Beyond the Wall…
Nearly two weeks after departing the Wall, they reached the Weirwood grove.
The last leg of the journey worsened with every hour. The weather seemed to turn against them as the winds howled, the snows fell, and whatever meagre sunlight was swallowed by darkness. The horses started dying, one by one, the further they went. By the time they finally found the mountain in the Hound's vision, all of them were forced to go on foot. At least they had a little more food for the return journey.
Edric, shielding his face with both arms, trudged through the snow. He could barely see three feet in front of him, and the winds were so loud he could not hear himself think. They all walked in a row behind Wun Wun. Even with the Giant leading, Edric felt ready to be plucked from the ground.
"How much farther?" Edric asked the Hound, who walked beside him. He had to shout in order to be heard.
"How the fuck should I know?" the Hound growled. "I lead you to the mountain, didn't I?"
They kept trudging through the snow, which felt like it got deeper and deeper. Logically, Edric knew it had to be the same level regardless. But they no longer lived in a world of logic; instead, they had been thrust into a world of magic and monsters and nightmares given form. Edric's beard was mostly frozen, and even under all his furs he had little feeling in his fingers and toes. His teeth chattered so much he feared they would shatter like glass.
Wun Wun stopped walking.
The Hound looked at Tormund. "I think something's wrong with your Giant."
Wun Wun pointed at something ahead. Edric squinted, and through the white haze of the blizzard, he saw the briefest hint of red leaves. "We found it!" he called to the others. Not wanting to waste any time, he moved past the Giant and approached their target. The Weirwood became clearer as he walked, almost standing as a beacon untouched by the snow. A number of stones stood around it, mostly buried by the snow. There was a significance to this place; it felt sacred, yet tainted at the same time.
Edric took out a knife and stabbed it into the side of the tree.
"Here," Gendry said, holding out a barrel spout. Edric jammed it into the spot where he stabbed with his knife, then held an empty wineskin under it. The sap flowed from the spout, slowly pouring into the skin.
"How much do you think we need?" Beric asked.
"I'm not sure," Edric replied. The wineskin felt half full. "It's probably best if we fill this up as much as we can. Then we'll—"
The storm suddenly vanished, and the dead surrounded them.
The group stood in a depression surrounded by mountains. To the south, the way they had come, stood thousands of reanimated corpses, each one with blue eyes. The dead were as still as statues, unmoving sentinels of terror. A few figures, peppered through the army, had pale white skin stretched over their faces and long, wispy white hair. They stood taller than their soldiers, and were far more horrific with their own, glowing, blue eyes.
Up on a nearby ridge, astride horses with the flesh stripped from their faces, were four of the gaunt figures. Three of them looked the same, but the fourth was different. This one had no hair, instead a number of spikes that formed a pseudo-crown. It gazed down at them almost lazily, but there was no mistaking the ageless malice in those eyes.
"This was a trap," Gendry said.
Edric sealed the wineskin and bellowed, "RUUUN!"
They turned and sprinted in the opposite direction of their foe, to the north. More mountains loomed over them, but there was a narrow valley. Edric heard the thundering of the horde as it pursued them, thousands of growling corpses coming to devour them. Edric ran, harder and faster than he ever had in both lives. He held onto the wineskin with Weirwood sap with both hands; if they lost it, then all this would have been for nothing.
They ran into the valley, and no sooner had they done so than Wights began falling from above. The corpses smashed into the ground, then rose up and tried to swarm the group. "Keep going!" Tormund cried, beheading a jawless Wight with his short sword.
Wun Wun kicked a trio of Wights, throwing off those that climbed onto his back.
Edric fell as a skeletal hand gripped his ankle. He landed on the ground, dazed, as a Wight lacking any lower limbs pulled itself up his leg. He tried to kick it, but the corpse was undeterred. It reached for his hands, but the large head of a warhammer smashed its skull into pieces. Another blow shattered the skeletal arm.
Gendry, wielding the warhammer, pulled Edric to his feet. "Thanks."
"No problem," the Baratheon bastard said.
The group kept running, destroying any Wights that caught up with them. "Right fucking mess we've got!" the Hound growled, cutting a Wight in half with barely any effort. "This is what you get for following visions and prophecies."
From a cleft in the rock emerged a large, pale spider as big as a pony with eight blue eyes. It screeched, sounding like grinding ice, then pounced. The spider pinned the Hound to the ground with its front two legs and bit him in the chest with its fangs. He cried out in agony as blood spurted from the wound. Some of the Brotherhood tried to attack, but the spider knocked them back with its other legs. It reared back and bit the Hound again, this time in the neck. His cries devolved into gurgles as he lost the ability to speak.
The spider grabbed him by the legs as he became limp and dragged him into the cleft.
"Clegane!" Beric cried. There was nothing any of them could do for him.
Something jumped from above, landing in front of them. It was a White Walker, garbed in black armour and wielding an ice sword. One of the Brotherhood charged, but the creature ran him through with ease. The Walker advanced on Edric, blue eyes fixed on him.
Edric tried to draw his sword, but luckily, he saw Thoros attacking with a flaming sword. The Walker looked at him with mild irritation, dodging attacks with inhumanly fast reflexes. It grabbed his sword with one hand, smothering the flames and shattering the blade, then slashed him in the side. The Red Priest grunted, stumbling back.
Before the White Walker could do anything else, it jerked as the tip of a Dragonglass arrow pierced its throat. It fell to its knees, then shattered into hundreds of tiny ice fragments.
Edric noticed a man on horseback, clad in black with a drawn hood, wielding a bow. "Follow me!" he called as a second rider charged into the ranks of Wights clamouring behind them. The second one swung a flaming ball on a chain, deftly smashing it into corpse faces and torsos.
"Move!" Edric ordered. The group ran after the first rider, who lead them down the valley until they came to a fork.
"Where the fuck do we go now?" Tormund demanded.
The second rider followed them, the bulk of the horde behind him.
The first rider looked up, at a number of ravens. They cawed, circling briefly before flying down the path to the right. "This way!" he said, riding after them.
With no better option, Edric ran after him. Magic and monsters and nightmares, so why should following ravens to safety be strange? They kept going for several minutes, his lungs burning from the exertion and the far northern air. Eventually, they emerged out into the open. A frozen lake stretched before them in a bowl-shaped depression, surrounded by rock. A small rock island laid in the centre.
A fresh horde of Wights stood gathered at the far end. When they charged onto the lake, the ice collapsed beneath them and they fell in.
"We'll never make it!" Edric said, gesturing to the ice. "It's too thin!"
The two riders dismounted. The first, with the bow and Dragonglass arrows, said, "It will hold for us. Spread yourselves out, but run until you reach that island. Go!"
Edric glanced back the way they came. Wights piled on top of each other, pouring towards them like a river of death. "Fuck it," he growled. Better to freeze and drown than get eaten. He ran onto the ice, heart pounding like a drum. Gendry and Tormund ran beside him, spaced several feet apart, and Beric and Thoros on his other side. The Red Priest ran with a noticeable limp, gripping his side. Wun Wun, crawling with Wights, broke through the ice with his first step. Regardless, he kept moving forward, breaking through the ice with every movement. At the water's deepest point, only his head and shoulders were visible.
The group, plus the two strange riders, reached the island. The army of Wights tried to follow, but their combined weight caused the ice to collapse and several dozen of them fell in. The rest stopped, standing at the lake's edge.
Edric, panting, knelt down. "Now what?" he asked.
The riders, whose breathing remained unchanged despite all the running they just did, stared into the distance. Edric followed their gaze; the four mounted White Walkers watched from a high cliff, surveying them like predators waiting to pounce on their prey.
"Now we wait," the first rider replied.
Horn Hill…
Ser Jorah Mormont crouched by the tree, staring out at the castle. In the last hour, he had seen several hundred soldiers depart, heading east. Whatever their destination, he suspected the matter was most urgent; it was unwise to leave a castle with a depleted garrison in wartime. Still, the soldiers left would have excellent sightlines of the surrounding forest for miles around. Infiltrating Horn Hill would be difficult, maybe even impossible.
But Jorah had a debt to pay, over nothing less than his life.
He stood and walked back the way he had come, pulling his hood tightly over his face to obscure it. The Greyscale that once afflicted him would have left him a shell of a man, like the Stone Men of Valyria. Though Jorah maintained a grip on his mind and his senses, his body was marked forevermore.
Samwell Tarly stood by the carriage they had taken from Oldtown. Going from the city to Horn Hill had been a challenge, considering the number of Darklyte forces and raiding parties patrolling the roads. The large young man stared at the ground, face scrunched in worry. Inside sat his companion, Gilly, and their infant son.
Noticing his approach, Sam perked up. "Well, what did you find?"
"Most of the garrison's moved on," Jorah replied.
"You think it has anything to do with the war? Between the Blackfyres and Darklytes?"
Jorah nodded. "In any case, it looks like only a few guards are left."
"So, does that mean there's a chance to rescue my family?" There was no mistaking the earnestness in the young man's voice.
"I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. You saved my life, Sam. It's only right I save your family in return. Right now, the biggest trouble's getting in there. They won't exactly let us walk through the front gate."
Sam pursed his lips in thought. "I think I have a way around that. There's a secret tunnel entrance near here, by the northern wall. It leads directly to the lord's chambers. My ancestors put it there as a means of escape in case of a siege, but it's hardly been used."
"That'll work. I'd best wait until nightfall so the guards won't see me."
They sat and waited, until the sun gave way to a starry night. Jorah, sheathing his sword and a dagger, followed Sam to the tunnel entrance. It was well hidden, taking them several minutes to find it without using a torch that would give them away. Tearing the sticks and brush from the door, they had to use all their strength to open it. Ages of neglect had left it wedged in place, and they finally pulled it open.
"Stay here," Jorah said. "I'll find your mother and sister, and send them here."
Sam gripped him by the arm. "Thank you, Ser Jorah. Thank you for helping me."
Jorah gave him a smile, then clapped him on the back. "They'll be here."
Inside the tunnel was black as pitch, and Jorah had to feel along the walls to keep his bearings. The floor was mostly smooth stone, which helped. He reached stairs that coincided with the feeling of going uphill, into the castle. By now he would be passing through the defensive wall. Eventually, Jorah reached a wooden door. Thankfully, this one did not require as much effort to open. Behind it was a thick piece of wooden furniture. He pushed, and it slowly swung open to reveal the lord's chambers.
Sam's mother and sister were not there.
Jorah frowned. He did not want to risk capture by searching the entire castle. Perhaps they were nearby; noble prisoners were often kept in relative luxury when in captivity. With any luck, Sam's family would be in one of the rooms in this wing of the castle.
He ever so slowly opened the door, peering out into the hall. There were no guards in sight. Jorah crept along, hand gripping his dagger. Around the corner, he saw a pair of Darklyte soldiers standing in front of a locked door. That was where his quarry would be. Scanning his surroundings, Jorah stared at a mirror hanging on the wall nearby. Taking on two armoured men was possible, but had far too great a chance of getting himself killed. He had to separate them.
Drawing his dagger, he smashed the pommel into the mirror, shattering it into a dozen fragments.
"What was that?" he heard one of the guards ask.
"Go check it out," the other said. They were good enough at their task to leave at least one man by the door, but Jorah would use that against them.
He laid down at the foot of the mirror, hiding his dagger. A set of armoured footsteps sounded from far off, then came closer. Jorah's heart began to pound in his chest, but he forced himself to keep his breathing even. The footsteps stopped just in front of him, and he heard the guard drawing a sword. He felt himself rolled onto his back, and he looked up into the eyes of a young man who gasped in shock at his appearance.
When Sam cured Jorah's Greyscale, he only stopped the effects, not reversed them. Barring his right cheek, right eye, and most of his lips, his face was covered in faded Greyscale. It sealed the left side of his lips, affecting his speech. It also partially covered his left eye, though he could still see with it.
Jorah used the momentary distraction to drive his dagger into the man's neck.
He gurgled as blood poured from the wound, and Jorah pushed him to the floor.
"Willem?" the other guard called. "Willem, what's goin' on?" He gave a frustrated growl, then walked down the hall.
Jorah drew his sword, pressing himself against the wall a few feet back. The other guard came into view, gasping as he beheld the corpse of his comrade. Jorah chose that moment to attack, ramming him into a wall to disorient him, then cutting him across the throat. Blood running down the edge of his sword, he hurried down the hall. Opening the door, he found a smaller chamber, though still lavish enough for a nobleman. Sitting by the window were two women, a mother and daughter. Upon looking at him, they shrieked at his ghastly appearance.
"I mean you no harm," Jorah said, holding out a hand. "My name is Jorah Mormont. Sam sent me."
The older woman, Melessa, said, "Sam? My Sam?"
"Yes. He's waiting for you, outside the escape tunnel in your husband's old chambers. We have to go, now. Before they realize I'm here."
"Come, darling," Melessa told her daughter, taking her hand.
Jorah guided them out, keeping a firm grip on his sword. Just as they stepped out into the hall, he saw several guards approaching from the side, likely on patrol. They froze when they saw him, then drew their swords.
"Go, now!" Jorah told the two women. They hurried towards the lord's chambers, shouting voices coming from behind. The sound of footsteps and rustling armour increased, and Jorah barely ushered his charges through the doors and locked them before the guards started hammering. "Through the tunnel," Jorah told Melessa. "Sam's waiting at the other end."
"We can take this," Talla said, grabbing a nearby candle.
Jorah pushed a cabinet against the doors, straining to move it by himself. By the time the Darklytes forced their way through, it would be too late. While Melessa and Talla went on ahead, he pulled the trophy case closed over the tunnel entrance. Hopefully the guards would not discover it before they had a chance to escape.
Keeping his hands on the walls, he made the journey back outside, all the while careful not to slip. He did not welcome a potential tumble down the incline.
When he finally reached the exit, he saw Sam embracing his mother and sister in a warm hug. Jorah smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. His own family had disowned him when he fled into exile. Then he learned from Tyrion Lannister that his father had died, betrayed and murdered by his own men. Any chance for reconciliation was gone like so much smoke. Still, it gave him a small measure of happiness to reunite Sam, the man who saved his life, with his family.
"We should get moving," he told them. Already the castle's bells rang in alarm. "It won't take them long to start sending men out after us."
"This way," Sam said, leading his mother and sister to the carriage. Once they were inside, Sam closed the door and turned to Jorah. "Where should we go now? The Darklytes control most of this region."
Jorah nodded. "With any luck, their soldiers will be too concerned with the Blackfyre armies on the eastern front."
"We should stick to side roads, or travel over country if we have to," Sam suggested.
"I happen to have a lot of experience with that." Jorah and Sam sat at the front of the carriage, and the former took the reins. They rode off, hearing the bells ringing behind them.
Winterfell…
Finally, Winterfell lay in sight.
As soon as Drakon had returned to King's Landing from Dragonstone, he summoned Rhaegon. They had been flying for three days; Drakon pushed his Dragon to the limit, eager to see his son after all this time. He was loath to leave Edwyn conducting the war in the Reach alone, but he had faith in his son. The new alliance with Daenerys would hopefully provide enough aid to crush the Darklytes. If not right away, then soon.
They descended through the clouds, having passed over Castle Cerwyn a few minutes ago. The effects of winter were far more pronounced, and Drakon saw his breath as his beard crystallized and fingers froze. The land was blanketed with snow, creating an endless white canvas all the way to the horizon. A massive camp surrounded Winterfell, suggesting the presence of thousands of soldiers. At first, Drakon thought the castle under siege, but he saw people and carts passing freely through the front gates.
Several people below scattered and cried out as Rhaegon came in for a landing. The silver Dragon flapped his wings to slow his descent, then touched ground in front of the venerable castle.
Drakon dismounted, walking at a brisk pace towards the gate. The guards, too stunned by Rhaegon's presence to do anything but gawk, bore a black Direwolf with Dragon wings on their shields. That was good, Drakon thought. The fact that Edric's self-styled sigil was on display gave credence to Jon Snow's claims. He entered the main courtyard, passing by soldiers and servants aplenty. Interestingly, men with Umber, Whitehill, Manderly, and Mormont colours worked together. Formerly antagonistic Houses joined together, at Winterfell. Something was clearly afoot.
"Your Grace."
Drakon turned to see Sansa approaching. His daughter-in-law looked ready to give birth any day now. Brienne of Tarth and Smalljon Umber shadowed her on either side. "Sansa, dear," Drakon said, taking her hand and kissing it. "Always a pleasure."
"It is good to see you, Your Grace," she replied. "We only heard of your return a short while ago."
"It must have been quite a shock, me coming back from the dead. Though not nearly as much as my son. Jon Snow claims Edric lives. Where is he?"
Sansa and Smalljon shared a nervous glance.
"Sansa, where is my son?"
"He's not here, Your Grace."
Drakon gave a shuddered breath. "You mean he…he…"
"Edric is alive, Your Grace," Sansa said, touching his arm. "After the battle, the Brotherhood Without Banners came here. I'd heard how Thoros of Myr brought Beric Dondarrion back to life, and I forced him to do the same with Edric. It was nothing more than a desperate hope, but it worked! I saw Edric come alive after being dead for a day. It was a miracle."
"And I wasn't here," Drakon said disdainfully. "So where is he? Why would he leave?"
"Because he had to," someone else said from behind.
Turning around, Drakon saw Arya pushing a wheeled chair, a curly-haired young woman beside her. Sitting in that chair was a young man. To call him 'stone-faced' would have been generous, as he showed not a hint of emotion. In fact, he looked nearly dead, if not for the occasional blink. "Arya," Drakon greeted.
"Drakon."
He looked at the young man, eyes narrowed. Arya treated him with a gentleness that spoke of familiarity. And since there was only one cripple that she would treat so well… "Brandon Stark," he said. "You're supposed to be dead."
"I am dead," the young man replied in a flat voice. "Brandon Stark is gone. I'm the Three-Eyed Raven now."
Drakon furrowed his brow. He glanced at Sansa, who said "We're still getting used to it."
"One day, I will be king. When that day comes, you won't have to live in exile down here. I think of you as a brother, and you should have a life outside of this keep's walls. No matter how distant our relations, you are a Targaryen. You will always be one of us."
A cold fist of shock gripped Drakon's chest and squeezed. "How could you possibly know that?" he demanded. "Rhaegar said that to me over thirty years ago. We were alone in the library."
"I see everything, now. Everything that was, is, and will be. I'm the Three-Eyed Raven."
"Will someone tell me just what the fuck is going on?"
"Edric went North of the Wall," Brandon explained.
"He did what?"
"He and the others are on a vital mission. They must succeed, if we're to defeat the White Walkers."
Drakon frowned. "Jon Snow claimed the Walkers were real. I read enough ancient accounts of them during my childhood in the Red Keep, but there was no way to prove it. If what you're saying is true, then my son is at the far end of the world where the monsters of myth dwell unchallenged." He glanced at Rhaegon, who rested his head on the ground. The Dragon had been pushed to his limit, crossing much of the continent as quickly as he did. It would take at least a couple days for him to regain his strength. "I'll need to take some of your livestock, Sansa. My Dragon needs sustenance."
He only hoped he would reach Edric in time.
The Roseroad…
Gae stared at himself in the mirror. What he saw was a monster; malformed, twisted like some sort of creature from children's tales. While he had mostly recovered from his ordeal, he still felt near-constant pain. Only a regular addition of a few drops of Milk of the Poppy to his water kept the pain dulled enough for him to keep his senses. Kae had treated him well, better than any Maester could. Her alchemical and medical knowledge was unparalleled, for one so young. But even his little sister had been unable to remove his scorched armour from his body. It was a part of him now, and would be until they buried him with it.
As for his head, he kept it wrapped in bandages, leaving gaps for his mouth, nose, and eyes. Even here, inside his tent, he wore a helmet on top of the bandages. He could not even stomach the sight of his warped, burned flesh.
The tent flap opened, and Sae stepped inside. "It's time." When he did not respond, she asked "Gae?"
"Do you know what the men have been calling me?"
"You shouldn't listen to idle gossip—"
"Gaeryn the Burnt. That's what they've been calling me. Gaeryn the Burnt. Years from now, when people learn of our family's history, I'll be remembered as a miserable shit stain known only for being immolated by Dragonfire."
"That's not true!" Sae insisted, stepping closer to him.
"Isn't it? You're the eldest; you'll rule after father dies. Your children will inherit the throne from you, and Kae will be known as the genius she is. Me? I'm no one. I'm nothing."
Sae knelt beside him and forced him to look at her. "Listen, and listen well: you are Gaeryn Darklyte, son of Aelyx Darklyte. You are a great warrior, and a greater strategist. You have all the strength and wisdom of our House in you. But more than that…" She started to cry, and he saw her lip quiver. "You are my brother. If a few soldiers whisper to each other like fishwives, then fuck them! Fuck them all! We are all that matters, our family."
Gae felt a single tear run down his bandaged cheek, and he took her hand in his. She squeezed it, and he ignored how much it hurt. Ever since they were children, they could lean on the other for support in hard times.
"Drakon Blackfyre will pay for what he did to you, I promise. We start here. So get up and show them all what you can do."
Taking a deep breath, Gae stood. "I don't know if I can ever be like I was, but I'll try. For you." They wrapped their arms together in a tight embrace, holding it for some time. It felt so good to be held again. Weeks spent in his chambers at Highgarden, alone except for Kae's occasional visit, left him feeling isolated. His sister was right; they were a family, and they were stronger together.
He grabbed his sword belt from the bed, but when he tried to put it on, his hands started shaking of their own accord. Gae frowned, willing them to stop, but they trembled like the hands of a frightened child.
Sae took the belt with a sympathetic smile and put it on for him. "You can do this."
Gae was not so sure, but he did not want to disappoint her.
They stepped out of the tent, into the crisp winter air. There were no flakes of snow, but there was no mistaking the winds of winter. Even in the south, winter's effects could be keenly felt. As a child, Gae would take a hot bath, only to run outdoors without a stitch of clothing to feel the biting chill. His father scolded him every time, doling out extra sessions in the library as punishment when all he wanted was to be outside.
The army had assembled, nearly 30,000 in total. The majority were professional troops from the Westerlands and Reach Houses that pledged their loyalty. The remainder were farmers and peasants press-ganged into the war effort from villages across the kingdom.
Gae's horse waited for him, and he mounted it with little difficulty. The three drops of Milk of the Poppy in his morning cup of water kept his pain at a manageable level. Past the edge of the camp, Saernys' Dragon waited for her. The bronze beast laid on the grass, lazily gazing at the army. Gae felt his pulse quicken from the sight, but gripped the reins tighter and forced himself to keep his breath even.
"Today will be a good day," Sae told him. A servant brought her helmet, which she took and held in the crook of her elbow. "With me riding Faelyn, the Blackfyre boy has no chance." Faelyn. She had renamed the Dragon after their mother. A way for her to still be a part of their lives, years after her death.
It made Gae smile.
Sae walked off, and he rode towards the head of the column of troops, where Ser Addam Marbrand awaited. "My prince," the knight greeted. His expression was neutral, his tone respectful. Whatever the man's opinion of Gae, he maintained a professional attitude. Gae respected that. Beside him was Randyll Tarly, who had apparently seen the light and joined their cause. With the addition of the Tarly forces, Dickon held hostage at Highgarden for insurance, the Darklyte army outnumbered the Blackfyres.
"The time has come," Gae told Ser Addam. Turning his horse to face the army, he said, "We go now to face the Blackfyres. To each and every one of you, I say this: you have faced them in battle before, and won! The Blackfyres once held dominion with their Dragons, but we have claimed one of them for our own. With it on our side, victory is assured. March!"
He turned his horse and kicked it forward, joined by Randyll Tarly and Ser Addam. They marched for just over an hour, to the east. Gae watched his two subordinate commanders deploy their troops. They divided into two lines: the Tarly men, on the whole more experienced and professional, assembled in the rear, while the rest of the infantry assembled in front. Archers in front, pikes behind, and cavalry on the flanks. Gae took command of the cavalry on the right flank, Ser Addam took the left, and Randyll Tarly took charge of the infantry. They were formed on a flat stretch of plain, giving the cavalry enough room to manoeuvre.
The Blackfyres did not take long to greet them.
Gae, at the front of 2,000 Westerlands horsemen, watched his enemy approach. The majority wore the gleaming regalia of the Golden Company. He sneered, still bitter over the loss of the Sellswords. That contract should rightfully belong to him and his family, he thought. Their pikemen formed in a stretched line in front, protecting the archers in the rear and cavalry on the flanks. Gae noted that the Blackfyres had more horsemen, in addition to the towering elephants with gilded tusks. The beasts also had wooden platforms strapped to their backs with two men in each, one to control the elephant and the other to shoot a bow.
His mother had spent years traveling in Essos. As children, Gae and his siblings heard of the exotic creatures and people from that part of the world. He always thought elephants were a fantasy, like live Dragons. But like many childhood preconceptions, this one proved to be false.
With the sound of a trumpet, the battle began.
Saernys mounted Faelyn, steeling herself for the battle to come.
She was worried for Gae. Her brother had not been the same since he returned from his mission to the Twins. Though she held out hope, Saernys feared he would be forever scarred by his ordeal. For a scion of a family descended from Dragonlords to be petrified of the very creatures that gave them power…it seemed the gods had no shortage of cruel japes.
With a word, she commanded Faelyn to fly. The Dragon walked along the ground, climbed a hill, then leaped. It flapped its wings, rising high, high into the sky. Saernys closed her eyes and smiled, relishing the sensation of flight. This was what her ancestors felt, this feeling of pure freedom and godlike detachment. It was so easy to separate oneself from people's problems when soaring through the heavens
Trumpets blew below, causing her to open her eyes.
The Blackfyres struck first, sending their elephants charging in. The beasts roared, the men mounted on them firing arrows. The front ranks broke before the unfamiliar threat, with many men fleeing while hundreds were crushed. The Tarly men in the rear did the smart thing and split ranks, creating corridors for the elephants to move through. They then struck with arrows and javelins, killing a few. Soon, the rest turned and ran. At least Randyll Tarly knew what he was doing.
At the same time, the Blackfyre cavalry on both flanks charged their counterparts. Saernys knew that Gae commanded the men on the right flank. She chose to trust her brother, despite his current affliction. He was family, and if their father taught them anything, then family was everything. The Blackfyre cavalry struck, then promptly ran back the way they came. Saernys discerned what they were doing: drawing the Darklyte horsemen away from the infantry. That would leave them vulnerable.
Saernys guided Faelyn down towards the battle. They soared through the air, an engine of destruction ready to deliver swift death. "Dracarys!" Saernys commanded. Her Dragon breathed a gout of flame across the grass behind the entire enemy army. She could have wiped them out with ease, but chose to take a more subtle approach. Why waste a potential resource, especially one as potent as the Golden Company? Better to humble them rather than exterminate them.
The Blackfyre horsemen in front had no time to stop before their momentum delivered them into the flames. They were consumed almost instantly, while their comrades managed to stop in time. Unfortunately for them, the Darklyte horsemen that were formerly being led into a trap now smashed into them, and a fierce melee erupted. A number of arrows pinged uselessly against Faelyn's hide, while a few flew past Saernys. She flinched, chiding herself for getting distracted.
Urging her Dragon to fly higher, out of arrow range, she looked down at the battle. The Blackfyre men at the rear moved away from the searing heat of the line of Dragonfire, pressing against their comrades in front. Saernys smiled, but her satisfaction did not last long. The Blackfyre infantry began to advance, and a unit of pikemen from each side swung around to face the Darklyte cavalry from the rear. Growling, Saernys flew down towards Gae's unit of cavalry. Faelyn landed with a thud, blasting the pikemen threatening her brother to ashes.
Faelyn thundered a roar, which caused the Blackfyre army to stop its advance. "Enough!" Saernys cried. "Enough men have died today. Let us end this with a contest of arms. Edwyn Blackfyre, where are you?"
The young Blackfyre trotted into the open on his horse, covered in blood. "What is your plan, woman? Roast me alive with your stolen Dragon? My father birthed it into the world, he raised it. You have no right to it!"
"And yet, it is mine now. Just as the Iron Throne will belong to my family. But let it never be said that I never gave you a chance. Instead of thousands dying on this field, let this battle be decided through single combat. Do you name a champion?"
Edwyn Blackfyre dismounted. "I would never ask my men to do anything I wouldn't do myself. I will face your champion."
Just as expected, Saernys thought. She felt confident of her chances against him. "Very well. I—"
"I will fight!" Gae cried.
Saernys whipped her head to see her brother separating himself from his unit of horsemen. Her brother dismounted, wiping the blood from his flamberge. What was that idiot thinking? His injuries were a liability that could potentially cost him the duel. If that happened, Saernys would have to step in with her Dragon to keep the Blackfyre army from attacking. And if he died, she did not know what she would do. How could she tell father and Kae?
Commanding Faelyn to lower a wing, Saernys slid down and ran over to her brother. "Gae, don't do this. I should fight him."
He shook his head. "This is something I have to do, Sae."
"But you're in no shape—"
"I have to do this!" he hissed, glaring at her through his helmet and bandages. "Everyone will think of me as nothing but a cripple, unless I do something about it. Right now, I'm a joke. The Darklyte that let a Dragon mutilate him. Edric Blackfyre lost an eye, and they're saying he killed a Giant! People are starting to write songs about him. I need to do something memorable."
"But you could die!" Saernys countered.
"If that's what it takes. At least I won't die a coward."
Struggling to fight back tears, she said, "You don't need to prove anything to anyone."
"I'm sorry, Sae. But I have no choice."
He pulled away from her, walking towards Edwyn Blackfyre. Saernys clenched her jaw so tight she thought it would break. The two men stood opposite each other, swords at the ready. They nodded to each other, and the duel began. At the first clash of swords, both armies began to cheer for their respective champions. Gae had a significant height advantage, but he also suffered excruciating pain ever since his burning. Edwyn fought as a true Blood of the Dragon, with strength and passion. Arrogant as he was, Saernys respected him just a bit more. He could have easily chosen the less honourable path and named someone else as his champion. The fact that he did not made him a worthier opponent than she initially thought.
Edwyn smashed the pommel of his sword into Gae's helmet, knocking it off. Gae stumbled back, blood already seeping into the bandages wrapped around his head. "Gods, you are ugly. My father should have just killed you; it would've been more merciful."
"He'll come to regret that," Gae retorted. He hammered his opponent with a series of two-handed strikes, forcing him back. Edwyn side-stepped the next attack, drew a knife, and stabbed Gae in the side. Saernys felt her heart stop as her brother cried out. She started to walk back to her Dragon, prepared to roast Drakon's son, when Gae roared. She turned and saw him head-butt then trip Edwyn. They fell to the ground, and began a back-and-forth beating as they rolled across the ground. Gae eventually pressed his leg onto Edwyn's left arm, then held the boy's right arm to the ground. He punched Edwyn in the helmet again and again with his right hand. With every hit, he roared longer and louder. Edwyn's hands were pinned, and he could do nothing to block his opponent.
Finally, Gae stopped, panting. He pulled the knife from his side, grunting, then held it to Edwyn's throat. "Do you yield?" When the boy did not respond, he shouted, "Do you yield?"
Both armies stood silent, and Saernys held her breath in anticipation.
"I yield."
Gae stood, raising his arms high as the Darklyte army cried out in victory. On the surface, it seemed too easy, but Saernys was content to enjoy the fact her brother still lived. The Blackfyre soldiers began dropping their weapons, and Saernys ran over to Gae. His head bandages were soaked in blood, and he clutched his side tightly. She wrapped her arms around him, afraid he might wither away if she let go.
Randyll Tarly, having rode to the front of the army, glared at them with thinly disguised hatred.
Beyond the Wall…
Edric awoke to a land of horrors.
Somehow, he managed to fall asleep last night. He dreamed of Winterfell, along with Sansa and the baby. It was pleasant, comforting. Then he woke to see the same thing he saw yesterday: the Army of the Dead, circling the frozen lake. Except for the Hound, and several of the Wildlings, the hunting party were gathered in the centre island. They had toasted the night before, in honour of their fallen comrades.
"Here," Beric said, holding a bowl out to him. "We cooked up some breakfast."
Edric, gratefully accepting, sat beside him. The others all ate in silence, fully aware of the doom that hung over them. Wun Wun sat alone, fingering a Dragonglass dagger. Without looking, Edric knew the four White Walkers on the cliff still stared at them. He could feel their gaze like spikes driven into his brain with every second. They were queer, unholy things. Even looking at them made him feel sick.
He looked at the two black riders. They had yet to reveal their faces, and said very little. The first rider, with the bow and arrow, also had a large warhammer that he hefted with hardly an effort. The second rider, with the flaming ball and chain, was older and likely more experienced, but said half as much as his companion.
"How did you find us?" Edric asked them, forcing himself to keep his mind off of the Walkers.
They glanced at each other. The older one replied "The Three-Eyed Raven sent us a vision. He showed us the Weirwood grove and your party."
"We would've met you sooner," the younger one added. "But by the time we reached you, the Army of the Dead was following you. We had to take the long way around and swing north, through the canyon."
Gendry, licking his lips, asked "How can you kill White Walkers when they can shatter steel with a touch?"
"With these," the younger rider replied, holding up a Dragonglass arrowhead. "The Children of the Forest made the White Walkers, eons ago. Their magic is one of the few things that can destroy them. The Children may be gone, but there's enough Dragonglass out here, if you know where to look."
Edric crossed his arms over his stomach, trying to keep warm. "And what are you doing up here? With this," he said, gesturing to the army surrounding them," all around you?"
The younger rider set down his bow, then took off his scarf.
"Derryk?!" Edric said, taken aback. "But…how? You joined the Night's Watch. We never heard from you again, so we just assumed you were dead."
"I was dead." Derryk pulled down his collar, enough to show the thin scar that ran along his neck. "Lord Commander Mormont lead a Great Ranging to scout Mance Rayder's army, and to confirm reports we'd been getting about the dead coming back to life. We fought the Walkers at the Fist of the First Men. We lost, badly. I got separated from my brothers, and a Walker cornered me. Rather than let that thing turn me, I slit my own throat. As I bled out onto the snow in the ass-end of the world, one of the Children used its magic to revive me. Since then I've been serving the Three-Eyed Raven."
"You mean Bran."
"He wasn't at first, but when he became the Three-Eyed Raven, my service transferred to him."
"You look familiar," Gendry said, frowning. "But we've never met before."
Derryk smiled. "That's because we're brothers. You're Robert Baratheon's bastard, right?|
Gendry nodded.
"I am, too. My mother was a whore."
"Mine was a tavern wench." Gendry snorted. "Y'know, I never thought I'd meet one of my siblings. I heard there were others, but…"
Thoros chuckled. He had been clutching his side, where a White Walker slashed him with an ice sword, since they got to the island. "Robert Baratheon fucked everything with tits he could get his hands on. There were scores of you lot in the capital, and everyone was content to ignore you as just more gutter trash."
"Derryk came to live with us for a time," Edric explained. "Back when my father was alive, he told us that Jon Arryn sent him to us for his protection. He left to join the Night's Watch, and we never saw him again."
Derryk looked like he wanted to say something, but hesitated. Eventually, he worked up enough courage to ask "How's Jayne?"
Edric sighed. "She's good. Married."
In that moment, he saw a flicker of life, tinged with regret, flash in Derryk's eyes. "Does he…treat her well? Is she happy?"
"He can be a bit thick at times, but he treats her well. They just had a baby."
Derryk nodded, staring at the fire. His older companion gripped him by the shoulder and said "Best to move on, lad. You gave up that sort of life even before the Children brought you back. Ours is to fight and die until there's nothing left."
The sobering reality of their situation settled on Edric's soul once more, and some of the joy in his heart died. "As much as I'd like to think we could get out of this, I think we all realize that none of us are coming home."
"This is home, lad," Tormund said. "I was never meant for the South, anyway. Better to die fighting, like a man. At least I can make my people proud."
"The Three-Eyed Raven will find a way to get us out of this," the older rider said.
"Bran might have powerful visions, but how can he rescue us from a threat like this? Last I checked, he didn't have an endless army of corpses and nigh-unstoppable generals."
"He'll find a way," Derryk said.
The older rider stood, gazing out at the Army of the Dead. "For the living to succeed, you need to get that tree sap south of the Wall."
Edric glanced at the half-full wineskin at his belt. "How is fucking tree sap supposed to save us? How can it work against something like that?" he asked, pointing to the Night King and his lieutenants on the cliff.
"Dragonglass kills White Walkers," the older rider said. "But the Night King is no ordinary Walker. His powers have grown over the last 8,000 years, and normal methods don't work on him. The only thing that will kill him is a true blade of the North, coated in that sap."
"And just what is a 'true blade of the North'?" Gendry asked.
"In the Battle for the Dawn, it was a Stark that checked the Walkers' advance. Brandon the Builder erected the Wall to keep them out, sealing the magic with his own blood. The fates of House Stark and the Walkers have been intertwined since then. The Starks have always been the true rulers of the North, and only a true Stark sword can kill the Night King to put an end to his terror."
'A true Stark sword', Edric thought. He repeated the phrase in his mind several times, pondering the meaning. Then, he glanced at his own sword. There was only one weapon in the North that would qualify. If he could get back to Winterfell and reunite the pieces…
"Even if this Three-Eyed Raven does send for help," Tormund said, "our supplies are running low. If we ration, we could stretch them out for a week, at best."
"The Lord of Light will grant us victory," Beric said. "We must trust in His wisdom."
Edric tossed the rabbit bones at his feet. "You do that. I'll try to get some sleep."
The next time, he awoke to the same living nightmare, but with an added twisting of the knife. The others were gathered around something, silent as graveyard spirits. When Edric approached, he saw the reason why: Thoros, dead where he laid, a bottle of rum in his hand. The Red Priest's eyes were closed, and he had a smile on his face. Snow covered his hair and beard, and his fingers were black from frostbite. He was pale as a sheet, probably from blood loss. Dying in the middle of the night, with no one by his side. It was a bad way to go.
"We'll need to burn the body."
One thing (among many others) that bugged me about the Walker arc in the last seasons was the distinct lack of spiders like Old Nan told Bran about in Season 1. So, I decided to bring them into this story. After all, what else could make a horde of ice zombies and their evil, immortal masters hellbent on global annihilation scarier? Giant spiders, that's what. As in all things, Tolkien was spot on with that.
Another issue (also the most glaring) with the Wight Hunt was just how rushed it was. Jon and company undertook an arctic expedition, sent Gendry back to the Wall, had him send a raven to Dragonstone, then had Daenerys fly all the way there from Dragonstone, and then back to the Wall all in the same episode. To say my suspension of disbelief was shattered in that episode is putting it lightly. That's why I've stretched it out into a whole running subplot this season. It's taking weeks and days for anyone to get anywhere, even Drakon riding a Dragon.
Lastly, an issue that can be applied to the last two seasons in general: the distinct lack of character deaths. Don't get me wrong, I love the characters in GoT, and I'm always happy when my favourites get to live. But the show built its foundation on the idea that no one was safe, not even the chosen one (even if resurrection is a thing). I wanted Ned to live. I wanted Robb to live. I wanted Oberyn to live! But their deaths were logical conclusions of the notion that this is a medieval world where morality is considered a childish fantasy. It's most glaring in the Long Night episode, where FAR more people should have bit the dust. Sad as it is, I couldn't have the entire party survive this version of the expedition north. Plus, it gives the White Walkers a lot more menace, something they lacked towards the end.
Lord Pyrus: I'm always happy to provide entertainments, especially if they're the dinner/Christmas kind! Now, here's a delayed New Year's gift! Thanks for the feedback.
South Down: Thanks! That is one hell of a compliment! It's fun writing Aelyx, as he's the closest thing this story has (apart from the Night King) to a main antagonist since Tywin died and Drakon's made peace with Daenerys. He's also an interesting counterpart to Drakon, as he's a loving father who's rebelling against the crown to put his family on the Iron Throne. And his ancestor was also one of the Great Bastards. Two equal dynasties squaring off; the only question is which one will prove the stronger/smarter?
Krasni: Jon was more focused on gaining allies, since he understands old feuds and grudges are nothing compared to the coming apocalypse. At this point, he doesn't care what he has to do or who he has to talk to, so long as it helps defeat the Night King.
TheOnlyKing: Thanks! I also like the Tarlys, except for the fact that Randyll's a right asshole. Stay tuned on that front, as there's more than meets the eye! I can understand your feelings on the Drakon/Daenerys matter, and you certainly have a point. Drakon wants to make amends where she's concerned, mostly out of respect for Rhaegar's memory. Also, he's thinking strategically: it's better to entice a potential rival and win them to your side rather than fight a destructive (and pointless) war. The Romans, while perfectly willing to fight and crush their enemies with the Legions, were also masters of this. They made other nations/conquered opponents want to become Roman because of the benefits of their culture and citizenship. Drakon wants to build a grand dynasty that will ultimately leave the world a better place than he found it. Daenerys can't have children, so the Blackfyre name will carry the Dragon legacy. Also, he gains a powerful ally who can help him crush his enemies before the war becomes too protracted.