A Song of Eldritch and Gibbous

I normally don’t write fanfiction, but I did this as a challenge in 2005, back when I was somewhat active on the Westeros boards.  It has since been sitting in a random folder on my hard drive and I thought I’d resurrect it here.


What if HP Lovecraft wrote “A Song of Ice and Fire?”

I cannot tell you of the horrors that came from the wood that day. Unless you saw them, their unholy blue eyes, their cyclopean terror, and the eldritch powers they commanded, you cannot understand my fear. The cold! Though I have braved the frigid climes of the north, and its swarthy wild inhabitants, never have I face a cold like that before. It was sharp as blades, and it attacked me. But that was not the most awful thing that happened that cold, doomed day. The dead walked.

It meant my life to flee and flee I did. Elstwise I should lose far more than my life. I am today doomed to die, and a blessing it is. I find I have lost the inclination and indeed the very ability to speak. It is only a matter of hours now, before I can mercifully end these torturous borrowed hours.

The creatures would have killed us. Their power was far too strong, their awful haunting presence a bane against our very humanity. I knew every time I stepped through that Black Gate that it could be my last. This time I had known something was terribly wrong. I was not the only one. Before we left, Maester Aemon had called me aside, whispered to me something I instantly committed to memory: “That is not dead which can eternal lie, And with strange aeons even death may die.”

He was warning us, I now know, though what exactly he knew of the eldritch powers arrayed against I knew not. Perhaps he had studied at the Miskatonic Citadel the very evil we encountered. I know that as terrible as those squamous white walkers were, with their burning sapphire eyes, I might have kept my sanity that day if not for one thing. The dead walked.

The dead walked. Sir Waymar, dead these many hours, rose and he spoke to me. His rugose voice burned my ears and the cyclopean horror waved the last shreds of my sanity away as though they were no more than vapors.

His corpse said to me: Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Daenerys Meereen wgah’nagl fhtagn.

I know what he meant. It–No, it is too terrible to think of the rest. Lord Eddard is here with his sons and men. This can mercifully end. It is so very cold. It is strange to see this Ice relieve me from the ice beyond the wall. He is drawing close. Three steps away, now two. His sword is in his hands. I have time for one lost thought.

Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death.



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