He took a step forward. Then he did it again.

One after another.

Step.

Step.

Step.

This was how he did things. Moving his feet, staying upright, and going forward.

Walking.

Yes, that was what he was doing.

Step.

Step.

He was used to walking.

It was something he had gotten used to. He walked a lot. Always walking.

Always moving.

Step.

He continued like this because this was what he did. He walked.

Sometimes he stumbled.

It wasn't his fault. There were rocks, logs, and other small things. Sometimes it was dark. It was hard to see, and hard to walk, when he could not see where to walk. Even then, he kept going. Sometimes there were stairs or slopes. They slowed him down. His steps were lesser, more uncertain. There were times when he fell down the stairs, the slopes, and he would tumble. Those were harrowing times.

But he always got up, and kept moving.

And sometimes he stopped.

Here, he stopped. This was one of the times where he stopped, and he was not walking at all.

This was very rare.

Sometimes he was trapped or was otherwise unable to move. Shifting earth. Crumbling ruins. Things broke, and things moved.

This was not one of those times.

He had chosen to stop. On purpose. Because now there was someone in his way.

By itself, this wasn't unusual. Other people walked. Sometimes they walked where he was trying to walk, and sometimes they walked another way. They walked and moved, just as he was walking. It happened.

This was different.

Someone was in his way, but they weren't walking. They were standing in one place, and they were facing him. It was unusual, but some people chose not to walk. That also happened.

This was different.

The person, the one standing in his way, said something. Their flesh was pale and pink. It stood out, somehow. Then their mouth moved, and sounds came out. Very strange.

"Look 'ere at this one. What d'you think?"

Another person responded.

"Seems docile enough."

"The hilt looks fine, wonder where this'n got it."

"Picked it up, how else?"

But he didn't care. They were saying things, but none of the words meant anything to him. A third person spoke. It meant just as little as the rest. They were all strange-looking, and none of them were walking. Just standing. Facing him.

"Quit gawkin' and take it, already."

"But he's holding it!"

He hadn't been forced to stop. Something about them had convinced him to. A strange feeling in his chest, to go with a strange situation.

"Then fuckin' kill him, yeah? Don't tell me you're scared of a boy?"

One of them said something, too quietly for him to hear, and stepped forward. They grabbed something at their side and drew a sword.

The feeling in his chest intensified. His gaze snapped to the weapon.

He felt something. Things were happening in his head, in his chest. He saw the sword, which was a weapon, and the person wielding it, and he knew that this was why he had chosen to stop walking. This feeling.

Danger.

Threat.

Fear.

It was very unusual. And yet, familiar.

Somehow, he knew how to respond. He knew what to do.

In his own hand was a sword. He always had it. It was always in his hand as he walked. He never dropped it, threw it, or lost it. As he walked, the sword was with him, in his hand, and he carried it. He would not part with it, because it was his and he carried it with him and it was his.

In his own hand was his sword. And somehow, he knew to raise it.

So, he did.

He raised his sword, freeing it from the scabbard in the same motion.

The people spoke again.

One made a high-pitched sound, like a bird, and said, "Fuck me, look at that. Have you seen a blade like that?"

"Lucky break for us, seems like."

"Careful now," the third said, taking out a different weapon and moving around to the side. "It's got wit enough to defend itself. Palt, circle round the other way. No chances."

The other moved around as well, and the feeling in his chest reached a peak.

Finally, the one in front moved. They walked forward and swung their sword, almost lazily.

He parried.

He knew to parry. He had dropped the scabbard. He was now holding the sword in both hands, which he never did, and he had parried their attack. And he knew that he could do it again.

Another attack came, more power in the swing, and he batted it aside. The motion felt familiar. Natural.

As natural as walking.

"Not so docile after all, eh?"

"Could be it's a squire."

"It's a brat. Get a hit in, and let's be done with this."

From behind. He whirled and threw his weight into a block, shoving the attacker away.

To the side. Another parry, the ringing of steel, and he drove fist and hilt into the other's nose.

Blood and breaking.

Screaming.

He felt. He felt his chest, moving in little bumps. He felt his arms, muscles coming alive. He saw swords swing, clash, but they never came close to hurting him. His own blade flew, and he moved. He didn't just walk, as he always walked. He stepped, half-stepped, bent, and lunged. He moved, and his sword moved with him.

He felt.

And he moved.

More blood. A great swing snapped the other's sword in two, tearing through cloth, flesh, and bone. Another scream, half-formed, before they fell silent. A small sensation fluttered into his head, and his chest, and his entire being. The body fell to the ground.

Someone else screamed. Though it sounded different. Harsher. Louder.

They screamed for whoever had fallen.

He turned in time to dodge, parry, and run his blade through their chest. Eyes widened, mouth agape.

A whimper this time, instead of a scream.

The body went limp, and he pushed it off of his blade. Another flutter. Prickling at his chest, which was still thumping.

Sword raised, he looked around. There was another. He had only felled two.

He spotted the last one. Back facing him, cursing, and clutching their arm. Running.

Then they were gone, over the hill.

It was done, then.

Over.

He did not immediately start walking again. The blood was first wiped from his blade. Because blood should always be cleaned from a weapon. He knew this. Somehow. Just as he knew to parry and fight. Bending to pick up his scabbard, he sheathed the sword and held it in both hands. He stayed that way for a while.

His chest slowly stopped thumping, his muscles calmed, and the feeling of danger passed. It was as it had been before. Before the fight.

It was strange. He felt strange. Almost… Disappointed?

Yes, disappointed. That felt right.

Using his sword, fighting with such swift and sure movements. The feeling had been different. Different from walking, which is what he usually did.

He looked down at the bodies. Motionless. Paler than before, even.

Very different.

He looked up, over to where the third one had gone. Over the hill.

And he started walking.

But this wasn't walking like before. Before, when he had only been walking because that was what he did and had always done. This was different. So many different things had happened. This was yet another different thing. It was very exciting.

He was walking with a destination. Going somewhere.

Over the hill, where the strange one went.

It wasn't easy. It was new, and new things were hard. He wasn't sure where the strange one had gone. He walked where he saw them run away to. Hills and trees slowed him. The ground he walked on before had no trees in the way. It was easier to walk there. Several times he had to stop and remember why he was going up hills, around trees, and why he had to go this way.

He had never needed a reason, but this was important.

It felt important.

He found a sword, and it was one of those he had clashed with. On the ground.

The strange one had dropped it, or left it here.

He never dropped his sword.

This person had dropped their sword. He picked it up for them and kept walking.

If his attacker was without their sword, then the feeling would not return. The thumping and moving. The swinging and fighting. He would fight again. Feel the threat, spill blood, and cleave flesh. Because it was different. New. Familiar. They would need their weapon, so that he could fight them again. He wanted to fight them again.

Want. Another feeling, and something else that was different.

He wanted to fight again, and he would find the strange one because he wanted this thing from them.

That was enough. Enough to keep him walking.

He did not find them quickly.

Light went away, and it came back, and he had not found them.

But the want kept him going. Searching. He did not grow tired, or bored. Thoughts of fighting, of moving in the way he had moved, were fresh in his mind. He did not think of much, but he thought of fighting as he had fought. It was something. Something new and familiar.

Light went away, and it came back, and he found them.

More.

Even more than the ones who had attacked him. Standing before ruins, crumbling stone.

They spoke to him, or to each other. But the words they formed were of no interest. They did not speak when they fought him. They screamed. He wanted them to scream, yell, and bleed. As they had before. He wanted to move, fight, and feel. Because it was different.

Looking down, he remembered the sword he had picked up.

With some uncertainty, he threw it at their feet.

Clumsy. Not like the movement from before.

Once one of them picked it up, he tore his own sword from its scabbard. They tensed, and slowly drew their own weapons. This was what he wanted. He wanted to move, as he had moved then. Because it was familiar.

They moved, and so did he.

Steel met steel.

It was just like he wanted.

But there were many of them. More than before.

He moved, but it was not always enough. His blade sang, clashing and ringing. But they were many. He felt metal pierce his own skin, and carve his own flesh. His own blood coated the ground, and his own screams filled the air.

Blood and breaking.

Screaming.

The sound of his voice was strange to his ears. Different.

He did not slow. His muscles burned, writhed, and screamed in a voice of their own. He heard pulsing, throbbing in his head, and felt it in his chest. His body. Everywhere.

He did not slow. His blade sang, and he kept moving.

And they began to fall.

His blood was joined by their own. His screams were drowned out. They blocked and attacked, and tried to move as he moved. But he was faster. They slowed, quieted, collapsed, and he did not. As their bodies hit the ground, he felt. Felt more. A swelling in his chest, growing with each one he killed.

He was killing them.

Soon he was the only one still standing. Still screaming.

They were killed. Dead.

He fell silent.

None of them were getting up. Because they were dead. He did that. Killed them.

He felt… Something. He still felt it, even after the thumping in his chest has faded, the screaming has stopped, and the bodies have fallen. He felt… Confused. He was filled with confusion. He was confused. Why was he feeling this? Why was he feeling, even now?

More things that were different.

He looked around. Bodies were strewn about, their blood staining the earth red.

He felt nothing for the bodies.

But he felt something.

He looked up, towards the ruined buildings and stone, up at the road they had stood before when he had approached them.

The road wound up, around the remains of many stone buildings, around a hill.

His eyes drifted to the building that the road lead to.

It was not in ruins. It drew his attention.

There was something about it. For the bodies, he felt nothing. But looking at the building, he felt.

He took a step, and then another.

He walked towards it, up the road, and up the hill. To the building.

Along the way there were others. Other people, like the ones he killed. Some of them had weapons, some had nothing. Some hissed and spluttered, attacking him. But most were content to sit and wallow. Crouching and kneeling. Huddling and cowering. They paid little heed to him as he passed.

He did much the same. They meant nothing to him. When weapons were raised, he met them, and he walked on shortly after. Bodies trailed behind him as he walked up the hill.

But there was no feeling. Not like before. His feeling, his focus, was on the building. The building set at the top of the hill.

At last, he made it to the building. It was closed. His way was barred by great doors of metal. He moved forward, pushing, and they slowly gave way. A creaking of rust and whining hinges filled the air. The way was open. He stepped into the room.

It was not a room, but a chamber. A large chamber. Large windows of colored glass. A high ceiling.

None of it mattered.

At once his eyes were drawn to the center of the chamber.

A small fire, set in a stone basin.

In the center was a sword. Not like his. This sword was twisted and black.

He moved into the center of the room. His footsteps filled the chamber, the only sound aside from the soft crackling of the flame.

He was drawn to it.

He knew that the flame was what called him here.

Why. Why had he come here?

In front of the basin, he stopped. His eyes were drawn into the fire.

He felt something from it. Muted. Quiet. But it was there.

Something. Different from the fighting before. Different from the killing, the bleeding, and the screaming. This flame was something else. The feeling was something else.

What was it?

A voice filled the chamber. Small, but the air was quiet enough for that to not matter.

"The flame calls to many, ashen one. Mindless, mindful, hollow. So too has it brought you here."

He looked towards the voice. Another person. He had not noticed them upon entering. Too transfixed on the flame. Even now his gaze flickered back to it, warm and bright. But he turned away and faced the person fully.

Was this someone else to fight? He raised his sword slowly, hesitantly. There was no threat here.

They extended a hand toward him, but it did not hold a weapon.

It held something else.

The person was offering it to him, he realized.

"It is yours. It always has been."

The words were spoken to him and aimed at him. The thing in their hand was for him.

Slowly, step by step, he approached them.

His weapon was sheathed, lowered. He knew he would not need it. He felt nothing like threat from this person. Nothing like before. No danger, and no fear.

There was only the thing in their hand.

Black and weightless.

White and immense.

It called to him, as the fire had. As this person had. He reached out, and they placed it in his hand. Gently.

He looked at it.

It called, but not to him. Not like the flame called to him.

It called to the flame itself.

He knew this, but he did not know how.

"Bestow it to the flame, and remember."

He understood the words or at least the intent behind them. Cradling the tiny thing in his hand, he hesitated slightly. But he knew that this was right. Somehow. He had to do it. Offer it. Let the flames consume. They called to him, and they called for an offering.

Reaching out, he overturned his hand above the flame. The thing, black and white and weightless, plunged into the fire like a stone. No sound was made. Not by him, nor by the strange one. The only sound was the crackling of tiny embers, and the wind which began washing over the stone walls from outside.

He felt it at once.

Something had changed. Everything had.

He felt warm. Warm in his chest, his head, and his being. Warmth and feeling. Everywhere.

He shivered because he also felt cold.

He looked down, and he saw that his hands here pink. Both of them. His arms were the same. He realized that they had been red and brown before. He had never noticed. Never had reason to notice. Now they looked… Normal.

He looked up, and he saw her for the first time. The woman who had spoken to him, who bid him make an offering to the flame. It was a woman. He could tell because women looked and talked a certain way. Instinct. Common sense. These things told him that she was a woman. They also told him she should not be able to see him, as she wore red cloth around her eyes. But she could see him. She saw him, even when he could not see himself. He knew this. Felt it. He knew these things, where he had not known before.

Not for a while.

He shivered again, for an altogether different reason.

Something important had changed. He felt it, in his head more than anything.

She spoke again.

"Your nature returns to you, ashen one. If only a little."

Her voice was soft. She was speaking to him. How long had it been since someone had spoken to him?

"Now, reveal yourself. You must take back your name, for you will not go far without it."

His name.

Before he had made an offering to the flame, words like that had meant nothing. But now?

He had a name. He had to. Everyone had a name. But he couldn't remember.

In his mind, he found a wall. One of fog, mist, and water. Things were hidden and submerged. It was not new. It had been that way for a long time. A very long time, but he only now perceived it.

Voices called out to him from the barriers. Faces. Voices. Memories. Faces obscured by mist. Voices drowned out by rushing water. Memories gone. Torn to pieces. Taken from him. He wasn't sure what was missing, but he knew that something was. Many things. He felt it. He was not whole.

Even now, even having offered that thing to the flame, he was not whole.

But he had something.

He stared into the flame, and he felt something resembling peace.

He was not whole. Not yet. But the offering had given him more than just pink skin and frustration. It led him to something. In his mind, next to the mist and pools of water. Something that hadn't been taken from him.

He just hadn't been able to see it.

Opening his mouth, he spoke with a voice.

His voice.

It was unfamiliar and unwieldy. But it was his.

"Jon… Jon Snow."

And so was that.

Note: Plot Bunny. I have ideas and some outline stuff done, but can't promise a huge fic. I mostly wanted to get it out of my system. Will definitely do more, hopefully soon-ish.