Return Of The Elden Lord Chapter 5

Return Of The Elden Lord Chapter 5: Margit The Fell And The Heroes Pain

The world shifted around them as Jon charged toward the hunched figure of Margit. Catelyn instinctively reached for Ned's hand, her fingers closing around his with desperate strength.

"He can't possibly—" she began, but her words died in her throat.

Margit moved with impossible speed for something so large, his twisted form uncoiling like a viper. The large staff in his hand blurred through the air, connecting with Jon's chest with a sickening crack. Jon's body flew backward, smashing against the stone bridge with such force that blood sprayed from his mouth in a fine mist.

"Put these foolish ambitions to rest," Margit's voice rumbled, deep and resonant with a strange, almost sorrowful authority.

Arya screamed, lunging forward only to be caught by Robb's strong arms. "Let me go! We have to help him!"

"We can't," Ned said, his voice hollow. "This is a memory. This has already happened."

Before their eyes, Jon's broken body dissolved into motes of blue light, vanishing entirely. A heartbeat later, he reappeared at the edge of the bridge, whole again, determination etched across his younger face.

"Seven hells," Theon whispered. "He really does come back."

Jon charged again, this time more cautiously. He rolled beneath Margit's first swing, slashing at the creature's legs. His blade bit deep, drawing ichor, but the victory was short-lived. Margit roared, summoning a spectral hammer that materialized from golden light. It crashed down upon Jon, pulverizing him into the stone.

"FOOLISH TARNISHED," Margit boomed. "YOUR KIND ARE ALL OF A PIECE."

Again, Jon's body dissolved into light. Again, he returned.

Sansa turned away, burying her face against her father's shoulder. "I can't watch this," she sobbed.

"You must," Bran said, his voice distant, eyes never leaving the scene. "This is what forged him."

The third attempt saw Jon last longer. He dodged, weaved, landed several blows. For a moment, hope flared in Catelyn's chest. Then Margit conjured a spectral blade, impaling Jon through the stomach and lifting him, writhing, into the air.

"Someone of your meager talents," Margit growled, twisting the blade, "seeking godhood? Pathetic."

Jon's scream tore through the dreamscape, raw and primal. Blood poured from his mouth as he clawed at the magical blade. Margit watched him suffer for long, agonizing seconds before flinging him from the bridge entirely. They heard Jon's body break against the rocks below.

"Old Gods preserve us," Ned whispered, his face ashen.

The pattern continued. Jon returned, fought, died. Each death more horrific than the last. Margit seemed to take personal offense at Jon's persistence, his methods growing more sadistic.

On the seventh attempt, Margit caught Jon by the throat, crushing his windpipe slowly while Jon kicked and struggled. "The fallen leaves tell a story," Margit mused, almost conversational as Jon's face turned purple. "Of how a Tarnished refuses to accept the futility of his quest." With a casual flick, he snapped Jon's neck, the crack echoing across the bridge.

Robb had fallen to his knees, his face wet with tears. "How many times?" he asked hoarsely. "How many times did he endure this?"

As if in answer, Jon appeared again. And again. And again.

On his twelfth attempt, Margit pinned him to the ground with a spectral spear through each limb, crucifying him against the stone. "The greater the ambition, the greater the suffering," Margit lectured, summoning a golden dagger that he drove slowly into Jon's eye. Jon's shriek was inhuman, a sound Catelyn knew would haunt her dreams.

"Stop this," she begged the empty air. "Please, no more."

But there was more. Jon died twenty-three times before their eyes. Crushed, impaled, dismembered, burned by strange magic, his skull crushed beneath Margit's foot. Each time, his screams grew more desperate, more primal. Each time, he returned, his movements increasingly precise, learning from each fatal mistake.

On the twenty-fourth attempt, Jon managed to evade Margit's initial assault, rolling beneath a sweeping strike of the staff. His sword found purchase in the creature's thigh, drawing a howl of rage. For a breathless moment, it seemed he might succeed.

Then Margit's eyes flashed with malevolent intelligence.

"You learn, Tarnished," the creature growled, "but so do I."

From his twisted body erupted a constellation of golden daggers, suspended in the air for a terrible moment before they all converged on Jon's position. The young man tried to dodge, but there were too many. The blades pierced him from every angle, pinning him like an insect to a board, blood flowing from two dozen wounds.

"Does it hurt?" Margit's voice dropped to an almost tender whisper as he approached Jon's quivering form. "Good. The path to godhood should be paved with suffering."

With deliberate slowness, Margit grasped Jon's head between massive hands and began to squeeze. Jon's screams turned to wet gurgles as his skull began to crack.

Catelyn turned away, pulling Sansa with her. "I cannot—I cannot bear this," she sobbed, burying her face against Ned's chest. Arya followed a moment later, her small body trembling with rage and horror.

"He's my brother," Arya choked out. "He's my brother and I can't help him."

Ned wrapped his arms around them, his face a mask of anguish above their heads. His eyes remained fixed on the horror unfolding before them, as if bearing witness was the only thing he could offer Jon now.

"I should have protected him," Ned whispered. "I should have kept him safe."

Theon, his face contorted with helpless fury, had begun grabbing broken stones from the bridge, hurling them at Margit with all his strength. Each projectile passed through the creature like smoke, disappearing into the phantom memory.

"Fight back, Snow!" Theon screamed, his voice cracking. "Get up!"

But Jon could not hear them. His body dissolved into blue light once more, only to reappear at the edge of the bridge for the twenty-fifth time.

Robb had fallen to his knees, hands pressed against his ears, but unable to block out the sounds of his brother's suffering. His shoulders shook with silent sobs as Jon charged forward again.

This time, Margit caught Jon mid-leap, impaling him on a spectral trident that materialized from golden light. Jon hung there, suspended and gasping, as Margit slowly twisted the weapon.

"The audacity," Margit mused, "to think a thing like you could challenge the natural order."

With a flick of his wrist, Margit sent Jon's body flying from the bridge. They heard the sickening impact as he struck the rocks below.

Only Bran continued to watch unflinchingly, though even he turned away when Margit caught Jon on the twenty-seventh attempt and methodically dismembered him, one limb at a time, Jon's screams growing weaker with each severed appendage.

"Why does he keep trying?" Sansa whispered against her father's chest. "Why doesn't he stop?"

"Because he can't," Bran answered, his voice hollow. "This is the only path forward."

The thirtieth death was perhaps the most horrific. Margit pinned Jon against a wall, then slowly pushed his hand through Jon's chest, emerging with something pulsing and red in his grasp.

"Your heart beats with such determination," Margit observed, squeezing the organ while Jon watched, still somehow alive, his eyes bulging with agony. "Let us see how long that lasts."

As Jon's heart was crushed before his eyes, Catelyn felt her own heart breaking for the boy she had never truly accepted as family.

The deaths continued. Bisected at the waist. Head crushed beneath Margit's foot. Body smashed to a red paste against the stone. Burned alive by strange, golden flame that seemed to consume him from the inside out. Each time, Jon returned. Each time, he lasted a little longer, learned a little more, suffered a little worse.

Then, on what must have been the fortieth attempt, something changed. Jon charged forward, but Margit was ready with a sweeping strike that should have caught him in the chest. Instead, Jon dropped to his knees, sliding beneath the attack, his sword flashing upward to catch Margit in the arm.

The creature howled, more in surprise than pain. Jon pressed his advantage, moving with a fluid grace they hadn't seen before. He landed three more strikes before Margit recovered, summoning a golden hammer that crashed down where Jon had been a moment before.

But Jon was no longer there. He had rolled to the side, coming up behind Margit to drive his blade deep into the creature's back.

Margit roared, swinging wildly, but Jon was moving differently now—not just fighting, but dancing a deadly pattern around his foe. For nearly a minute, he avoided every attack, landing blow after blow until Margit staggered, genuinely wounded.

"Is he going to win?" Theon asked, voice raw from shouting.

Then Margit straightened, his eyes blazing with unholy light. "ENOUGH!" he thundered.

The air around him shimmered, and suddenly there were spectral weapons everywhere—swords, spears, hammers, daggers—all converging on Jon from every direction. There was nowhere to dodge, no way to escape. Jon raised his shield in a futile gesture of defiance as the weapons tore through him, reducing him to shredded flesh and broken bone.

As the blue light took him again, Margit nodded once, as if satisfied, then faded from view.

Silence fell across the dreamscape.

"Where is he?" Arya demanded, pulling away from her father. "Why isn't he coming back?"

They waited, but Jon did not reappear at the edge of the bridge.

"Perhaps... perhaps that's all we're meant to see," Ned said, his voice hollow.

"No," Bran said firmly. "He's still here. I can feel it. We need to go back."

They retraced their steps through the yellow fog, down the winding path from which they had first followed Jon. The dreamscape shifted around them, stones and mist rearranging themselves until they emerged in a small alcove tucked against the cliff face.

There, beside a strange, swirling flame that rose from the ground, they found him.

Jon—young, broken Jon—knelt on all fours beside the flame, his body wracked with silent sobs. His armor was intact, his body whole, but his spirit seemed shattered. Tears streamed down his face as he rocked back and forth, mumbling to himself.

"I'll be good," he whispered, his voice so small they could barely hear him. "I'll be a good bastard. I won't ask for anything. I'll stay out of sight. I'll do as I'm told. I just want to go home. Please, I just want to go home."

The words cut deeper than any of Margit's blades. This wasn't the powerful, otherworldly Jon who had returned to them. This was a boy—a terrified, homesick boy who had been killed in countless horrific ways, trapped in a nightmare realm with no way out.

Catelyn turned away, unable to bear the weight of her shame. How many times had she made him feel unwelcome in his own home? How many cold glances and harsh words had she given the boy who now begged simply to return to a place where he was barely tolerated?

Beside her, Sansa stifled a sob, no doubt remembering her own treatment of her bastard brother—the distance she had kept at her mother's encouragement, the way she had mimicked Catelyn's coldness.

Ned took a step toward Jon, then stopped, his hand outstretched but unable to bridge the gap between memory and reality. "I failed you," he whispered. "I should have told you the truth. I should have protected you better."

Robb remained kneeling, as if his legs could no longer support him. "Jon," he choked out, though his brother couldn't hear him. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Only Arya tried to reach him, running forward to throw her arms around the phantom Jon, but passing through him like smoke. She fell to her knees beside him, tears streaming down her face as she tried again and again to touch him, to comfort him.

"Please," Jon continued to murmur, rocking back and forth. "I don't want to die again. I don't want to hurt anymore. I'll be whatever they want me to be. I'll be nothing. Just let me go home."

Bran watched with ancient eyes, his face a mask of sorrow. "This is what broke him," he said softly. "Not the deaths. The loneliness."

As they watched, helpless to intervene, a strange sound echoed through the dreamscape—the soft clop of hooves on stone. From the swirling mists emerged a magnificent steed unlike any they had seen in Westeros. Its coat shimmered with an otherworldly iridescence, and from the sides of its head protruded two horns.

The spectral horse approached Jon cautiously, as if sensing his fragility. It lowered its noble head and gently nuzzled his tear-stained cheek.

Jon flinched at first, then slowly raised his head. The animal made no threatening move, only stood patient and watchful beside him. After a long moment, Jon reached out a trembling hand to stroke its muzzle.

"You're real," he whispered, wonder breaking through his despair. "You're really here. You carried me here…yes. You've been here since I started this journey….."

The horse nickered softly, as if in confirmation, and lowered itself to the ground beside him. Jon hesitated, then wrapped his arms around the creature's neck, burying his face in its mane. His shoulders continued to shake with silent sobs, but the desperate, broken quality of his weeping had subsided.

For what seemed like hours, the Stark family watched as Jon simply held onto the magical steed, drawing comfort from its steady presence. No words were spoken, no great revelation occurred. Just a boy and a horse, finding solace in each other amidst a nightmare.

"Torrent," Bran said suddenly.

"What?" Robb asked, wiping tears from his face.

"The horse's name is Torrent," Bran replied, his voice distant. "He was Jon's only friend for a very long time."

"How did you know that?" Eddard asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he stared at his second youngest son. "About the horse—Torrent."

Bran's eyes remained fixed on Jon and the iridescent steed, his expression unnervingly calm amidst the horror they'd witnessed. "I dreamt it," he said simply. "I've dreamt of Jon many times since he disappeared. I see fragments... pieces. I just never understood what I was seeing until now."

Catelyn exchanged a worried glance with Ned. Bran's dreams had always been unusual, vivid in a way that sometimes left him shaking in the night. But this... this was something else entirely.

Before them, Jon wiped the last of his tears away with the back of his hand. His breathing steadied, and slowly, he rose to his feet. The transformation was haunting to witness—like watching a door close, shutting away the vulnerable boy they'd glimpsed moments before.

His face went blank, eyes hollow, voice flat and empty as he spoke to himself.

"Stop crying for Winterfell," he said, his words cutting through Catelyn like a blade of ice. "Nobody wanted a reminder of shame to an honorable man."

Catelyn flinched as if struck. Those words—they were hers, or close enough. How many times had she thought of Jon as a living reminder of Ned's dishonor? How many times had she let him feel it?

"A bastard born of lust," Jon continued, echoing the poisonous thoughts she'd harbored. "I am a shame. Nothing more."

"No," she whispered, though she knew he couldn't hear. "Jon, no—"

"I must go forward," he said, picking up his sword and shield with mechanical precision. "There is no future or home behind me."

"That's not true!" Robb shouted, his voice cracking. "Jon, we're your family!"

"He's wrong," Sansa sobbed, clutching her father's arm. "Father, tell him he's wrong!"

Theon's face had gone ashen. "Snow, you stubborn fool, don't say that!"

Only Bran remained silent, watching with those strange, knowing eyes as Jon squared his shoulders and began walking back toward the bridge—back toward Margit.

"He can't go back there," Arya said, panic rising in her voice. "Father, stop him! He can't go back!"

But they were powerless, mere observers in this memory of suffering. Jon walked past them like smoke, Torrent following faithfully behind. The dreamscape shifted around them as they hurried after him, the mists parting to reveal the bridge once more.

Margit was waiting.

The hunched figure dropped onto the bridge with that same terrible grace, his twisted form uncoiling as he brandished his staff. "Still here, Tarnished?" the creature growled, voice dripping with disdain. "Have you not learned your lesson?"

Jon didn't answer. Instead, he did something none of them expected.

He threw away his shield.

The metal clattered against the stone, spinning away into the fog that surrounded the bridge. Jon stood before the monster armed only with his sword, his stance relaxed, almost indifferent.

"What is he doing?" Theon hissed. "He needs that shield!"

This time, Jon didn't cry out for Winterfell or the North. He didn't speak at all. He simply charged.

Margit's staff whistled through the air, a blow that had crushed Jon's chest countless times before—but this time, Jon wasn't there. He moved with fluid grace, ducking beneath the strike and slashing upward in a single motion. His blade bit deep into Margit's arm, drawing a spray of golden ichor.

The creature roared in pain, staggering back. Jon pressed forward, his movements no longer desperate or frantic. Each step was measured, each strike deliberate. He flowed around Margit's attacks like water around stone, finding openings where none seemed to exist.

"By the gods," Ned breathed, watching in astonishment as Jon landed blow after blow, drawing blood from the hulking horned creature.

Margit howled in fury, summoning a spectral hammer that crashed down toward Jon's head. Jon sidestepped at the last possible moment, the weapon shattering the stone where he'd stood. In the same fluid motion, he drove his blade deep into Margit's side, twisting as he withdrew it.

The wound gushed golden light, and Margit's eyes widened in shock.

"Well, thou art of passing skill," Margit growled, genuine surprise in his voice as he clutched his side. "Warrior blood must truly run in thy veins, Tarnished..."

The creature paused, studying Jon with newfound interest. "Or is it king's blood, hmm?"

Eddard's heart stopped. The blood drained from his face as Robb and Catelyn turned to him in confusion.

"King's blood?" Catelyn repeated. "What does he mean?"

Ned couldn't answer. His throat had closed, a lifetime of secrets threatening to spill forth.

On the bridge, Margit had lost all semblance of control. The creature launched a frenzied assault, spectral weapons materializing around him in a constellation of deadly light. Daggers, swords, hammers—all converged on Jon's position.

But Jon was ready. He rolled beneath the first volley, came up with his blade flashing, and severed the tendons behind Margit's knee. The monster buckled, howling in pain and rage.

"I will END you, wretched Tarnished!" Margit bellowed, leaping into the air with his staff raised high, preparing to crush Jon beneath its weight.

Time seemed to slow. Jon watched Margit's descent with eerie calm, his body tensed like a coiled spring. At the last possible moment, he stepped aside, faster than the eye could follow. Margit's staff crashed into the stone, lodging there for a crucial half-second.

It was all the opening Jon needed.

His sword flashed upward in a perfect arc, catching Margit's descending form. The blade sliced through the creature's extended arm at the elbow, sending the severed limb tumbling away in a spray of golden ichor. Before Margit could even register the loss, Jon pivoted and drove his blade deep into the monster's throat, the point erupting from the back of its neck in a fountain of light and blood.

Margit's eyes widened, bulging with shock and confusion. The creature dropped to its knees, gurgling as golden fluid bubbled from its mouth and the gaping wound in its neck.

"I shall remember thee, Tarnished," Margit struggled to say, voice wet and failing. "Smould'ring with thy meagre flame..."

The creature's body began to dissolve into motes of golden light, scattering like embers on the wind until nothing remained but Jon, standing alone on the bloodstained bridge.

Jon fell to his knees, exhausted. His body was covered in sweat and blood—both his own and Margit's. The Stark family rushed to his side, though they knew they couldn't touch him, couldn't offer comfort to this phantom of memory.

Slowly, Jon raised his face to the moonlit sky. The expression there wasn't triumph or relief—only a deep, soul-crushing sorrow that made him look far older than his years.

"There is no future behind me," he whispered to the uncaring moon. "No home for me. All I can do..." His voice broke, then steadied with terrible resolve. "All I can do is go forward and take whatever punishment fate has for me."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Jon sheathed his sword and walked back to retrieve his discarded shield. With methodical care, he secured it to his arm once more, then turned toward the inner keep of Stormveil Castle. Torrent followed silently behind, the magical steed's presence the only comfort in Jon's solitary journey.

"Jon, please," Arya sobbed, though she knew he couldn't hear. "Please don't think that. We love you. We missed you."

"We have to tell him," Robb said, turning to his father with desperate eyes. "When we wake up, we have to tell him we saw this. We have to tell him he was wrong—that he always had a home."

Ned nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. The weight of his secrets, of the truth he'd kept from Jon all these years, pressed down on him like a mountain.

The dreamscape began to blur around them, the stones of Stormveil Castle melting into mist. The wind picked up, howling through the fading memory with increasing force. Jon's figure grew distant, walking steadily away from them, shoulders squared against whatever new horrors awaited him within.

"No!" Arya cried, trying to run after him. "Don't leave us again!"

But the dream was ending. The wind became a roar, the mist a blinding swirl of light and shadow.

Eddard and Catelyn bolted upright in their bed, gasping for breath. Sweat soaked their nightclothes, plastering the expensive silk to their skin. The luxurious chamber Jon had provided them in Raya Lucaria suddenly felt suffocating, the fine furnishings a mockery of the suffering they'd just witnessed.

Catelyn's hands trembled as she pressed them to her mouth, trying to stifle the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her. The memory of Jon's broken voice echoed in her mind: A bastard born of lust. I am a shame. Nothing more.

Words so close to her own thoughts, spoken with such hollow certainty by a boy who had died forty times trying to move forward because he believed there was nothing for him to return to.

"Ned," she whispered, turning to her husband with tear-filled eyes. "What have I done?"

Eddard couldn't answer. He sat rigid, his face a mask of anguish as he stared unseeing at the far wall. The monster's words haunted him: Warrior blood must truly run in thy veins, Tarnished... or is it king's blood?