Chapter 26.
One morning, Khal Jhaqo awoke and immediately realized that it was too quiet.
The massive Khalasar that he had welded together had arrived within sight of Meereen the day before. As soon as the city had appeared on the horizon, the Dothraki leader vowed to himself that, by the time the next full moon rose, every building would be razed to the ground and the White-Haired Bitch would be warming his bed.
Speaking of which, Jhaqo kicked the slut who had served him last night out of the way and rose from his sleeping furs.
The thousands of men of his horde usually produced a steady noise, even in the dead of night. And, now that it was morning, there should be a rising clamour of warriors readying for battle. Instead, there was an eerie silence.
Pushing aside the tent flap, he saw why.
Two massive dragons stood on the edge of the plain between Meereen and the Dothraki encampment, less than a hundred feet away from Jhaqo's own tent.
His warriors were not afraid. The Dothraki do not feel fear like the weaklings that hide within stone walls do. All of the men had weapons in thier hands and were ready to fight and die.
However, only fools did not recognize danger when they saw it and all were being very, very careful not to make any sudden moves.
Overhead, flying in lazy circles like a carrion crow, was a third dragon, even larger than the other two.
This one was different, for there was a figure perched on the dragon's neck. As soon as the rider spotted the Khal coming out of his tent, the pair landed to the earth less than distance of a spear's throw away.
Daenerys slid off of Drogon and strode towards Jhaqo with all of the arrogant assurance of a warrior.
In a loud, clear voice that carried perfectly in the stillness, she said in flawless Drothraki, "My advisors had all sorts of plans to deal with you. Much like the kites and the fireworks."
"But, I am the Mother of Dragons and I do not need to rely on tricks. You say you want me? Here I am. Take me."
Jhaqo stared at the woman. She had the beauty of a Goddess and majesty of a Queen. The early morning sunlight brought a luster to her face and the leather and silk that she wore did nothing to hide the magnificence of her body. Worst of all, she had the taunting, challenging smile of a true Khaleesi.
The Khal hated her and wanted her more powerfully than he had ever felt anything in his entire life. If it meant tearing out his own heart in exchange for owning her for a single hour, he would have paid the price willingly.
Then, the next moment, he knew that he never get to touch her, even for a barest second. His lust died and all that left was pure anger.
With a roar, he lifted his arakh and charged.
Jhaqo managed to take seven steps before the flames turned him to ash.
Daenerys came forward and plucked the red hot blade out of the smoking remains of her former enemy.
Holding it over her head, she cried out, "Bloodriders! I come here not to cheat you out of a victory, but to lead you to even greater ones!"
"Across the Narrow Sea lies my ancestral homeland. Join me and we shall conquer the Seven Kingdoms! Join me and new lands shall tremble at the name of Dothraki!"
Amid roars of approval, Daenerys climbed back on Drogon. All three dragons took off, circled once and headed back to the city.
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In the week that followed after the death of Ailwin Frey, more Giants did start arriving at the Wall.
They didn't arise out of the earth the way that legends said that they would. Instead, small clans of two or three dozen would warily show up.
Because they were one of the most ancient races of the North, many of the Giants knew of ice caves and secluded places that even the Night King was unaware of. Choosing discretion over valor, they were going wait out the battles and fight whatever side was victorious.
However, dreams of a fellow Giant that would lead them into battle and save their race drew them out of hiding and towards Castle Black.
(They were not exactly pleased to find out that the "Giant" leading them was Tyrion.
But Wun Wun spoke to them and described the previous Battle of the Wall. The fact that the Night King actually retreated impressed them more than anything else could.)
Eventually, over four hundred Giants joined their ranks. Not quite the thousand that had been promised, but important nonetheless.
Whether it was through some unknown process or because he had spent the most time among Tyrion's men, Wun Wun emerged as the leader of his brethren. The impressive figure that he cut probably helped. After the Battle, Tyrion had Wun Wun outfitted with greaves, bracers and a scale-mail shirt.
"It cost a damn fortune," he told Arya as they met in his tent. "Most of the expense is going to come from the Goldenheart longbow that I ordered for him."
Made from a type of tree found only on Jhala and Omboru in the Summer Isles, Goldenheart bows were famous as the greatest in the world, able to put a shaft even through steel plate.
Although export of the wood has been forbidden for centuries, gold has a loosening effect and Zulen was able to arrange for two to be made.
Arya raised her eyebrows and inquired, "Two?"
"Yes." Tyrion gestured as Pod brought forward a wrapped package. "Because yours is smaller, they were able to finish it quicker."
Arya quickly unwrapped it, as delighted as a mother with a newborn child, while Tyrion kept talking. "I realized that, for all of the time that we've known each other, I never found out when your birthday was."
"Happy Birthday, Arya. For all the ones past and future."
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The memory flitted across Arya's mind as she oiled her bow. The one drawback of Goldenheart was that you had to constantly maintain it, especially in cold weather.
Five days had passed since the lightning strike and the sounding of the Horn of Winter. On the first day, she had worried that the Giants would not arrive in time and said as much to Bran.
The response that she got from her brother was one of those bizarre circular arguments that he handed out too often these days. Calmly, he told her that the Giants had heard the call in their dreams weeks ago and would be arriving very soon.
"Then, if they already heard the Horn's call, it didn't need to be brought here."
Bran looked up at her from his chair, his eyes unfathomable. "No, they only heard me weeks ago when I used the Horn yesterday."
"What?"
Deep down, conversations like that scared Arya. Her, Sansa and all the rest of them had changed. But, Bran might have changed too much to truly be a part of their family anymore.
Arya shoved it out of her mind as she dipped her cloth into the cup of wood oil. The Night King was coming. Live through that, she told herself, then you can worry about other problems.
While slowly rubbing the oil into the fine grain, she let her eyes drift around the room. The evening meal had just ended in the Great Hall of Castle Black and everyone was idling over small talk or small tasks.
Dellyne and Loras were having a friendly debate about the proper way to wear the heavy clothes of the North. The two men had settled into a comfortable relationship. Less than love, but more than friendship.
Even if Loras and Dell both managed to live through the upcoming battles, they knew that what they had was not permanent. And, with surprisingly little regret, they enjoyed whatever moments they could find.
Tormund, Ranulf and Brienne quaffed wine and talked about past fights. Mostly, it was Ranulf who spoke. Tormund spent a lot of time suggestively grinning at the Maid of Tarth. Her response was to glower and pointedly sharpen her knives.
Jaime, Bronn and Tyrion sat together and hashed out the thousand and one petty problems that cropped up daily. Aside from the supernatural threat, they were leading armies that, under normal circumstances, would be slaughtering each other. Furthermore, they were doing it under winter conditions that made everything fifty times more difficult. Or expensive. Usually both.
In addition, Tyrion had to oversee an far-flung business empire that was needed to pay for everything.
One evening, Tyrion remarked dryly to Pod that, for once in his life, he was almost too busy to drink. "Almost."
Pod came in and added the latest raven-delivered messages to the pile of paperwork.
Tyrion sifted through them quickly and frowned as one from a truly unexpected sender caught his eye. Tearing open the seal, he read it quickly.
Arya saw his face as he read and the sick expression that seeped into his eyes as he looked at the words.
Later, she tried to describe to Jon the rage and grief and numbing shock that she saw in Tyrion. Finally, the best description that she could come up with was, "That was probably how I looked when they killed Father."
Meanwhile, Jaime and Bronn were puzzled at this abrupt change. Jaime began to ask, "Tyrion, what's-".
Quickly, his words were chopped off by his brother, who thrust the page at him and spat, "Is this true!?"
Jaime slowly took the page and began reading. His face changed too, but it was much easier to identify. Pure horrified guilt.
Desperately, he tried to defend the unforgivable. "Tyrion, I had no choice! I didn't-"
Once again, he was interrupted by his brother. Tyrion grabbed a half-full wine bottle and lunged forward, smashing it upon Jaime's skull.
Despite his bafflement at this turn of events, Bronn managed to get a hold of a snarling, weeping Tyrion before he gutted a dazed Jaime with the broken bottle. "Stop it, or you'll cut me." The sell-sword was beginning to get fairly pissed off in his own right. "Gods Dammit, y' little bastard! I didn't do anything to you!"
Ranulf helped Bronn to restrain the Little Lion and Dell lifted a dazed Jaime back onto his bench.
Arya picked the letter off of the floor and began reading.
In the years since she had known him, Arya had gradually pieced together the tale of Tyrion's tragic marriage to Tysha.
The letter was from Cersei, taunting her brother with the revelation that his first wife had not been a whore after all. She truly had been a orphan peasant girl and it was Jaime who had lied.
It had been years since she had seen the Queen, but Arya could easily picture Cersei's cruel smirk as she wrote down the hatefull words.
"I had no choice.", Jaime repeated numbly as he blinked against the blood that seeped down the side of his face. "Father made me! I didn't have a choice!"
"Go!" The garbled words came out of Tyrion as he turned away in a futile attempt to hide his tears. "Leave! Now!"
"But-"
"Get out."
Jaime turned on Arya, prepared to tell the young wolf-girl to mind her own damn business. The words died on his lips when he saw her condemning look. It was as if Eddard Stark and his relentless sense of Justice lived again.
Before, he could console himself with the knowledge that Aerys deserved to be betrayed and Ned was a fool for scorning him. Now, Jaime had no such luxury and he found himself unable to meet Arya's cold glare.
He slowly stood and said, "I am sorry, Tyrion. You won't believe me. But, I'm so sorry."
Famed for his verbal barbs, Tyrion's only response was to turn and spit on the floor.
Jaime bowed his head and walked away, telling himself that the salt that he tasted was from his blood and not from his tears.
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When Cersei woke the next morning, she was horrified at her own actions.
Mind you, it wasn't at the pain that she had caused to her little brother. Thinking of how she utterly destroyed the little monster with only a few words gave her a warm glow of satisfaction inside. She only wished that she could have been there to see the look in his eyes as his spirit withered and died.
But...
Cersei had winnowed the truth out of Jaime the night after Tyrion's peasant slut had been driven away. And, when he saw her delighted expression, Jaime flat out ordered her to never reveal what she knew.
Usually, Cersei held the whip hand in their relationship and it was very, very rare for her lover to issue ultimatums. In this instance, the deadly look in Jaime's eyes made it perfectly clear that this was a line not to be crossed.
As she sat at the window of her rooms in Braavos, Cersei realized that, for the first time in her life, she was truly alone. No father, brother, husband or lovers.
It was terrifying. And, exhilarating.
Cersei drank a quick cup of wine to chase away her headache from the previous night's indulgences. In a move that would have astounded all who knew her, she limited herself to only one.
For several long minutes, she sat, coldly assesing all that she had left and how it could best be used.
Summoning some servants, the former Queen had two of them gather up all of her jewels. A third was sent to the Iron Bank to request an audience.
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Daenerys' decision to use her dragons instead of her troops had been met with strong arguments from all of her advisors.
But, she had been insistent. Sooner or later, her children would have to be battle tested. Without them, the invasion of the Seven Kingdoms would be futile and everything that she had worked for would be for naught.
After she had been rescued by Oberyn, Daenerys freed Rhaegal and Viserion from their chains. An alternate method on keeping her dragons from eating people was suggested by Daario.
One of the most basic methods for training hunting dogs was to rub meat all over the item that you wanted them to track. Soon, the dog learned to associate the two scents and would eagerly trail the item in question.
Daario thought that they could try the reverse. Take a condemned criminal and rub him down in something so disgusting that even dragons would not touch them. Then, the dragons would learn to stay away from people. If it failed, move on to the next murderer or raper and try again.
With a shrug, Oberyn turned to his potions and poisons and began researching. After a few initial attempts, the concoction that he came up with made a person smell truly hideous. Like a cross between a sulfer-laden sewer and an infected wound.
(As an added bonus, it made the individual look horrible too. It stained the skin a sickly yellow-green, raised huge pustulent boils on the skin and made hair fall out in clumps. And, the treatment didn't wear off until after a year or two later.
Even after the dragons finished thier training, Daenerys kept using it as a punishment for certain crimes. Called "The Dragon Queen's Curse", many considered it to be a fate worse than death.
Reputedly, a man sentenced to the Curse and exiled, wandered to Old Valyria. Even the Stone Men ran away from him in fear and disgust.)
Another thing that Daenerys began doing was rubbing her dragons down with an herb-infused oil. It soothed cracked skin and peeling scales, especially at the joints.
(This was found in an ancient text, Upon the Training of Dragons, by Maester Singultus)
Although dragons could live and thrive without it, the oil promoted faster growth and the two dragons that had been chained soon made up for the time that they had lost. It also proved to be a useful bonding time between the three dragons and their mother.
In an odd way, it helped Daenerys as much as it did the dragons. They may have been willful children at times. But, she admitted to herself, there were times when she was a neglectful mother.
I will never forget you again, she silently promised them as she wiped down Drogon. In response, he closed his eyes and crooned with pleasure.
No matter what my other duties demand from me, I will never forget you again.
By the time Jhaqo and his Khalasar hove into view, Daenerys's faith in her dragons was as solid as it had ever been. It was that confidence that carried her through the confrontation.
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A week had passed since Tyrion got the letter. Since then, the Little Lion had done nothing but pour wine down his throat at a relentless pace.
Before, even during the worst of his binges, some part of him had enjoyed the mellow flavors as they cascaded past his tongue and the warmth as it hit his stomach.
Now, he drank with a listless desperation. Tyrion couldn't give a damn about the wine, so much as the oblivion that came with it.
Unable to stop him, the best that his friends could do was to drink with him and attempt to pace his intake. Trying to keep up proved to be a challenging task.
(One morning, after his "Shift" and in the midst of a colossal hangover, Loras had whined, "How the fuck can that little bastard put away so much wine?"
Dell didn't answer. He was too busy listening to the thunder of his own heartbeat inside his aching skull.)
Staggering from Tyrion's bedroom, Pod rushed to one of the nearest windows, threw open the shutters and was noisily sick over the edge.
Miserable, wondering if his stomach was actually going to turn itself inside out this time, the young knight rested his head on the windowsill and groaned.
A finger prodded him on the shoulder and, when he blearily looked up, a hankerchief was handed to him. "Here. Wipe your face, Pod."
"Thank you, my Lady." Belatedly, Pod registered that Sansa was standing in front of him and he bolted upright. "My Lady! I, uh, didn't, um, suh-see.."
Stuttering, unsure if he needed to bow or throw up again, Pod finally took a deep breath and said with heartfelt sincerity, "I'm very glad that you're here, my Lady. My Lord needs you desperately."
Sansa nodded and walked past him.
Inside, Tyrion was giving a wine pitcher a shake, trying to determine if the dregs in it were enough to fill a goblet. Deciding that he didn't really care, he lifted it to his lips and guzzled directly from it.
Lowering it, he saw his wife standing in front of him. Closing his eyes, he wondered if she was a drunken hallucination and would go away.
"Tyrion."
No such luck. How surprising.
"Hullo, Sansa", he said, slurring the words slightly. "What brings you here?"
Sansa chose to ignore the sarcasm and simply replied, "I came to help you."
Part of him felt thankfull for her concern. However, the other part, made strong by decades of insults and more recent self-pity, chose to lash out like a wounded animal.
"Help? Help!? How exactly do you intend to help?", he asked scathingly.
Even in the worst of times, both of them had tried their best to be honest with each other. So, after a long pause, Sansa was forced to admit, "I don't know."
"When you heard of the Red Wedding, was there a single thing that I could have said that would have made you feel better?"
Sansa remembered her all-consuming grief that made her blind to nearly everything around her. "No, nothing."
Tyrion knew the words were ugly. But, like so many other times in his life, he couldn't keep them from pouring out of his mouth. "Then, leave. There's not a Damn thing that you can do here, my Lady."
Sansa nodded to herself, accepting the words like a fighter taking a hit and ignoring the hurt. Then, she pulled out a stool, sat and leaned forward so that the two were eye to eye.
"On my Wedding Day," she said softly, "I was scared and alone. You knew that and did your best to reassure me. You even made me smile a little."
"And, after the Red Wedding?" Sansa's smile of remembrance was bittersweet now. "If we had more time together, you would have kept trying. I don't know if it would have worked, but you have tried anyway."
"I love you. I'm here to help you. And, I am not leaving you."
Tyrion felt something tear open inside of him. There was pain for his old life and warmth for his new one. The emotions poured out of him in a confused torrent as he closed his eyes and wept like a child.
He felt Sansa's arms close around him and he cried even harder.
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The next morning, Tyrion slipped out of his wife's arms and stepped out of bed.
He looked back at Sansa, who was still clad in her travelling dress and sleeping fitfully. There were tracks of tears on her face from when she had wept along with him as well as marks of exhaustion from her rushed journey.
Tyrion hadn't thought that it was even possible to feel even worse. But, now he felt even more guilt. Sansa had enough ugly memories of her own. She didn't need to share his burdens as well.
His thoughts were interrupted by Pod, who opened the door and cautiously peered through the crack.
"My Lord", he asked in hushed tones. "Are you, um, better?"
"No, Pod. I am not." He rubbed his eyes and gave the young man a quiet half-smile. "However, that doesn't matter. The Night King is coming and I have to pull my head out of my arse."
In firmer tones, Tyrion added, "Have a hot bath prepared and fresh clothes made ready."
"Yes, my Lord". With a duck of his head, Pod was gone.
Tyrion knew that he still had enough rage and sorrow within him to shroud the entire Seven Kingdoms in darkness. And, given the choice, he would still calmly drown himself in a vat of wine.
However, he didn't have a choice. Sansa's arrival reminded of that. Unwittingly or not, he had failed to protect his first wife. Tyrion would let himself be flayed alive before he would do the same for his second.
Also, Pod, Arya and all of the others were depending on him. Later, there would be time for grieving. Now, for the sake of others, he had to lock away his own desires and lead.
As a wise man once said, "The people we care for hold us in chains stronger than iron."
Turning, Tyrion saw that Sansa had woken and was watching him.
"Thank you", he said. After a moment, he added, "I love you."
"It's so damned strange, the way our wishes change with the years. When I was young I wanted to be tall or to have a dragon to ride. When I became older, I just wished to be left alone with my books and wine."
Tyrion walked over to Sansa, who was watching him with shining eyes. Taking her hands in his, he said, "Now? I wish I was poet enough to say how I truly feel. To tell you how worthy you are. For the first time in my life, I will never have enough words."
She kissed him deeply and said, "Thank you and I love you is enough."
And, until Pod came back to say that the bath was ready, they just sat in silence and held each other.
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The meeting that Cersei had with the Iron Bank was lukewarm to say the least.
They were professional to the utmost degree, but it was clear that they considered her to be second-rank (At best) in the game of Westerosi politics. Certainly lagging far behind Tyrion and Tywin.
Years of marriage to Robert had taught the Queen to push down her true feelings when she had to. So, Cersei swallowed her bitter anger and, with a bland look of affability, made the best deal that she could.
Her jewels were deposted with the Iron Bank and a letter of credit was issued. With that, Cersei was able to hire a personal bodyguard of two dozen warriors.
She could have hired the men directly and when she saw the fees that were being charged, she was tempted to do so. However, having the whole thing done through the Bank meant that they would hunt the men down if they broke the contract. Experienced in the ways of betrayal, Cersei liked having the guarantee.
A second letter (Given in exchange for shipping rights on one of the smaller ports) confirmed that she was Lady Paramount of the Stormlands and had the authority to give away Lands and Titles within that Kingdom.
With that in hand, Cersei set sail for Tyrosh to hire a mercenary company. Lands and titles were not as good as gold, but they were far better than empty promises.
There was always the question of what a soldier did when they got too old and gray to swing a sword. And many mercenaries knew of noble families that began with lands won with other men's blood.
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Relatively nearby, her counterpart, Daenerys, was preparing to set sail as well.
Overawed by her dragons and eager to be part of a force that was going to shape history, most of the Khalasar chose to join the Breaker of Chains in her quest to conquer the Seven Kingdoms.
Prince Oberyn cheerfully informed the Sons of the Harpy that the Dragon Queen was going to live up to her side of the bargain and leave the city.
Of course, before she could do so, ships would have to be hired and supplies provided.
Bitterly, the Nobles of Meereen dug deep into their pockets and provided what was requested. With the Dothraki so close, they knew that they didn't have a choice.
They kept the grumbling to a minimum, trying to console themselves with the knowledge that the Stormborn Bitch would soon be inflicting herself on some other land.
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As he was cleaning up, Tyrion asked Sansa how she managed to get to the Wall so quickly, especially during the winter.
"Melisandre was already preparing to come and had teams of horses and sleds set up at various waystations"
While Pod scraped the stubble off of his cheeks, Tyrion narrowed his eyes while pondering that salient fact. "She does not have enough authority to order that", he finally said.
The look that Sansa gave him said that she was just as suspicious about what was going on. "It was done on Bran's command."
"Interesting."
Tyrion entered one of the smaller dining halls (To the poorly concealed relief of everyone when they saw that he was sober) and ordered some much needed sustenance. He also ordered for Bran, Melisandre and, for good measure, Thoros of Myr to come and speak to him.
Of course, the great thing about power is that you don't have to be subtle. When the three of them showed up, Tyrion bluntly asked them, "What in the Seven Hells are you doing?"
Unruffled, it was Bran who answered. In the measured, emotionless tones that had become his usual manner, he explained that the Night King had plans to counter the tactics that had defeated him in the last battle.
"I have seen this in visions. In turn, we have crafted our own plans, in which Melisandre will play her own part."
"You saw it in a vision? You see everything, do you?" Tyrion wore a twisted smile as the ugly blackness of the last week flared up within him again. "And yet, for all of these god-given powers that you possess, none of you foresaw the letter that I received."
Melisandre didn't say anything. Even Bran's gaze faltered and he looked down uncomfortably. Surprisingly, it was Thoros who broke the silence.
"Well, I can't speak for the other religions. But, you never prayed to or believed in our god anyway." Thoros took a swig out of his ever present flask and said, "So, fuck you."
There was a frozen moment of aghast stillness.
Then, Tyrion broke the silence by sniggering. In moments, he dissolved into full-blown roaring laughter and the others joined him.
Despite his distrust of any and all religions, he had always liked the Red Priest. He was one of the few people who could match him for both drinking and cynicism.
Still, Tyrion reflected as he wiped his eyes, more people might believe in the Gods if more religions delivered some well-aimed "Fuck you's" to the listeners. Regardless of country or background, "Fuck You" was a sentiment that all peoples understood.
After he caught his breath, he said to Pod, "Gather all the Commanders and bring them here."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Except for..."
Pod nodded in understanding. "Of course, my Lord."
"When everyone is here," Tyrion said, "We will discuss this "Plan" of yours and see how well it fits with our own battle strategies."
Deep down, Tyrion was rather pissed about having such changes revealed at the last minute. But, he was enough of a realist to know that they needed every scrap of help that could be found. Also, it felt good to angry about something else.
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The next day, with a cloth-wrapped package underneath one arm, Brienne made her way into Jaime's tent.
Unwilling to endure the unspoken accusations from everyone, he had exiled himself to where the Lannister forces were camped.
Given his family's history, Brienne was prepared to find him drowning his sorrows. To her surprise, despite the black air of despair that surrounded the Crowslayer, he was perfectly sober.
She said as much and Jaime said, "Unlike my brother and sister, I have no taste for wine."
He added, with a twisted smile. "Lannisters don't do anything halfway. With us, it's either too much or nothing at all."
Sitting down, Brienne told him of Sansa's arrival and how she was able to shake him out of his depression.
"Good. That's good." A flicker of hope was in his eyes as he asked, "Is there any chance that I could-"
"None," she cut him off.
"Ah."
"There was another reason that I came." Brienne handed him the package. "This just arrived for you."
Jaime opened it, looked inside and a peculiar expression played over his face. If Brienne had to put a name to it, it was resolve mixed with anticipation.
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A fortnight later, the Wilding scouts came rushing in. A massive wave of Wights had been spotted slowly making their advance. The attack was now imminent.
Sansa had stayed at Castle Black and her closeness helped to keep Tyrion's inner demons at bay. Also, the Night King was a worthy target for his rage and hate. He channeled it all into preparing the men for battle and, after two weeks of that, they were as ready as they were ever going to be.
The crack within the Wall was very deep now and other cracks were appearing as well. Word of this had spread among the soldiers and they knew that this was to be the deciding battle.
As she and Pod helped Tyrion put on his armor, Sansa and Tyrion pointedly ignored talking about what lay ahead. Instead, in a macabre form of avoidance, they discussed the probability of future battles with Daenerys and her forces.
"With regards towards her dragons, I have a few ideas." Tyrion moved his arm, testing to see how well the shoulder plate fitted. "On that score, Jelena has utmost confidence in my abilities. She's already talking about the best ways to cook and serve dragon."
Sansa smiled and said, "Truly?"
"Yes. There are recipes for crocodile that can probably be modified."
"A worthy feast for a Giant." In a swift motion, Sansa cupped his face in both hands and gave him a kiss. "Return to me safely, my Lord."
"I shall, my Lady." And, gripping his ax, Tyrion strode out to his waiting horse.
After mounting, he turned to his various generals and sub-commanders in the courtyard and yelled, "Today, we ride to victory! For today, we fight for what is great and noble in this world!"
Tyrion raised his ax and roared, "FOR TITS AND FOR WINE!"
(Bronn grinned at Tormund and said, "I've heard worse battle cries.")
With shouts of "Tits and Wine!", they all rode out to meet the enemy.
Inside, now that Tyrion was on his way, Sansa was preparing to have a good cry in private. Instead, she heard the battle chant and laughed even as she wept.
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Despite all of that drama, it was a few hours before the enemy showed up.
The men were assembled and most were already arrayed in a defense formation. Confidence is the backbone of any army and the men reminded themselves of their victory in the last battle.
As the cold and the waiting chewed away at their nerves, the reminders got more frequent and fervent.
Tyrion's latest innovation were firecarts, basically mobile firepits set up on four wheels. Although their main purpose was to quickly relight flaming weapons, the men clustered around them for warmth.
Finally, they appeared over the horizon.
Many of the soldiers present had fought in battles, but not in the last one against the Wights. The first thing that the newcomers noticed was the noise that reached across the cold still air..
Instead of the drumming thunder of thousands of soldiers marching in step, it was a uneven indistinct noise that wore at the edge of the senses. Most of the dead shuffled forward on unshod feet and the grating scrape of frozen flesh and bare bone was ugly on a primal level.
Thankfully, the order to "Light!" came bawling out.
Thousands of small flames from spearheads and arrowpoints blazed forth. The warmth and dazzle helped put extra courage into the men.
In contrast, Tyrion felt an icy chill in the pit of his stomach. These were the same tactics that had sent the Others fleeing the last time. Yet, the Night King and the Wights were still coming straight at them, with no change in their own methods. It was the act of a fool. And, the Night King may have been inhuman, but he was no fool.
Then, the Little Lion did notice something different. Squinting, he saw nine riders following behind the Night King.
They were White Walkers mounted on decaying horses, hefting dark staffs made of either black ice or black iron.
As they drew closer, the Nine Riders raised their dark staffs high in perfect unison.
And, every single flame on the battlefield died out.
By rote habit, the men tried to relight their weapons. No spark would catch.
The usual methods failed and, after the third or fourth fumbling attempt, you could smell the panic bubbling up from the soldiers.
"Hold Fast! Wait for it!"
The shouted order from Tyrion shoved some steel into their backbones. They steadied and waited for whatever trick the Giant had up his sleeve.
In turn, as desperate as he had ever been in his entire life, Tyrion was praying to whatever God (Any and all of them) that might be listening that the next phase of the plan would work.
########################################################################
At the top of the Wall, right at the crumbling lip that overlooked the battlefield, Melisandre stood at the center of a ragged circle. In a mirror image of what was happening hundreds of feet below, the Red Priestess was surrounded by nine followers of the Lord of Light.
She saw the flames die and felt her faith and resolve strengthen to the hard purity of a diamond. There was no mistaking such an obvious challenge from the Dark Powers. What else could her Lord do but respond with his own divine might?
With a simple nod, she said to the others, "Begin."
They all pulled daggers and slit their wrists, spilling their life's blood onto the ice.
Melisandre watched them grow as pale and as cold as the surrounding snow. Then, she pulled her own dagger. As a capstone to the ritual, she slit her own right wrist as well and walked once around the circle, adding her own blood to the other pools.
Feeling weak, she knelt in the center. As her vision began to go dark, Melisandre saw a small lick of flame burst forth in front of her.
"I have brought ice and fire together", she whispered.
The rest of the blood burst forth into an inferno and the fire embraced her into the next world.
########################################################################
Back on the ground, the army of the undead was only a few minutes away from being within bowshot. Inexperienced as he was in battle, Tyrion could see that the men were ready to break.
Suddenly, a shuddering, cracking groan wrenched everybody's attention upwards.
At first, it looked like the sun had broken through the clouds at the top of the Wall.
Bizarrely, the next impression that most had was that the Wall looked like it was bleeding. A line of brilliant red showed at it's edge and began to streak down the face of it.
The flames (By now, all could see what it truly was) widened from a trickle to a river and the groan turned into a roar. With the deceptive speed common to avalanches, ice, fire and water cascaded down the ice ramp that the Night King had partially built during the last attack on the Wall.
Bran had told Tyrion to stay clear off to the side, so his men were safe. The Others and their Wights, however, were directly in it's path.
The undead was incapable of panicking and running would have been ludicrous anyway. The Night King chose to use magic to stop it.
The Nine Riders raised thier staffs again. Although the forces involved were unseen, watchers later swore that they could see the fire dim and the water begin to slow and refreeze.
To give the enemy his due, it was a valiant effort.
But, momentum has a magic of it's own. The wave smashed into the undead like a fist and crushed them like ants. It's roar was almost matched by howls of victory from the throats of the living.
There was no way to judge how long it went on. And, in the quiet moments after the destruction, the order came ringing out again.
"LIGHT!"
This time, the spears and arrows lit and the fire stayed.
The men didn't give a second howl in response. Instead, they hefted their weapons with satisfaction and got ready to do some serious damage.
########################################################################
The Night King picked himself up from where he'd been knocked down, moving with the slow tension of pure fury.
The Nine Riders and their staffs were scattered. No more magic was possible, the rest of the battle would have to be settled with the edge of a blade.
There was very little human emotion left to the Night King, but the prospect of personal violence gave him flickers of satisfaction in what was left of his soul.
No retreat this time. He was going to win this battle if he had to kill every warrior personally.
The Night King began striding forward with an ice-spear in his hands. There was one warrior in particular that he wanted to cut down. A dark-haired Crow with the look of a Stark and the smell of destiny.
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On the other end of the battlefield, Jon had similar thoughts.
When he had spoken of his past encounters with the Night King, Arya had recognized the look of vendetta in his eyes. She had made him promise to not throw his life away foolishly for revenge.
After gently chiding her for hypocrisy, he made the promise.
And now, with the opportunity close at hand, he intended to keep his word. Still, a certain anticipation quickened his breath and sent tremors along his hand as he grasped Longclaw.
Let's see how he deals with a belly full of valyrian steel.
########################################################################
Because of the way that they had been scattered, the first attacks from the undead were weak. This gave Tyrion's Spearmen time to form squares, tight formations of three ranks deep.
Then, as the waves of the Others grew stronger, many died from the spear's flames. The rest flowed through the gaps between the squares.
Broken up into managable pieces, the Wights then faced the Wildings, Holy warriors from various Churches and the levies from the Northern Lords.
Unlike the other groups, the Giants were split up throughout the battlefield and given a specific task. The Ice Spiders could take a dozen arrows or numerous stab wounds before dying. Even fire could take a while before killing them.
But, one or two solid hits from a Giant's club was usually enough to finish off a Spider. Soon, above the usual sounds of screams, roars and the clash of metal, there were epic crunch-splat! noises that echoed throughout the battlefield.
The Archers flanked the march of the Others, their arrows thinning out the enemies before they reached the footsoldiers. The mounted Knights waited impatiently, ready to supply a counter-attack or a final strike.
The fighting raged and the outcome was uncertain. The undead died easily, but their numbers seemed endless.
########################################################################
The Night King and Jon Snow caught glimpses of each other as they carved their way through their opponents. The fated encounter that both had been waiting for began it's final resolution.
But, sometimes Fate can be cheated.
A cohort of heavily armored Lannister Knights broke off suddenly from the rest and thundered their way towards a gap in the ranks of the Wights.
At first, they simply trampled the ones that faced them. Then, as the sheer numbers began slowing them down, they laid about them with flaming maces.
Jaime held the point of the formation, a sword in one hand, metal gauntlet as the other and the horse's reins in his teeth. He fought like a demon, with a fury that even the Wilding berserkers could not match. Just as Tyrion had put his rage into preparing for the battle, Jaime put his sorrow in fighting it.
As they pushed in deeper into the enemy ranks, their numbers were wittled away. One hundred men left. Then, fifty.
They were down to two dozen, when the Night King turned to behold these newcomers chopping and bashing their way towards him. One dozen men left and they were within spitting distance.
However, Jaime's stallion could not equal it's rider for determination. Exhausted from the gallop and bleeding from several small gashes, it faltered. A dozen hands took advantage of the weakness and dragged it down as it screamed.
At the cost of their own lives, the remaining riders managed to clear away the swarm of Wights and allow Jaime to fight free. The breathing space only lasted for a moment or two before the dead moved in again.
But, in that moment, Jaime saw the Night King spare him a brief look of contempt before turning away to more important matters, such as stalking Jon Snow.
That look of cold judgement, so similar to all of the others that he had received over the years, pushed Jaime beyond pain or exhaustion. Snarling, sounding more like a wolf than any Stark ever did, he blindly shoved his way through the press of undead, twisting out of their grasp and ignoring their strikes. With an effort almost as inhuman as the foes that he faced, Jaime closed the gap between himself and the Night King.
Turning, the Night King had time for one look of shock before Jaime buried his metal hand in his chest.
Legends later said that the Night King screamed when he was wounded. Jaime himself could not have said. He was too busy screaming in agony himself. The Night King's hands had come up and grasped his helmet on both sides, shattering it in an instant.
On fire from the shrapnel and numb from the frostbite, Jaime plunged his other hand, his good one, into the Night King's chest.
Knowing that he had one last chance to do something truly worthy with his wasted life, Jaime put everything he had into one last effort and he wrenched both of his hands free.
Ironically, that had been the only thing keeping him on his feet. Once free, Jaime fell on his face.
It's heart looked like a dagger of ice, which would have made Jaime laugh if he had the strength. With his head turned enough to see with one eye, Jaime saw it crumple into fragments of dusty snow.
Before the darkness claimed him, he time for one last thought.
Yes.
########################################################################
It would have been truly poetic if the destruction of the Night King meant the end of all of the Others.
Unfortunately, it did not. The Wights and the White Walkers kept attacking. Many more would die that day.
But, there was a change that the men could see. The enemy was not united the way that they had been. Some swore that they saw some of the White Walkers actually fighting each other. All could see that the Wights were more like wild animals than soldiers, just as likely to wander off as face the living.
The battle raged on and Tyrion called an orderly retreat as a storm came rolling in.
They spent a day and a night in a defensive position both within and at the base of Castle Black, jumping at every noise and shadow, feeling more terrified than when they had fought.
The storm subsided and dawn appeared, clear and cold. And, the enemy was gone.
Tyrion decided that, despite the inconclusive ending, this counted as a victory. There would be a revel later on. For now, there would be plenty of food, wine and blessed sleep.
As well as mourning for the fallen.
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As a side note, the Staffs of the Nine Riders were never found on the battlefield and most assumed that they had been lost or destroyed.
However, over a century later, in the vast cruel deserts of Essos known as the Red Wastes, a sorcerer appeared. In his hands, he bore a Staff of Black Ice.
He used it's power to create a Castle of Snow in the middle of the desert. With that as his seat of power, he terrorized the surrounding lands for scores of years.
Then, one day, the unlikely partnership of a Red Priestess and a Dothraki exile was formed to challenge his tyranny.
But, that's another story.
########################################################################
Tyrion entered Jaime's room.
His brother, the proud, handsome and golden man that he had always known, looked absolutely ghastly. His head was swathed in bandages and, whether by frostbite or violence or both, the healers had told Tyrion that Jaime would lose both ears and an eye.
More bandages criss-crossed his chest and both hands now ended in stumps.
With the calmness of a man doped to the gills on Milk of the Poppy, Jaime saw his brother approach and wondered what Tyrion would say.
"Do you know that, after what you did, they're calling you the Kingslayer again?"
It took a second for Jaime to understand what Tyrion had said. And, when he did, the absolute absurdity of it all caused Jaime to start laughing helplessly.
Tyrion joined in. And, when they had finished, he pulled a chair close and sat down. His brother was not forgiven. But, the hurt had been pushed away for the moment.
When they caught thier breath, Tyrion asked Jaime why his metal hand had not been destroyed like his helmet had.
In reply, Jaime nodded to the corner of the room and said, "Look."
Tyrion picked the hand up and saw, to his astonishment, that it had been reforged and the fingers had claws of Valyrian steel.
"After Littlefinger died, that dagger that he accused you of sending with a hired killer passed from from one owner to another," Jaime said. "I got hold of it and decided to put it to good use."
So, the damned thing that caused most of the recent problems helped to solve them as well, Tyrion mused to himself as he set the metal hand back down.
Turning back, he looked at Jaime. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Tyrion said, "You were right when you said that Father gave you no choice. He never really gave any of us any choice."
"You're not just saying that because I'm dying, are you?" Jaime grinned crookedly at his brother's jaw-dropped expression. "I'm all broken up inside, Tyrion. It'll only be a little longer."
"This is a good death." Jaime closed his good eye and remembered his younger years, when he had first learned of death and had thought of dying heroically in battle. "This was for something worthy, a noble cause."
He felt Tyrion's arms around him and, awkwardly, he hugged him back.
Slipping from Jaime's embrace, Tyrion wiped away his tears as he stepped away. At the door, he paused and looked at Jaime one last time.
"Goodbye, brother."
########################################################################
Tywin sent down the latest missive that he had received via raven.
Almost dispassionately, Tyrion had outlined all of the recent events. The Night King was finished. The Wall was rapidly being destroyed. His son, Jaime, was dead.
Most significant of all was the final line of the letter.
Once I am finished with the last of the affairs here, I will be coming South for you. It's time we finished this once and for all.
A few short years ago, Tywin would have sneered at the threat from his youngest son. Now, he knew better.
Throwing the letter into the fire, Tywin watched it become ash as he plotted his next move.
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Super long wait for an update. You have my profound apologies.
In my defense, my computer died in the middle of the chapter. Which led me to identify a brand new kind of writer's block. "Trying to recreate what you've already done" block.
Also, romance is tricky. You want it to be heartfelt, but not too gloopy.
Only two or three more chapters to go.
I do have one editorial comment for the TV show. The absolute instant that Bran said "Chaos is a ladder", Littlefinger should have been out of there like a shot. Yes, you can chalk it up to overconfidence. But, in the face of what is clearly the supernatural, he should have got out of town while the getting was good.
Also, an editorial comment for the book.
-Spoiler Alert for the Book-
In the book, Jaime lets the secret about Tysha slip to Tyrion as he's helping him escape from the Black Cells. I read that and thought "Really, he keeps it a secret for years and years and blurts it out now?" As if they don't have enough on their minds.
G.R.R. Martin probably stuck it in to give Tyrion one last push to kill Tywin. Not that he needed any further reasons.
They probably cut that sub-plot for time. Whatever the reasoning, I'm glad they did.