Chapter 11: Rage

The Three-Eyed Raven, white eyes glowing eerie, locked on Arrax, boring through him, like they'd peel back every scar and sin he'd ever carried, and fuck, it was unsettling, but Arrax didn't flinch—not yet, not ever.

The Raven's cracked lips parted slow, voice creaking out like a branch groaning under too much snow, "Stay here," he rasped, low and sharp, cutting through the damp, "I'll bind you, lock you in this place, forever." Roots twitched then, slithering up from the muck, curling around Arrax's boots, snaking up his legs, creaking like they meant to squeeze him 'til he popped. He stood there, steady as a mountain, feeling the woody bastards wrap tighter, digging into his armor, some snapping brittle against the steel, others holding fast, and still he didn't move—just stared back, eyes hard, not a spit of fear in him, like he'd faced worse and laughed it off.

The Raven's voice sharpened, a cold edge slicing through, "Your death, soul and body, it'll mend this, all of it," he said, roots creaking louder, squeezing his chest now, "Time'll stitch back, flow right, how it's meant to be, fire meets ice, written in fate, clear as water once you're gone." His head tilted, white eyes glinting like ice under moonlight, "You're the chaos, the crack, snuff you out, and the weave holds, the storm fades."

Arrax didn't blink, didn't budge, just stood there, roots binding him whole, cracking against his armor, some splintering off, failing to crush him, and he let the old man's words wash over—fire and ice, fate, chaos, all that mystic shit. His gut churned, yeah, but not from fear—more like a slow burn, a flicker of something pissed-off, something stubborn, 'cause he'd clawed out of hells worse than this, hadn't he? He'd read this story, knew the beats, Jon's fights, the wolves, the knives, but him? He wasn't in those pages, and maybe that's what made him grin, faint and crooked, like he'd just heard a bad joke.

The roots tightened, creaking loud, digging into his ribs, and he finally opened his mouth, voice rumbling out heavy, slow, like stones grinding deep, "You fail to understand, Three-Eyed Raven," he said, eyes locked on those white ones, steady, unyielding, "you ain't capable, ain't got no right, to touch an Emperor's Angel." The words hit thick, sharp, like he'd spat 'em into the dirt, and the Raven's stare flickered—just a twitch, a crack in that icy mask—but the roots kept squeezing, snapping, failing to break him, his armor groaning but holding, a mountain in the muck.

Roots writhed around Arrax, creaking loud, binding his legs, his chest, squeezing tight, some snapping brittle against his armor, others digging in, and he stood there, steady, grinning faint and crooked, not a flicker of fear—just a slow burn in his gut, like he'd been waiting for this.

Then—snap—he moved, power surging through him like a damn storm breaking loose, his hands flexing fast, shattering the twigs like they were nothing, bits flying wild, cracking off his steel with a sound like dry bones busting. The knife was in his grip before he even thought it, cold steel gleaming in the dim, pulled from his hip like it'd been itching to dance, and he stepped forward, boots slurping in the muck, pacing slow toward the Raven, eyes locked hard on those white ones, voice rumbling out heavy, thick with something fierce, "There ain't no fate fixed, Raven, no story written in stone."

The old man's roots twitched, creaking louder, like they'd choke him for that, but Arrax kept moving, knife steady, his breath puffing out in clouds, cutting through the damp air, "Your knowin'—past, future, all that shit—it's just chains, binds you tight, not me," he growled, voice rising, glory hounding it like a war cry he'd held too long. He stopped close, close enough to smell the rot off the Raven's breath, knife flashing up quick, pressing it to that bony throat, steel kissing skin, "Take this Emperor's blade," he said, low and hard, "shatter your little cage."

He pushed—hard—and the knife bit in, not deep, just enough, and the world cracked, a sound like glass splintering sharp, reality folding in on itself, the Raven's white eyes widening, flickering, then dimming fast. "Be free," Arrax preached, voice heavy, ringing out like a bell in the dark, and the roots fell limp, snapping off, crumbling to dust, the damp air thinning out quick, like it'd been holding its breath too long. The Raven slumped, head tilting slow, a croak slipping out, "You… fool," and then—bam—Arrax's head snapped back, his gut lurching, vision blurring as the cold root-hole shattered around him.

He blinked hard, gasped loud, and he was back—frost crunching under his boots, the campfire a dead smear of ash, Jon's voice cutting through, "Arrax! What the fuck!"—sharp, panicked, right in his ear. His hand was still on Ghost's head, the wolf's white eyes glinting calm, but he yanked it off fast, fingers tingling like they'd been dunked in ice, and he staggered a step, armor creaking loud, breath puffing out white in the cold. "For fuck's sake…," he muttered, voice hoarse, rough as gravel, shaking his head slow, the weight of it crashing in—that Raven's grip, the roots, the knife—he'd broken it, hadn't he?

His hand flexed off Ghost's head, the wolf's white stare glinting eerie, but then—fuck—the world slammed back, real and bloody, Jon's voice barking, "Arrax, move!" sharp and ragged, cutting through the wind's howl. Arrax spun slow, eyes catching the mess—Jon standing there, blood streaking his face, Longclaw gripped tight, not a scratch on him from cowardice but cuts everywhere from standing firm, Ryk slumped beside him, a long gash ripping down his front, red soaking his coat, Sam trembling behind, fat hands clutching a stick, blood dripping from a nick on his arm.

Around them, the crows—Night's Watch brothers, black cloaks flapping like vultures—closed in tight, swords glinting cold under the faint moon, thirty or more, yelling, snarling, "Traitor! Move, you bastard!" Tormund roared loudest, stump swinging wild, eyes blazing, "That little shit's dead, Jon, step aside!"—voice shattering the dark, sword shaking in his good hand, bloodlust thick as the frost. Jon didn't budge, boots planted, eyes hard, refusing, loyal as hell, blood dripping from a cut on his cheek, staining the snow red, and Ryk—damn fool—grinned weak, "Told ya… he swung first," voice wobbling, like he thought it'd still save him.

Arrax didn't say shit, didn't ask—just stood there, chest heaving, knife already in his hand, slick with sweat or blood or whatever from that vision, and he saw it, clear as day—this mess was his now. He paced forward, slow at first, boots crunching loud, shoving past Jon, Ryk, Sam, brushing 'em like they were twigs, his blood pumping hot, eyes locking on the crows, Tormund's raging face front and center. One second he's patting Ghost, the next—fuck—he's there, knife flashing quick, slicing down hard, catching a crow mid-yell, splitting him clean in half, guts spilling out wet and red, hitting the frost with a sick thud, blood steaming in the cold.

The crows froze, jaws dropping—thirty swords, thirty men, and not one saw it coming. "You shoulda been happy with your one hand," Arrax growled, voice low, heavy with glory, rumbling like thunder over the wind, and then he moved—fast, too damn fast for a hulk like him, a god of death in steel. His knife slashed, gutting one crow throat to belly, blood spraying wild, punched another's face in with a fist like a hammer, bone cracking loud, sliced a third's arm clean off, red splashing frost, a rampage tearing through 'em like they were paper, not men—shouts turning to screams, steel clanging useless against his armor.

Tormund roared, charging in, "You fucker!" swinging wild, but Arrax sidestepped, quick as a cat, knife slashing down—stopped dead, an inch from Tormund's throat, 'cause Jon—damn fool Jon—threw himself between 'em, Longclaw up, blood dripping from his cuts, eyes blazing hard. "Stop!" Jon bellowed, voice cracking through the chaos, chest heaving, "Enough, Arrax, stand down!" Arrax froze, knife steady, blood dripping off the blade, staining the frost red, his gut twisting—not fear, just heat, raw and heavy, staring at Jon's cut-up face, loyal as hell, standing there like a wall.

"Get outta the way, Jon," Arrax growled, voice low, rough, cutting through the wind's howl, knife twitching in his grip, "or I'll cut through you too," threat rumbling out heavy, daring, but his eyes flickered—Jon, bloodied, unyielding, not moving an inch. Ryk staggered up, clutching his gash, "Oi, big man, don't—he's… he's good," voice wobbling, weak, blood soaking his hand, and Sam whimpered, "Jon, he… he'll do it," stick shaking in his fat fingers.

The crows circled tighter, swords still up, blood pooling around their boots, Tormund panting, stump dripping red, "Traitor's pet!" he spat, voice hoarse, and Jon's grip on Longclaw tightened, knuckles white, "I said enough!" he Roared.