam whimpered, stick trembling, "Jon….," fat fingers twisting his cloak, eyes darting wild.

Jon stepped closer, boots slurping in the bloody frost, "Arrax, please listen," he said, voice low, rough, "you've done enough, put it down," his eyes wary, flicking to the bodies—crows gutted, sliced, punched into mush—Arrax's work, seconds of chaos, blood steaming in the cold, a slaughter no one saw coming. Arrax didn't flinch, just backed off slow, knife lowering, his breath puffing out steady, like he'd been carved from the dark itself, and he rumbled, voice heavy, cutting through the wind's howl, "Seems you're still a boy, Jon, you still lack somethin'."

Jon's jaw tightened, blood dripping faster from his hand, staining his knuckles red, "...And what's that?" he snapped, voice sharp, rough enough to scrape stone, eyes narrowing, chest heaving, still seeing the mess—crows split open, Arrax's knife a blur, death too fast for a man that big. Arrax didn't answer quick, just stood there, silent, then his hand moved slow, deliberate, pulling something from his side—a gigantic metal gun, steel glinting cold, massive, like it'd been forged for a god, not a man. "Conviction," he said, voice low, heavy as a hammer, and with that—fuck—he fired.

The blast ripped through, a roar like thunder cracking the night, Jon's friend—some crow in the back, still yelling "Fuc…"—exploded in a wet smear, guts splattering the frost, bits of bone and blood spraying wild, smearing the snow red, a puddle of mush where a man had been. The crows froze, jaws dropping, swords slipping from their hands, clanging soft on the frost—one, two, three, then more, twenty blades hitting the ground like surrender's echo, fear spreading fast, thick as smoke, eyes wide, breaths puffing out quick, ragged, staring at Arrax like he'd ripped the dark apart with his spark of light.

Jon stood there, Longclaw dangling loose, eyes locked on the mess—his friend, gone, just a stain now, the gun's roar still ringing in his ears, shock slamming through him like a fist to the gut. "What… what the fuck," he rasped, voice trembling, barely a whisper, turning slow to Arrax, who stood steady, gun smoking in his grip, eyes glinting dark, calm as the frost itself. Ryk blinked, blood still soaking his front, "Oi… holy shit," voice cracking high.

Arrax standing there, a god of death in steel, silent, unyielding, the frost crunching under his boots like it was bowing to him. All men around him only looking at him with their feet still trembling.

 "Conviction," he'd said, and now it echoed, heavy as the blood on the ground, a lesson Jon couldn't unsee, couldn't unfeel, the night stretching out cold and raw, leaving 'em all dangling in its grip.

.

.

Morning slunk in, gray and mean, light seeping through the pines like spilled ale gone sour. Frost bit the ground, crunching under boots, sharp as a taunt. Jon stood over the churned snow, staring at the pink-stained mess where his friend had been—blasted apart, a leg here, a smear there, guts frozen in clumps like some sick jest. He'd buried what he could, hacked a shallow pit with numb hands, piled the big pieces in, muttered, "Stupid….," half a prayer, half a curse, voice catching on the edge of something wet and heavy. The rest? Hell, the rest was strewn across the frost, glinting under the weak sun, and what could he do but stand there, fists clenched, throat tight, calling him an idiot in his head while his chest ached like it'd been kicked.

Around him, the crows—those still breathing—scraped at the dirt, burying their mates, the ones Arrax had torn through like paper. ten men, now just meat, hacked and pulped, shovels clinking on frozen earth, a dull, ugly rhythm. Blood crusted black in the snow, a hand jutted out crooked, fingers clawing at nothing. Jon's stomach lurched, but he swallowed it, jaw locked, eyes flinty. Keep moving. Don't stop. He turned, boots grinding frost, and saw them—the others, not digging, huddled tight, whispering, their gazes flicking to Arrax and Ryk by the campfire. The two sat there, calm as death, ripping into dried meat, Ryk grinning bloody, Arrax chewing slow, eyes dark under his helm, daring the world to blink first. The whispers hissed—"No man does that," "God's fist," "Ain't right"—and Jon's gut twisted, cold and sharp.

A skinny crow—scar splitting his lip—stepped up, shovel clattering to the frost. "Jon," he rasped, voice like he'd gargled stones, "we ain't goin' back. Wall's nothing now. We're with you—and him." He jerked his chin at Arrax, eyes glinting, awe and hunger mixed with fear. "He's no ordinary man. Blew a bastard apart like… like a god, Jon. A sign." A few behind him grunted, "Aye," heads bobbing, their stares locked on Arrax, who didn't flinch, just tore another strip of meat, chewing steady.

Jon's jaw clenched, teeth grinding. "He's a man," he snarled, voice cutting the cold like a blade, "and you swore an oath. To the Wall. Not him." His eyes flicked to Arrax, then back, hard. "You're goin' back." The skinny one shook his head, stepping closer, "Oath's dead, Jon. You saw it—blasted him to mush, like nothin'. He's more. We're followin' you, followin' him, wherever it's goin'." The murmurs swelled—"He's right," "God's wrath"—and Jon's chest flared, hot and tight.

"No," he roared, boots slamming forward, frost snapping loud, "you're Night's Watch, sworn to the Wall, not some bloody god!" His voice cracked, raw, and he jabbed a finger at them, hand twitching toward Longclaw. "You go back, or you're deserters. Pick." The skinny one's face tightened, jaw setting, but he nodded slow, stepping off, shovel scraping. The others shifted, some nodding faint, others still staring at Arrax.

Sam waddled up, fat fingers twisting his cloak, "Jon, maybe… maybe they've got a point, I mean, what he did, it's not—" he stammered, voice high, wobbly, but Jon cut him off, "No, Sam. They're goin' back. Done." He turned, crunching toward Arrax and Ryk, gut churning, dread sinking like lead. He stopped by the fire, staring down at Arrax, who looked up, eyes glinting, a crooked grin tugging his lips. "You like it?" Jon rasped, voice low, rough, "Blastin' him to bits, makin' 'em piss themselves?" Arrax shrugged, shoulders rolling heavy, "Worked, didn't it?" voice rumbling deep, casual as dirt.

Jon's jaw tightened, "You're a monster," he said, voice shaking just a hair, "you know that?" Arrax's grin widened, "Maybe," he said, chewing slow, "but I'm your monster now, Snow." Jon didn't answer, just stared, chest heaving, blood dripping from his cuts, the cold biting deep. He turned, boots crunching toward the trees, needing air, needing something, Sam trailing quick, "Jon, what're we—where're we takin' him?" voice high, panicked, "He's… he's dangerous, what if he—"

"Winterfell," Jon said, voice low, rough, cutting him off. "We're goin' to Winterfell." Sam blinked, "But… Robb, Sansa, Arya, your family, what if he—" Jon's jaw clenched, "I'll deal with it," he growled, "I have to." He stared into the trees, frost clinging to the branches like it was watching, waiting, and that knot in his gut twisted tighter—fear, sharp and cold, for his brother, his sisters, his home, this monster he was dragging to their door, praying it was right, praying it'd hold.

The crows shuffled, some grabbing gear, others lingering, eyes still on Arrax, whispers low, but Jon didn't look back. He stood, boots planted, breath puffing white, the cold pressing in, the road to Winterfell stretching out ahead, heavy as a noose. "….A God, huh..," he muttered, to himself, to the gods he knew, to the gods he didn't. and to nothing, but it rang hollow, frost crunching under him like it was laughing, cold and cruel.