Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who is leaving reviews! I appreciate your kind compliments very much, and am glad you're enjoying my story.

Despite the greater distance from Winterfell to Eastwatch-by-the-sea than they had traveled the previous three days, they made excellent time and touched down outside the castle just as dusk began to turn the world blue and purple.

Dany huddled into her cloak, mentally thanking Sansa once more for her generosity, while surveying her surroundings. The castle perched on the very edge of a cliff, looking as if it were moments from crumbling into the sea, and the wind what whipped up from the shore far below was brutal. She'd never been so cold in her life, and the heat Jon provided while aloft had faded by then.

Men were ranged periodically on the parapet facing away from the water, and torches blazed along its perimeter. One of them called down, "State your name!"

"Jon Snow!" he called back, and right away gears starting whining as the portcullis was raised.

Two men walked out to meet them, one balding with a very unconvincing topknot of snarled ginger hair, the other with a neat beard and an eye patch.

"Your Grace," said Eye Patch, ushering them within the walls. "I am Ser Beric Dondarrion. This is Thoros of Myr. We guide the Brotherhood without Banners, and arrived only a short while ago. You have come at a good time, because the lord in charge of this keep recently died and the men are without leadership."

Those leaderless men, all hard-faced and garbed in black, ranged around them with curious eyes.

Topknot— Thoros, apparently— added, "They're starting to become unruly."

Jon looked them over, then asked, "Who's the highest-ranking man here?"

No one spoke or stepped forward.

"I suppose that's me," answered Beric reluctantly, after looking around and finding no takers. "I'm lord of Blackhaven, and head of House Dondarrion."

"Now lord of Eastwatch-on-the-sea, as well," said Jon, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Congratulations."

Beric paused, then bowed in recognition of the honor just bestowed up on him. "Your Grace."

Then he looked to where Dany stood shivering next to Jon.

"Let us get your companion into the keep," he said kindly, and gestured to the door of blackened wood set in the castle's thick wall. "Back to work, lads," he instructed the rest of the men.

Jon had her precede him in following Beric, and Thoros brought up the rear. The castle was in the very old style, without windows, featuring only arrow slits, through which the frigid wind whistled even past heavy tapestries and furs pinned over the openings. To combat the strong drafts, each room featured a massive fireplace, stacked with firewood and waiting to be lit.

Thoros crouched by the hearth of a larger room, setting fire to the wood, and Beric requested meals to be brought for them. As before in Greywater Watch, Dany waited to lower her hood until Jon indicated he felt the men were trustworthy.

"Ah," said Thoros. Beric only watched, but it was clear her coloring did the speaking for her, and they both knew her identity.

"We are contemplating an alliance," Jon said, "and I wished to give Her Grace proof that the army of the undead were a valid threat."

"Wise," said Beric, sketching a shallow bow to Dany, which she returned with a nod.

The food arrived, plain and simple fare consisting of a tasteless soup of turnip and squirrel as well as a nutty brown bread spread thickly with butter. Dany and Jon ate quickly, feeling fatigue bear down on them.

"I apologize for our lack of conversation," Jon said when they were done. "We are tired, and must be up very early."

"We've had rooms made up," said Beric, and led the way.

Jon was shown to as cozy a chamber as was possible in such an inhospitable place. Through the door as she passed, Dany glimpsed a wide bed heaped with blankets and noted there were even furs tossed on the floor to keep the cold from radiating off the stones.

Her own room was smaller, but no less generously appointed. The bed was narrow, but plenty big enough for her. She knew better, now, than to try to sleep nude, and only shucked her trousers, boots, and over-tunic before crawling under the covers. They had been warmed, she realized when the linen did not brush cool against her bare legs, but that was the last thought she managed before being sucked down into the depths of sleep.

The next morning, they were up before dawn in response to Beric knocking at their doors. Breakfast was a repeat of last night's stew. Dany gave hers to Jon and contented herself with the bread, unable to make herself chew any more of the rubbery squirrel. It was testament to Jon's long practice with the rigors of living in a northern barracks, because he ate that stew with all evidence of gusto.

Poor dear, she thought, and made a mental note to lavish the best Essosian dishes upon him when they returned to Dragonstone. The chef she'd brought with her from that continent was unparalleled. Jon would never be able to appreciate squirrels with turnips again, not after tasting the spiciness of Pentoshi noodles; the delicate butter-and-wine concoction poured over cockles and scallops until they opened and revealed their bounties; the palate-cleansing sourness of pickled watermelon, followed by goat flank marinated in the juice of pomegranates and blood oranges before being roasted over open flames. And all of it washed down with wine made from berries and pears and honey… her mouth watered at the memory.

"It's time," Jon said to her at last. He stood and held out a hand to her. "Are you ready?"

"I am," she said, and took his hand, letting him raise her from the bench. She turned to their hosts, Beric and Thoros, and nodded to them in gratitude. "Thank you for your kind welcome. And congratulations on your new post, Ser Beric."

His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "Thank you," he said, but didn't seem too honored by the promotion.

Drogon arrived in answer to her request, but before she could approach her beloved child, Thoros stopped her, his hand the barest touch against her elbow.

"A word of advice?"

She nodded, curious.

"Hold on," he said.

Any stared at him. There was knowledge in his eyes; he was a seer of some sort, and he had seen something about her. She nodded shortly at him.

"I will."

She was relieved to have Jon wrap himself around her from behind once more; not only for the warmth, but she found herself shivering out of apprehension rather than cold as they went aloft. The barren, ice-scoured shore of Storrold's Point was completely devoid of life. Not person, nor animal, nor bird, nor even tree could be found. She and Jon and Drogon were the only living beings in the area. Aside from the wind whistling past as they flew, there was utter silence. It was profoundly unnatural.

"Easy," Jon murmured in her ear, and began to rub his gloved hands up and down her arms. That was when Dany realized she was shaking, from cold and from fright.

"I'm s-s-sorry," she stammered.

"It's eerie. And the cold doesn't help," he said. "Maybe on the way back, you can sit behind me and keep me warm, because I'm like to be shaking the same way when we head South again."

She could hear the smile in his voice, and appreciated his attempt to lighten the mood. She pressed his hands, returned as they had by that point to her waist, in thanks.

The sun was fully up now, not just a mere promise of light over the horizon, and she could easily see the remains of a settlement at the end of the peninsula. It had been a goodly-sized community, well-places on the shore, with a steep embankment shielding one side and a tall wooden rampart the other. If not through the gate in the rampart, the only approach was from the sea. It was an impressive strategy of defense from what were supposed to be a primitive people, and Dany felt herself interested to speak with Jon's friend, Tormond, he of the undying passion for Lady Brienne.

As they drew closer, she became aware that Drogon was disturbed. He began flying in oblique angles, rather than directly toward Hardhome, as if pushed away by winds stronger than he. She'd never felt anything like it from him before, nor from his brothers. It wasn't fear, exactly, but unease, and an unprecedented amount of hatred. Drogon hated whatever was in Hardhome so much that he was unsure what to do.

She could feel what he wanted, what his instinctual reaction was: to burn the place, the surrounding countryside, the very water around it, until nothing was left but cinders. From the sense of evil pervading the place, she could not blame him. She wanted it reduced to ash, as well.

We must fly over that village, my sweet, she told Drogon.I must see what is in it. I'm sorry I am asking you to do it. Please, my love.

Shuddering with loathing, Drogon stopped sidling closer and arrowed straight for it before entering into a steep dive over the rampart.

"Drogon! What are you doing?" Dany shrieked aloud as they almost skimmed the hard-packed snow of Hardhome.

The dragon banked hard, turning so sharply and suddenly that his entire body swung onto its side, and Dany's numb hands could not hold her weight to him. Off she slid, out of Jon's grasp even as he scrabbled to keep hold of her. If not for his knees locked around some of the dragon's spikes, he'd have lost his seat for sure.

"Your Grace!" he cried, but she was falling, air whistling past as she went. "Your— Daenerys!"

And then she was landing, face-down, into a snow bank. It broke much of her fall, thankfully, and when she took a swift inventory of herself there were no broken bones, but her right knee had knocked into a fallen roof-beam and began to throb with pain. Dany got onto her hands and the other, undamaged knee and lurched to her feet. Overhead, Drogon wheeled around and flew past, too high for Jon to leap down.

His face was white as called to her, "How do I get him to land? He's not responding to anything I say."

Drogon, come down, she thought to her dragon.I need to get back on.

A crunching, snapping sound came from behind her, and Dany spun around to locate it. At first, there was nothing, but then she saw cracks and fractures in the shell icing over the snow on the far side of Hardhome's former common area. They widened and lengthened, those cracks, and then a hand reached out of one, scrabbling for purchase on the ground. Once the taloned fingers sank in, another hand thrust up, and both heaved until the rest of the body surged from the snow.

Dany felt a wave of heated panic cascade over her, her heart twisting almost brutally in her chest, and then it drained abruptly away to leave only cold. The person who had just dug himself free was no person at all. He couldn't be, because half of his face was rotted away, his jaw hanging loose, and she could see daylight through his ribs.

Itsribs, she corrected numbly. It's… it's one of the undead that Jon told us about. He tried and tried to tell us, and we didn't listen. Ididn't listen.

She was listening now. Another crunch sounded, not far from the first, and another creature hauled itself out of its snowy grave, and then more and more. She stood still, as if carved from marble, trying to keep panic at bay and think of what to do. Overhead, Jon was still trapped aboard Drogon, who seemed half-crazed as he swooped in erratic circles. All around her were fallen-down building and little open space.

Drogon can't land in the middle of all this, she thought, and began to back away from the ramshackle scraps that were all that remained of the wildlings' homes.

It appeared that backing away was the exact wrong thing to do, however; content as the wights had seemed to just stand there, facing her— could it be called 'staring' if it had no eyeballs? Could it even be called 'facing' if they had no faces?— but as soon as her foot moved backward, they stirred and began to follow.

"Oh, gods," she moaned, and began to run.

It hurt: her knee, throbbing his pain every time she set her weight on it; her lungs, aching from cold and exertion. She remembered the knife Jon had insisted she bring along, all the way back in Dragonstone, what felt like a year ago. A lifetime had passed since then. A lifetime had passed since she began running, and despite her efforts, they were gaining on her. She could hear them, louder and louder as they drew nearer, and the evil permeating the air making it feel, somehow, even colder. Dany had not thought a person could become this cold, had not thought it possible, but she felt the chill in the very marrow of her bones.

She looked around and up. There was no sign of either Drogon or Jon now, and she found she could not blame them. It was desolate down here, a wasteland of decay and certain death. The relics of those who had lived here, their belongings left where they'd been discarded, were heartbreaking. Dany felt her breath coming faster and faster as she continued to limp away, past the point of panting and well into the range of hyperventilation.

Silvery dots entered the edges of her vision. She swayed on her feet, the pitch of the ground beneath her making it feel as if it were bucking like the deck of a ship in a gale. She stumbled and fell to the ground, but scrambled up quickly to to run again, a sad, uneven gait that seemed to get her nowhere.

And then she realized, to her horror, that she'd gotten turned around, one ruined hovel looking much the same as the next, and had been running the wrong way. Right toward the wights, in fact. She gave a little scream as one reached out a hand and almost grabbed her; she spun around and fled, but all too soon her injured knee was causing her so much pain that she dreaded the need, for each step, to place her weight upon it.

She knew she just wasted time, that every time she looked back slowed her pace, but could not help herself. She couldn't just run and not see where her pursuers were. Dread filled her limbs with ice, until her arms were leaden and she felt she could barely take another step.

Go, she told herself. Once more. One more step. There. Now another. You must go. Again. Yes.

The wind was rushing past her ears; no, that was her blood, a loud roar in her head, in her very throat. Had she known fear before? No. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this; not her marriage to Drogo, with her virginal apprehension about the marriage bed, painful and invasive though it had been at first; not confronting the khals after Drogo's death; not eliminating the slavers of Meereen; not even her first flight on Drogon. Nothing.

She'd never felt so powerless, so useless. She was nothing here, completely without value. She had nothing to use or trade. All her beauty, her wealth, her birthright… all were ashes, just ashes.

Skeletal fingers wound in her hair as it flowed away from her in her running, and with a jerk she was thrown to the ground. Dany brandished the knife at the approaching wight, but it was unconcerned. It wasn't afraid of pain or death; she might as well have been waving a feather at it, for the effect it had had. How could you fight something that feared nothing, that stopped for nothing except for your death, or its own?

The wight pounced, and Dany found herself screaming, a high, panicked keening, words started but abandoned halfway through until she was uttering half-formed screeches of terror. The knife was lost, doubtless landing in a snowdrift, but it would not help her, in any case. The wight tore at her hair, tried to rip off her very flesh, but the heavy leather and fur lining of her Northron cloak protected most of her. The sharp point of a naked finger-bone slashed her cheek, catching the edge of her lip, and she screamed again.

This time it was a pitiful thing, her scream, a thin wail like a newborn baby, and that was what Dany was, weak and helpless and shivering, vulnerable, at the mercy of those who pursued her, except that they felt no mercy. They felt nothing at all. That might be the hardest thing of all to understand, to accept: that though they were trying to kill her, they did not actually want her dead. They wanted nothing. Her death, her life, none of it mattered to them. They had no motives, just a compulsion, forced upon them by their king.

Kill.

Dany was exhausted. It felt like she'd been struggling with the thing for hours, though she knew it could only have been a minute or two, no more. Where was Jon? Where was Drogon? Had they deserted her? Why had she not trusted him? Why had she insisted upon seeing these monsters for herself? Oh, she should have listened to Tyrion and Missandei and Varys. Even Jon and Ser Davos had tried to talk her out of it, but no. She had thought her logic unassailable. She had dismissed the counsel of those older, or at least wiser, than herself, and it had led to her death.

The silvery spots were thicker now, and the whistling in her ears was growing stronger. She might as well give up, give in, let go. It would be over quicker. The whistling grew louder. Its pitch lowered, became more like a howl. There was a crash, and suddenly the scrabbling pressure of the wight's hands against her body was gone. The howling was coming closer, it was turning into words, it was Jon's voice, and he was telling her—

Telling her—

"Get up, Dany! Get up now! You must get up!"