Author's notes: yay thanks for reading! I'm quickly running out of backlogs so I won't be posting daily by next week lol. This chapter wasn't betaed so feel free to point out any mistakes for me to correct! Love yall!
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The air outside the shack felt colder for their departure than their arrival, as if the hill had been listening to Roderika's story and chose now to breathe differently. Jon stepped onto the narrow trail with the girl close behind him and Melina gliding silently at their rear. The path hugged the cliffside, little more than a strip of dirt worn smooth by years of wind and wandering feet. Below them, the plains rolled out in long, gold-tinged waves. Above, Stormveil cast its shadow like a hand waiting to close.
Roderika kept one trembling fist clutched around her cloak. Every sound made her flinch--the snap of a dry stem under Jon's boot, the low groan of wind winding between rocks. She moved lightly, but not out of stealth. Out of fear.
Jon adjusted his pace to her steps, careful to keep himself between her and the long drop to their left. His ribs ached, but he ignored the pain the way he'd ignored a lifetime of bruises. Safe first. Stormveil after.
Melina walked a few paces behind, her presence like a thin line of light threading the air. She said nothing, but Jon sensed tension in her--small, subtle, like a harp string pulled taut. She knew something waited on this hill. Something she would not yet name.
A shift of movement on the ridge caught Jon's eye. Wolves, lean, long-limbed, fur torn into ragged streamers by the wind, paced along the crest above them. Their pale eyes gleamed in the rising light. They didn't stalk. They didn't snarl. They simply shadowed him, the way winter wolves shadowed the dying out on the tundra: close enough to see, far enough to choose their moment.
Roderika's breath hitched. "They've been following me since I fled," she whispered. "Sometimes… I think they understand more than they should."
Jon kept his voice steady. "Wolves understand fear. They smell it long before men do."
"They understand what you are," Melina murmured. "And what you may become."
Roderika didn't know how to take that. Jon didn't either.
The wolves followed for several more paces, then sank back into the tall grass, vanishing like smoke swallowed by the wind. Jon let out a slow breath. The land was watching. Testing him. Testing all of them.
The path bent around a jut of stone--and froze.
Voices. Close. The clatter of metal on stone.
Jon pressed Roderika gently behind him, guiding her to the shadow of a leaning boulder. Melina stepped forward, placing one quiet hand on the rock face. The shadows thickened, and Jon couldn't tell whether it was the clouds shifting or something else.
Three soldiers trudged along the path, spears at the ready, their eyes scanning the hillside. Searchers. Scouts. Or worse--whatever kind of men Roderika had fled when she escaped Stormveil.
Roderika's nails dug into Jon's sleeve. She didn't dare breathe.
Jon kept perfectly still, watching the soldiers' boots crunch over loose gravel. They were close enough that he could see the dried blood flaking along one man's gauntlet, the way another's helm had been bent and hammered out again in a shape no armorer with sense would choose.
One of them paused.
He peered down the slope.
Jon's grip tightened on Longclaw--
--but the soldier's eyes slid past them, unfocused, as though the shadow they hid in had thickened just enough to mislead him. Melina's fingers curled once against the stone. The air shifted, gentle as a held breath.
The soldiers moved on.
Roderika sagged against Jon's arm, trembling. "I thought--" Her voice cracked.
"You're safe," Jon murmured, though he wasn't fully sure what had spared them."But we move now."
They waited until the last footfall faded, then slipped from their cover and continued up the trail. The path narrowed again, bending around a final outcrop of stone. When they crested the rise, Jon saw it, a shack of dark wood, squat against the cliff like an old soldier refusing to fall. Smoke drifted from its chimney in a thin, steady line. The smell of cooked meat lingered faintly in the air.
Melina inclined her head toward it. "The Warmaster's dwelling," she said.
Roderika nearly collapsed with relief.
Jon kept his guard high as they approached. The wolves had returned to the ridge behind them, watching silently. The soldiers patrolled somewhere below. Stormveil loomed ahead, patient and hungry.
But for this brief stretch of ground--for this moment--they were safe.
Jon stepped toward the door and raised his hand to knock. The wind dropped as if waiting to hear what answer would come.
The door to the shack cracked open before Jon's knuckles touched it.
A man filled the threshold, not broad, but solid in the way a mountain was solid. His armor was old, battered from a lifetime of use, but tended with a care that bordered on reverence. His brown beard was shot with grey, his expression calm in a way that felt earned rather than natural. His eyes traveled Jon's height in a single, practiced sweep.
A knight's appraisal.
A survivor's, too.
"Easy now,'' the man said. His voice low. "If you meant trouble, I'd have heard it in your step."
Jon stopped. Anyone who could read footsteps that precisely was dangerous well beyond steel.
Melina stepped forward, her presence quiet but unmistakable. The knight's eyes flicked to her, and for the first time, his posture shifted--just slightly, the way a seasoned warrior salutes someone who belongs to the old order of things.
"Maiden," he said.
"Warmaster," she returned.
Behind Jon, Roderika shrank into her cloak, trembling.
The knight's gaze softened. You've brought someone who's seen too much of the cursed keep."
Jon straightened without meaning to. "She needs shelter."
"Then she'll have it," the knight said at once, as if withholding safety would have been unthinkable. "I am Bernahl, once of the Roundtable. Now… a wanderer who teaches the old ways. Come. All of you."
The shack was humble, the air warm with the scent of broth simmering over a fire that looked too well-kept for this lonely hill. Weapons lined the walls, not trophies, but tools, each cleaned and placed with reverence. A greatsword leaned near the hearth, its edge worn from heavy practice.
Jon caught Bernahl noticing where his gaze settled.
"No land is empty while discipline remains," Bernahl said. "Fire. A blade. Purpose. They keep a man alive where gods no longer bother."
Roderika hesitated at the threshold. Bernahl approached her slowly, nonthreatening, as though calming a shaking animal.
"You're safe here," he said. "No creature of that keep sets foot past this door. I swear it."
Her breath wavered. "I… don't know how to believe that."
"Belief can come later. Sit. Warm yourself."
Jon helped her inside. Melina remained by the door, eyes keen beneath her hood.
Bernahl ladled stew into bowls and pressed one into Roderika's hands, and handed another to Jon.
"You look half-starved," he said to Jon. "And far from home."
Jon took the bowl. "What gave me away?"
Bernahl chuckled. "You move through this land like it's a stranger's hall. And your sword…" He nodded to Longclaw. "Steel from another realm. Forged for other wars."
Before Jon could answer, Bernahl lifted a small stone etched with faint runes.
"There's a myriad of battle arts in these lands," he went on, rolling the stone over his fingers. "Mementos of warriors who raised their arms, fought, and fell. A fine tale, all told. Chivalric romance at its truest. That's how I fell in love with the sword--and with the Ashes of War."
He nodded toward Longclaw.
"Tell me--does your blade carry one?"
Jon frowned. "A what?"
Bernahl motioned to Longclaw. "May I?"
Jon hesitated, then offered the sword. Bernahl accepted it with surprising gentleness, turning it toward the fire.
"It's fine work," Bernahl murmured. "Balanced. Honest. Tempered with a smith's wisdom. But it bears no Ash. No battle-memory within its steel."
"It's served me well," Jon replied.
"Aye," Bernahl said softly. "And that speaks well of you." He handed the blade back. "But when you face Stormveil, you may wish your sword remembered more than you alone can teach it."
Jon turned Longclaw in his grip, thoughtful.
Melina stepped near the fire. "You have weathered much, Warmaster."
"And you travel with one who will weather far more," Bernahl answered "Stormveil tests all souls that enter. It takes more than limbs… and far more than the scraps Godrick clings to."
Jon's jaw clenched. "I've seen what he does."
"Then you know it for what it is." Bernahl settled onto the bench. "Not strength--no. A desperate man wearing corpses like armor. A child stacking bones to feel tall."
The words struck deep. His father would have named such things for what they were, fear dressed up as power.
Bernahl continued, "Some seek glory. Some vengeance." He turned toward Jon. "And some rise because fate dragged them back from death and set them walking."
Jon said nothing.
A clatter broke the silence. Roderika set her bowl aside, hands shaking.
"I abandoned my friends," she whispered. "I ran. They're still in that castle. And I… I left them."
Jon sat beside her, ignoring the pull in his ribs. "You survived what no one should face alone. That isn't cowardice."
She shook her head. "Part of me wants to go back." Her voice cracked. "But I can't. I can't even look at the gate."
"You don't have to," Jon said softly. "Not alone."
Melina watched from the corner, quietly, but intent.
Bernahl's voice drifted from the hearth. "The girl has the listening look."
Jon glanced over. "The what?"
Bernahl nodded to Roderika. "Some souls hear echoes the rest of us miss. The murmurs of spirit and ash. If she steels herself, she may shape those voices rather than be broken by them."
Roderika stared at the floor, lost.
Melina's hood hid her expression well, but something like recognition flickered beneath it.
Evening settled deep and gold. The fire burned low. Roderika's breathing steadied into the soft rhythm of uneasy sleep. Melina sat still as carved stone; her hood lowered over her golden eye. Bernahl tended his blade with unhurried strokes, each scrape of whetstone like an old hymn echoing through the shack.
After a long stretch of silence, Bernahl looked at Jon.
"You carry yourself like a man who's seen more battles than rest," he said.
Jon met his gaze. "Where I come from, battles weren't things you sought. Only things you survived."
Bernahl gave a low grunt of approval. "Then show me what survival has taught you."
Jon blinked. "Now?"
"There's no time but now," Bernahl said. "Stormveil won't test you kindly. Better to test yourself first."
Melina's head lifted slightly, but she didn't interfere. Jon exhaled and rose. His ribs protested, but the pain only sharpened him. Bernahl stepped outside into the fading light.
Jon followed.
The grass whispered beneath the wind, gold catching on the armor of the Warmaster as he took position before Jon. He did not raise his weapon yet, only watched.
Then, in a voice almost ceremonial, Bernahl said, "Understand this is no duel, no contest. This is a conversation in steel."
Jon didn't fully understand, but he nodded and drew Longclaw.
Bernahl moved first--an unhurried step, a smooth draw, and suddenly the world narrowed to blade and breath. His strikes were clean and purposeful, testing Jon's guard the way a master tests a forgefire's heat: never reckless, always precise.
Jon met the first blow with Longclaw, feeling the weight of Bernahl's skill vibrate into his bones. The second came from the opposite side, slow, deceptively slow, then suddenly sharp. Jon parried and stepped in, forcing Bernahl to adjust.
"Good," Bernahl murmured. "You do not waste movement."
Another exchange. Bernahl's armor rang faintly where Jon's steel grazed it, a touch, not a strike. Bernahl answered with a downward cut that Jon barely sidestepped.
They circled. Grass bent beneath their feet.
Jon's breath came steady. This was not like fighting wights or Boltons or wildlings. This was like sparring with Ser Rodrik Cassel in the yard at Winterfell--measured, disciplined, a test of will more than strength.
At last, Bernahl stepped back, lowering his blade.
"That will do."
Jon kept Longclaw raised a moment longer, until Bernahl sheathed his sword. Then Jon lowered his own.
Bernahl regarded him for a long, silent beat.
"You are no novice. Pain clings to you, but you move through it. That spine of yours hasn't snapped yet." He paused. "A question, then."
Jon straightened.
"What guides you, warrior?"
Jon frowned. "Guides me?"
Bernahl tilted his head. "Grace is what calls many from death to walk again. But grace is not the only voice men follow. Some chase glory. Some vengeance. Some walk because they cannot bear to lie still."
Jon thought of the Wall. Of Robb. Arya. Ghost. Of those who passed. All of it behind him, yet none of it gone.
"I go because there are people who need protecting," he said quietly. "In any world."
Bernahl was still for a long time, then gave a single heavy nod.
"Honesty. A rarer blade than any I've forged." He reached to his belt and pulled free a small, curved stone--the surface etched with runes that flickered in the dim light.
He held it out.
"This Ash of War suits a warrior who guards others more than himself."
Jon took it carefully. The stone was warm. "What does it do?" Jon asked.
"A battle art once used by stalwart knights," Bernahl said. "A moment of iron resolve. A stance that turns an enemy's blow aside and answers with your own. Apply it to your blade, and Longclaw will carry the memory of that resolve."
Jon looked to Melina standing at the door. She gave a small nod.
Bernahl gestured to the flat stone beside the shack.
"Set your sword there."
Jon unsheathed Longclaw, laying it across the stone. Bernahl set the Ash upon the blade. The Valyrian blade shimmered once, subtle but unmistakable, before settling back into silence.
Jon lifted it. Longclaw felt the same weight, the same balance, but something new breathed within the metal. A steadiness. A promise.
Bernahl stepped back, arms folding. "Let it serve you well," he said. "Stormveil will demand more of you than strength alone. It will test purpose, and fear… and whatever you carry unspoken."
Jon nodded. "Thank you."
Bernahl nodded slightly.
"Strength and arms, Jon Snow," he said. "You'll need both."
The two men returned to the shack. Roderika slept on, unaware of the old rites passed in the night. Melina watched Jon with quiet, measuring eyes, as though the choice he had made--purpose over grace--meant more than he understood.
Jon slept lightly. Dreams of warped limbs above the Stormgate woke him more than once. His father's voice echoed through them:
Know your fear, or it will master you.
Dawn came in drifting mist.
Jon stepped outside with Longclaw still warm in his hand, the runes of the new Ash glimmering like frost trapped in steel. The dawn mist clung to the earth, rising in slow coils. Melina waited near the door, her presence soft as a lantern left at the edge of a road.
Bernahl joined them a moment later, helm tucked beneath one arm, his hair touched with the pale light. He regarded Jon not as a wanderer anymore, but as a warrior newly measured.
"You wield that blade differently already," Bernahl said. His tone carried a quiet satisfaction. "That's the way of Ash. Memory becomes strength, strength becomes choice."
Jon nodded. "And Stormveil waits."
"It does." Bernahl stepped closer, the worn leather of his armor creaking with the motion. "Let me give you a parting truth. You'll hear others whisper it one day, but better you hear it first from someone who's stood at both ends of a blade."
Bernahl's gaze sharpened beneath the rising mist.
"Strength. True strength… comes to those who refuse the chains others put on them. Kings, lords, gods--none of them know the shape of your will. Only you do." He paused. "The Golden Order has eroded. Crumbled. The world clings to a past long dead. But a warrior who walks by choice, not doctrine… that one still stands tall."
Melina shifted slightly, though her hood hid her reaction.
Bernahl lowered his voice.
"If the Order falters, let it. A man must choose his own fight, not inherit another's."
Jon glanced toward Stormveil's black spires. "Seems every soul here has a different idea of what strength should be."
Bernahl gave a low, humorless chuckle. "Aye. Godrick grafts corpses to feel tall. Knights chase a grace they barely remember. Others bend the knee to whatever power promises them a scrap of meaning." His eyes moved back to Jon. "But you--you haven't bent yet. That matters."
He leaned a fraction.
"There are warriors who carve their own laws with their own steel. Some call them Recusants. Folk who refuse any fate but the one they claim."
Jon frowned. "Recusant?"
"Another path. Another order." He said. "But should you ever tire of bowing to the will of the dead or the divine… you'll find there are warriors who carve their own laws with their own steel."
Melina's golden eye glimmered beneath her hood, a warning--or perhaps curiosity.
Bernahl straightened, helm under his arm, wind tugging at his cloak.
Bernahl rested his helm beneath one arm, the dawn mist coiling around him like smoke from an old battlefield. His gaze drifted to the shack, where Roderika still slept curled beneath the cloak Jon had given her. A softness--rare as summer in this land--touched his features.
"For now," he said quietly, "my road bends toward safer ground. The girl should not stay on this hill a moment longer than fate already demanded of her."
Jon straightened. "You'll take her?"
"Aye." Bernahl's reply held no hesitation. "There are still places in the Lands Between where an old knight's oath means something. She'll be watched. Warmed. Taught, if she wishes it." His tone deepened. "Some sparks aren't meant to gutter out on a cliffside."
He fixed Jon with a long, weighing look. "You've the makings of a fine warrior--better than most I've tried knocking sense into. Don't squander it chasing ghosts… or borrowed crowns."
He shifted his grip on the helm and stepped back, raising two fingers in that worn, knightly gesture of half-salute. "Stormveil will hunger for you. Walk in with purpose, Jon Snow. Walk out on your own terms."
Jon returned the nod.
Bernahl's voice dropped to something almost a promise. "When next we meet… let it be with both blades drawn. As comrades. Or as spirits sharing the quiet after battle."
He turned toward the shack once more. A moment later, he emerged with a sleepy Roderika beside him--her face pale, but steadier, as if his presence alone lent her spine. He guided her gently, like a father leading a frightened child through a dark hall.
"Strength and arms," he said in farewell.
Then the mist folded around them as they descended the trail--two figures swallowed gradually by the gold of dawn and the whisper of iron on a whetstone carried faintly on the wind, as though Bernahl honed every step into memory.
Jon turned.
Stormveil Castle loomed over the cliffs.