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fandomweekly2025-04-13 02:07 pm
m_findlow) wrote in fandomweekly2025-04-13 02:07 pm
Entry tags:
[#256] SURVIVAL INSTINCT (A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE)
Theme Prompt: #256 - Man’s best friend
Title: Survival instinct
Fandom: Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire)
Rating/Warnings: PG
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1,000 words
Summary: Jon fears being abandoned north of the Wall.
Jon tugged the fur cloak tighter around his shoulders as the wind whipped through the narrow mountain pass, cutting through even the thickest deerskin trousers and gloves, biting with its razor sharp teeth, a thousand tiny pinpricks seeping all the way through down to his very bones.
He'd become used to the cold at Castle Black, but beyond the Wall there was yet another depth of chill that those who lived just south of it couldn’t appreciate. It wasn't a snow covered landscape but rather a permafrost that clung to everything, setting it in icy stone forever. It didn't so much crunch under his boots as it merely lended itself a dull thud. It had been frozen long before he'd ever set foot in these uncharted lands and it would remain frozen long after he was dead and gone.
The sun was setting quickly over the icy grey landscape, promising yet another night of maintaining a vigil that he was beginning to lose faith in. He should never have volunteered to go with Quorin Halfhand, no matter how badly he'd wanted to be a Ranger and not just their Lord Commander's steward. The boy inside him wanted adventure but now the boy was beginning to realise things that only men knew. That the isolated places beyond the Wall were no adventure; merely a quicker way of getting oneself killed.
Jon huddled back against the mountainside, wedging himself in a long crag that snaked up the face of the mountain like a scar. It would keep him out of sight, whilst still being able to see as much of his surroundings as possible. Quorin had chosen the spot well. If there were any Wildlings threatening to come this way, Jon would see them before they saw him. As night fell swiftly, that became small comfort. He would have to hear them before he saw them in the darkness, and Wildlings were as silent as wolves in their leathers and furs. The four that had come upon them days ago had caught them almost by surprise. They were dead now, ensuring they wouldn't make it back to their encampment to share word with their leader Mance Rayder that there were two Crows wandering north of the Wall, aiming to locate them.
Jon was losing hope that Quorin was coming back for him. He'd been gone three days and two nights, scouting ahead for signs of Mance's so-called army. A man could travel a long way in three days. He should have been back by now, assuming the Wildlings hadn't found him first. He might be dead for all Jon knew. How much longer should he stay here and wait? Could he even find his way back to Castle Black without the Halfhand? Neither possibility filled him with much hope.
He pulled his legs to his chest, stomach gnawing from hunger. There'd been scarcely more than a mouthful of salted beef, rationed as it was. He had to make it last. Up here there was barely a living creature that could survive the frozen tundra. All he'd seen were a few birds and even they were probably spies for Mance Rayder. He kept from their watchful gaze as they swept by overhead just in case.
His stomach growled again as he thought about Ghost. Jon might have chosen to spare what little food he had left, but a direwolf had to eat, and Ghost was out hunting whatever he could find that might fill his belly. Jon would have preferred to have him close as night fell, able to snuggle against Ghost's heavy warmth, tangling his gloved fingers in the thick fur. He felt safer with Ghost by his side. He could take on two Wildlings himself – three perhaps, if they were poorly armed or poorly trained – but with the direwolf at his side, he might be able to fend off a small party if they came upon him suddenly. Instead he was here alone, uncertain and growing more unsettled by the day.
He couldn't remember closing his eyes or dozing until something nudged at him. He started, reaching instinctively for his long knife. In the darkness of a cloudless night, the bright white fur of his direwolf seemed almost illuminated by starlight and snow.
‘Hey, boy,’ he said, clasping at the furry neck, glad of the company in this godforsaken place. He squinted in the darkness as the direwolf sat, still looming large over him, something dark masking its pale muzzle. ‘What is that in your mouth?’
Ghost leaned forward, dropping the object and sat back on his haunches.
Jon wrapped a gloved hand around it, picking up the limp body of a hare. So Ghost had managed to find something to eat after all. It gladdened Jon's heart to know that the wolf wouldn't go hungry. ‘Good job,’ he said, putting the hare back down on the ground so that Ghost could reap the rewards of his hunting. It wasn't much, but it was something.
Jon frowned when Ghost made no move towards it. He expected about two seconds before the tell-tale crunch of bones would start, making short work of it fur and all. ‘Go on,’ Jon urged him, but the direwolf merely cocked its large head at him. Then Jon made the realisation that the hare wasn't for Ghost but for him. The wolf had gone against its base instincts to simply eat what it found and had brought this back for him.
He reached up and scratched the direwolf behind its large ear. ‘We can't light a fire tonight, but perhaps when it's light we can set a small pit going,’ A few embers in a hole covered over shouldn't give them away. It would be slow going to cook it that way, but he couldn't deny how good it would be to have real meat again. Quorin Halfhand might not be coming back but at least his best friend was still here, making sure they both survived.
Title: Survival instinct
Fandom: Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire)
Rating/Warnings: PG
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1,000 words
Summary: Jon fears being abandoned north of the Wall.
Jon tugged the fur cloak tighter around his shoulders as the wind whipped through the narrow mountain pass, cutting through even the thickest deerskin trousers and gloves, biting with its razor sharp teeth, a thousand tiny pinpricks seeping all the way through down to his very bones.
He'd become used to the cold at Castle Black, but beyond the Wall there was yet another depth of chill that those who lived just south of it couldn’t appreciate. It wasn't a snow covered landscape but rather a permafrost that clung to everything, setting it in icy stone forever. It didn't so much crunch under his boots as it merely lended itself a dull thud. It had been frozen long before he'd ever set foot in these uncharted lands and it would remain frozen long after he was dead and gone.
The sun was setting quickly over the icy grey landscape, promising yet another night of maintaining a vigil that he was beginning to lose faith in. He should never have volunteered to go with Quorin Halfhand, no matter how badly he'd wanted to be a Ranger and not just their Lord Commander's steward. The boy inside him wanted adventure but now the boy was beginning to realise things that only men knew. That the isolated places beyond the Wall were no adventure; merely a quicker way of getting oneself killed.
Jon huddled back against the mountainside, wedging himself in a long crag that snaked up the face of the mountain like a scar. It would keep him out of sight, whilst still being able to see as much of his surroundings as possible. Quorin had chosen the spot well. If there were any Wildlings threatening to come this way, Jon would see them before they saw him. As night fell swiftly, that became small comfort. He would have to hear them before he saw them in the darkness, and Wildlings were as silent as wolves in their leathers and furs. The four that had come upon them days ago had caught them almost by surprise. They were dead now, ensuring they wouldn't make it back to their encampment to share word with their leader Mance Rayder that there were two Crows wandering north of the Wall, aiming to locate them.
Jon was losing hope that Quorin was coming back for him. He'd been gone three days and two nights, scouting ahead for signs of Mance's so-called army. A man could travel a long way in three days. He should have been back by now, assuming the Wildlings hadn't found him first. He might be dead for all Jon knew. How much longer should he stay here and wait? Could he even find his way back to Castle Black without the Halfhand? Neither possibility filled him with much hope.
He pulled his legs to his chest, stomach gnawing from hunger. There'd been scarcely more than a mouthful of salted beef, rationed as it was. He had to make it last. Up here there was barely a living creature that could survive the frozen tundra. All he'd seen were a few birds and even they were probably spies for Mance Rayder. He kept from their watchful gaze as they swept by overhead just in case.
His stomach growled again as he thought about Ghost. Jon might have chosen to spare what little food he had left, but a direwolf had to eat, and Ghost was out hunting whatever he could find that might fill his belly. Jon would have preferred to have him close as night fell, able to snuggle against Ghost's heavy warmth, tangling his gloved fingers in the thick fur. He felt safer with Ghost by his side. He could take on two Wildlings himself – three perhaps, if they were poorly armed or poorly trained – but with the direwolf at his side, he might be able to fend off a small party if they came upon him suddenly. Instead he was here alone, uncertain and growing more unsettled by the day.
He couldn't remember closing his eyes or dozing until something nudged at him. He started, reaching instinctively for his long knife. In the darkness of a cloudless night, the bright white fur of his direwolf seemed almost illuminated by starlight and snow.
‘Hey, boy,’ he said, clasping at the furry neck, glad of the company in this godforsaken place. He squinted in the darkness as the direwolf sat, still looming large over him, something dark masking its pale muzzle. ‘What is that in your mouth?’
Ghost leaned forward, dropping the object and sat back on his haunches.
Jon wrapped a gloved hand around it, picking up the limp body of a hare. So Ghost had managed to find something to eat after all. It gladdened Jon's heart to know that the wolf wouldn't go hungry. ‘Good job,’ he said, putting the hare back down on the ground so that Ghost could reap the rewards of his hunting. It wasn't much, but it was something.
Jon frowned when Ghost made no move towards it. He expected about two seconds before the tell-tale crunch of bones would start, making short work of it fur and all. ‘Go on,’ Jon urged him, but the direwolf merely cocked its large head at him. Then Jon made the realisation that the hare wasn't for Ghost but for him. The wolf had gone against its base instincts to simply eat what it found and had brought this back for him.
He reached up and scratched the direwolf behind its large ear. ‘We can't light a fire tonight, but perhaps when it's light we can set a small pit going,’ A few embers in a hole covered over shouldn't give them away. It would be slow going to cook it that way, but he couldn't deny how good it would be to have real meat again. Quorin Halfhand might not be coming back but at least his best friend was still here, making sure they both survived.
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