Chapter Text
The wind howled through the trees, biting at Jon Snow's face as he trudged through the snow-covered forest. His breath came in ragged clouds, visible in the frigid air. The world around him was white and still, save for the occasional rustle of snow-laden branches swaying in the bitter wind. They weren't far beyond the Wall - no more than a few hours travel by foot. He could easily see it in a distance.
This was his first time beyond the Wall, still new to his position in the Night's Watch, walked in the middle of the small group. They were returning from a training expedition led by one of Ser Alliser's rangers. Jon was separated from Grenn and Edd who were part of another group returning. Four other crows, men he had barely exchanged a word with, walked ahead of him. Jon didn't know their names, but the camaraderie of the Watch hadn't quite reached him yet.
"Damn cold," the stocky one muttered, his voice rough. "What's the point of this shit? Could have done this blasted shit at the Wall. No wildlings out here. Just us and the dead trees."
Jon kept his silence, though he shared the same thought. No one had warned him of the isolation that came with these missions beyond the Wall, nor the unsettling quiet. If only Uncle Benjen had been there to guide his group.
The forest was too quiet, and Jon felt his unease grow with each step. He reached for the hilt of Longclaw, the weight of the blade grounding him.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by a distant, low growl—so faint that Jon wondered if it was his imagination.
The stocky man froze, narrowing his eyes toward the shadowy line of trees. "Did you hear that?"
Jon tensed, instinctively drawing Longclaw from its scabbard, his senses alert.
"Probably a wolf," the man with the patch on his eye said dismissively, "Nothing to worry about."
But Jon wasn't so sure. The growl had been too... primal. Too close.
Without warning, a blur of movement shot out of the shadows—two hulking figures charging through the trees. Before Jon could even raise his sword, one of the men was taken down with a brutal swipe from a massive clawed hand, the other screaming as he was dragged into the trees.
"Wildlings!" Jon shouted, his heart racing. The first of the attackers emerged fully from the shadows—a tall, gaunt figure wearing the furs and leather armor of a Thenn. His face was as cold as the land he came from, and his eyes gleamed with predatory hunger.
Jon lunged at him with Longclaw, but the Thenn dodged with surprising agility for a man his size. Jon's blade missed, and the Thenn slashed at him with a curved, wicked-looking knife. Jon raised his sword to block, but the force of the blow sent a shock through his arms.
He staggered back, heart hammering, and barely dodged the Thenn's next strike. The two of them circled, Jon's boots slipping on the snow as he fought to regain his footing. His breath came in sharp gasps. He attempted to back away and slipped backwards in the snow, falling on to his back.
Jon's breaths came ragged and shallow, misting in the frigid air as he sat up to crawl backwards towards a snow-draped boulder. The pain in his side throbbed where the Thenn's axe had glanced off his ribs. Around him lay the bodies of two of his brothers—Harker and Darrin—both dead, their blood black against the white snow.
And the Wildlings were closing in.
The Thenns' leader, a hulking man with a cruel smile and a scar across his bald head, stood a few paces away, his heavy axe glinting.
"Southron boy's still breathing," he said in the Old Tongue, sneering. "Weak, but breathing." He glanced behind him to his men, their laughter low and rough. "Lucky for you, we've got company."
Jon lifted his head, wincing at the pain, and saw her.
A girl, no older than him, emerged soundlessly from the shadows of the trees. She was cloaked in darkness—dark colors that were too fine for Wildling garb. Her black hair hung wavy around a pale face, and her brown eyes caught the faint light like polished glass. There was something unearthly about her calm as she surveyed the scene.
"A Were," one of the Thenns spat, his voice carrying in disgust.
The leader turned to her, grinning wide enough to show teeth. "You're far from your kind, beast. I have to say though that the two would make a pretty couple," he said, pointing his axe at Jon like he was already a corpse. "I'll let you get first sight of my time with her before I end you both." He directs a sickening grin at Jon.
Jon felt a chill run down his spine at the words, his heart clenching with fear—not for himself, but for the strange woman standing in front of him, so seemingly unprepared for what they could do. She was nothing more than a girl, not much older than Jon, and yet she wasn't backing down. But what could she do against them? He was already bleeding, and the Thenns had him surrounded.
She stayed silent for a moment before her lips twisted into a frown. "Your funeral," she said simply.
Aela dropped her cloak to the snow with a fluid motion, revealing her form beneath. Jon blinked, his breath catching in his throat, as her body began to contort before his eyes. Her limbs lengthened with sickening cracks, and fur sprouted across her skin. Her face contorted, lengthening into a wolf's snout lined with fangs. She dropped to all fours, the remnants of her clothing hanging tattered from the monstrous shape she had become. Massive, dark, and hunched, she resembled the terrifying werewolves from Old Nan's stories, or the beasts Jon had once seen in an old book—bigger than any direwolf. The transformation was grotesque and fast—a horrific yet awe-inspiring sight. She was no longer a girl.
The Thenns froze, staring as Aela's new form towered over them, her claws gleaming in the moonlight. With a snarl, she lunged forward in an instant. The first Thenn barely had time to react before she raked her claws across his chest, throwing him aside like a ragdoll. His scream was short and cut off as she turned to the second Thenn, her speed and strength overwhelming him.
Jon could only watch in stunned silence as Aela tore the men apart with brutal efficiency. The Thenns fought, but they were no match for the fury of the werewolf before them. It was violent and primal, a storm unleashed upon them. Blood sprayed, and limbs were torn asunder with terrifying ease. Jon's stomach churned, both horrified and fascinated by the brutality of it all. She was a force of nature, and Jon had no doubt she could kill them all in seconds if she wished.
When the last Thenn fell to the ground, his life extinguished, Aela stood over the bodies, chest heaving with heavy breaths. She paused, her yellow eyes flicking over to Jon, and in that moment, Jon realized he had been holding his breath, the horror of what he had witnessed still clouding his mind.
The beast stepped back, lowering her head as though shaking herself awake. Slowly, her monstrous shape shrank and twisted again, the fur retracting, claws retracting. Bones snapped as she stood upright.
And there she was again.
Jon could see the moment she realized he was frightened. Her gaze softened, and she reached down to pick up her cloak, wrapping it around her body.
"I... I'm sorry," Aela murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes searched Jon's face, noting the shock that still gripped him. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
Jon blinked, trying to shake off the knot in his stomach. "You—you saved me," he managed to say, his voice hoarse from the fear and the adrenaline still surging through his veins.
Aela nodded, kneeling beside him. The strength she had shown in the battle had disappeared, replaced by a quiet understanding. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch warm despite the coldness of the night.
Jon swallowed, trying to find words. "What... what are you?"
"Alive. Same as you." Her lips quirked faintly before she crouched beside him. "You're hurt."
"I'm fine," Jon muttered, though his side throbbed. His eyes remained on the blood-streaked snow as she helped him to his feet. Her hands were steady and warm, despite what he'd just seen her do.
"You shouldn't look so horrified," she said. "They would've killed you. Or worse."
Jon's mouth tightened as he glanced back at the bodies. "I've seen men killed before."
"Not like this, though." She tilted her head, her brown eyes studying him carefully. "You're from the Wall, aren't you?"
He nodded stiffly. "Jon Snow. I'm of the Night's Watch."
"Well, Jon Snow," she said, standing straight again. "I'm Aela. And you're welcome."
Jon opened his mouth to respond—likely something pointed about werewolves or gratitude—but the pain in his side forced him to double over slightly. The girl sighed and reached out again, this time with a surprising gentleness.
"Come on," she said. "You won't make it back to your brothers like this. I'll help you."
Jon hesitated but saw no other choice. "You're not... like them," he finally said, though it wasn't a question. Who else lived north of the wall besides wildlings and Craster?
"No," she replied quietly. "I'm not."
She looped his arm over her shoulders and began to lead him away from the bloodied clearing. Jon kept his eyes ahead, avoiding the dead and trying not to think about what she really was—or how she'd just saved his life.