A/N: Chap 32 review responses are in my forums as normal. Thanks for reading.

Chapter Thirty-Three: Hello, There!

"Burn thee, through day and night, through space and time, I command thy flame! Alight! Alight! Alight!"

The Shadowtongue words burned the back of Taylor's throat and made her head throb as the words reverberated through both her skull and the Force itself. Before her, the small glass candle she borrowed from Zhan-Li burst into actinic white light. Centering herself in the Force, Taylor looked into the flame.

A second later, Archmaester Marwyn sat across from her. On his side of the room, she could see a bell tower and hear birds chirping as morning dawned, while her side of the room remained dark and mildewy.

"Your Grace," the Maester said. "The ravens have already returned with news of your triumph. People have been singing and celebrating for two straight days now."

"I'm glad to hear that," Taylor said. "Archmaester, I was expecting Zhan Li. Is she well?"

"Your priestess is spreading the gospel of your words and works," the man said. For an old man who looked more like an English bulldog than a man, he had a surprisingly emotive face. He smiled as he spoke, but the expression conveyed a certain discomfort about the fact that the queen had a disciple who treated her essentially as a god.

"I see. Has Tyrion or Quaithe returned?"

"No, your grace. They and Prince Doran are expected within the week."

Fuck medieval travel times. Taylor's trip to the wall took less time that the other's trip down the river to find a ship to return to King's Landing.

"Then Archmaester, a difficult task falls to you. I understand that Tyrion moved the Alchemists Guild and all of the captured wildfire to Driftmark. I need you to convey to Admiral Davos that I need every bit of that wildfire on ships to Eastwatch-on-the-Sea. And I need you to inform Lord Laswell that I will need bomb production to begin again. Both finished bombs and raw explosive powder, also to be shipped to Eastwatch."

She had to give the Archmaester credit where due. His eyes widened as he stared at her through the candle. "Then it's true? The Long Night comes?"

"I've taken the last living greenseer as my apprentice, Marwyn. The boy's vision is nothing short of astonishing. He was able to count two hundred thousand walking dead, a thousand white walkers and their king. And that's not even touching the dead giants, mammoths, bears, shadowcats and ice spiders they march with. You'll need to convey those words to Prince Doran when he arrives, as well. I know coin is short, but we're going to need to find a way to get munitions north. For now, that starts with Admiral Davos."

"I'll convey your words immediately, your grace. When will you be returning?"

"Not until the soldiers arrive. Likely another week."

"Anything else, your grace?"

"Make sure Quaithe is safe when she returns. If she shows any sign of trouble, contact me through the candle."

"I shall, your grace."

"That's all, then. Be well, Marwyn."

"You as well, Your Grace."

It took physical effort to close her eyes. Doing so broke the spell, and the candle went dark. Even against her lids, though, the afterimage of the flame remained.

"It is said that the Fire Seers of Ancient Valyria lost all vision but what the candles granted them," an ancient, wispy voice said from her door. "Those who wished to keep their eyes on the material world were urged to use the candles sparingly."

Taylor blinked back the spots and saw an old, withered man standing at the door of her quarters. Lord Stannis had given her his space in one of the castle's old towers, which just meant the wind was that much colder.

Old, snow white hair, blind? "You must be Maester Aemon," she guessed.

"I have been called such, from time to time," the man said. He walked into her chambers without invitation, his walking stick guiding his steps until he came to a chair near her dining table. He gripped it long enough to position it and then sat, facing a point between her and the candle.

"Do you often help yourself to a queen's quarters?"

"Not since I was a child, no," the old man said. "I do hope you can forgive an old man's folly. For when I learned that my great, great niece was in the castle, I had to come and see for myself."

It took a moment for his words to sink in. "What?"

"They did not tell you of me? Jon Snow and his friend, Samwell?" The old man smiled. "I am Aemon Targaryen. My father was King Maekar Targaryen. Prince Rhaegar was my great nephew."

A single tear began tracing its way down his craggy cheek. "I have heard of your exploits. Samwell is a kind soul, and reads the missives to me when the ravens come. You took King's Landing in a day. You heal the sick and unify the land. And just two days prior, you ended the civil war, and then came here and prevented another. A remarkable career for one so young."

"I've had good people at my side," Taylor said.

"Perhaps. All good leaders do. Leadership fails without those to lead, after all. I came, because I wanted to believe. With all my heart. I knew young Daenerys survived, but of Rhaenys and Aegon, the world thought dead. How is it you live, dear?"

There was such hope in his words; such longing, that all thought of the truth evaporated from her mind. She stood and stepped to the man. He was shriveled, frail and small, barely coming to her shoulders. He walked with a cane, and she could feel his mortality hanging like a heavy cloak about his narrow shoulders.

"Come sit with me, uncle," she said softly. She took his leathery, wrinkled hand in hers and led him to the first of two upholstered chairs that sat by the fire. She took the second. And once seated, she leaned over until she could place her hand right in front of the cataracts that stole the man's eyes.

The Force flowed; she heard his breath hitch as he saw for the first time in many years. When she leaned back, tears trickled down his cheeks from stunning, violet eyes. "Thank you, my dear," he whispered as he stared at her. The flicker of the fire made him wince slightly, but his smile burned far brighter.

"But…" he added a second later. "You do not look Targaryen, do you?"

"I'm told I did, once," Taylor said, falling into the lie easily enough. She told him the official story of her childhood-the desperate flight with her brother. The conspirators who substituted them for innocent children who later suffered their fates. She described Asshai as Quaithe had described it, and then spoke of the lands beyond Asshai.

The lies flowed into truth as she described her first sight of Daenerys Targaryen, and how she saved her supposed aunt's dragons.

When she finished, the man was nodding softly to himself with a wistful smile. "If only your father were so strong," the old man whispered. "Any man with a sword may conquer by force. Any Targaryen with dragons may do so even easier. But my dearest child...you've conquered with words as well as swords; with cunning as well as fire. You have brought this old man joy again, to know he is not alone."

Taylor stood, smiling. She once more offered the old man her hand. "Then come, Uncle. Come see another thing with your new eyes. Come see the dragons Daenerys brought into the world."

They walked together through the cold morning. The men of the Night's Watch bowed respectfully as they saw their queen holding their ancient Maester's hand while leading him through the castle.

In the field beyond the low southern gate, in a gully along the King's Road, the three dragons had burned a nest for themselves. They slept together to conserve their heat against the bitter cold. As he saw them, Aemon's breath once more caught in his throat and tears rimmed his eyes. Still they continued walking until Temeraire looked up at their approach.

So close the old man could touch them, Taylor's voice broke the morning silence. "Uncle, this is my bonded dragon Temeraire. He's probably going to be as big as Balerion the Dread one day. With him are my dearest friends, his brother Elliot, and their sister Saphira. My friends, this is the last of my blood family, Maester Aemon."

With astonishing gentleness, Temeraire lifted his head enough to bring his snout within reach of the ancient man. He sniffed, then purred loudly. Aemon reached out and ran a hand over his scales, tears pouring freely down his face.

"The last dragon died before I was born," the man said. "And always, it felt as if the magic of the world died with it. The gift of my eyes is made all the greater for the gift of this sight. Thank you, my dearest niece."

That night, after a long day preparing for the arrival of the Northern troops, Taylor finished the day with a training session for her apprentice. She had to admit the boy was making good progress, as witnessed by the fact that the recently healed paraplegic stood unaided in her chambers.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he concentrated not just on balance, but on letting the Force flow through to his trembling, atrophied muscles.

"Now," Taylor whispered.

Bran hesitantly levitated an old gauntlet and made it orbit around him. It only made two rotations before it fell to the floor, followed a moment later by Bran himself. He crumbled down, but didn't cry out. "I did it!"

"You did," Taylor said. "That's your new daily exercise. You are to stand and levitate one object at least an hour a day. When not meditating, you need to stand as much as you can every day. It will hurt, but you must. How are the crutches helping?"

"A lot," Bran admitted.

"Good, then we're done for the night. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

Bran nodded, still pleased over his success. He leaned over to grab the two wooden crutches Taylor fashioned for him and laboriously pulled himself to his feet. He didn't ask for help and she didn't offer. Once he was up on his crutches, he glanced nervously at her while his Force presence screamed a question he was afraid to ask.

"Go ahead, Bran."

The young man smiled wryly. "I was just...I know who you are. I saw you fall to this world in a vision. I don't understand, though. You told Prince Doran the truth, but Maester Aemon a lie. Of the two, Aemon is…"

"The better man," Taylor said. "I have no illusions about Prince Doran's character. But the circumstances were different. Doran has many years ahead, and already guessed the truth. By telling him my real story, I was able to negate his suspicion and instead recruit him for political purposes. And now Dorne has nominal control of the Reach. For the moment, anyway."

"And Maester Aemon?"

"Maester Aemon will…" She paused when she realized how much it hurt to say it. "Maester Aemon will likely die within the next six months. He's suffered so much loss and hardship through his life. He deserved some measure of happiness and hope."

The young man nodded. "That… It was a kindness, then. Thank you for telling me."

~~Quintessence~~

~~Quintessence~~

To a modern girl, ten thousand didn't seem like that big of a number. After all, with all of the licensing of her vaporator technology in the aftermath of the Endbringers and World War Three, she earned ten thousand dollars every half hour in licensing fees alone.

But in this world, ten thousand was a huge number. The column of soldiers and horsemen snaked their way down the King's Road for as far as she could see. The column of servants, food animals, carts and the infrastructure to keep ten thousand fighting men fed was almost as long.

Taylor could sense Lord Stannis's relief as he stood beside her at the gates of the castle. At the head of the column rode the former King of the North himself, Robb Stark. By his side rode Ser Baelor Hightower.

"Your Grace," Robb called happily. "How went negotiations?"

"Well," she said as he dismounted and knelt down before her in a perfunctory gesture. Hightower did the same. "The treaties have been signed and Mance Rayder is now presenting it to his people for their approval. Only those who agree will be permitted to come. You'll also be pleased to hear, Lord Stark, that the Lord of Bones is dead."

Robb brightened. "Oh, what happened?"

"He died of chronic stupidity," Taylor said. "It's a dangerous and contagious illness."

Stark bellowed laughter. "Aye, one we've all suffered from on occasion, I have no doubt! The Umbers will be pleased!"

With ten thousand veteran soldiers camped behind the castle, Taylor felt it was time to put the Wildling issue behind them. She left the gate on horseback, with the Lords Stark, Hightower and the Lord Commander at her side, flanked by twenty of Robb's men, and rode for the forest.

Mance emerged flanked by Laboda, Karsi and Tormund. Mance recognized Stark. "Your Grace," he said in greeting. "And Lord Stark. An honor."

Robb nodded regally. "I've heard much of you from my brother," the Warden said.

"Have your people agreed to the treaty?" Taylor asked.

Rayder looked torn. "Most, your grace. Three raider bands chose not to accept and left. Those that remain will abide by the treaty."

"How many left?"

"Five, maybe six thousand," Mance admitted. "They headed northeast."

"Better than it could have been," Taylor finally said. "This is how it will work then. The people are to arrive at the gate in a single line. It will take time, so there is no need for everyone to come at once. We shall have men there to record their name, their gender, and their age. Once the name is given, they shall be permitted to enter with any belongings they have. They will be required to camp in a position south of the wall that we are preparing for them, until everyone is accounted for. Once all have passed through the wall, your people will be allowed to disperse through the lands granted in the treaty. We have riders and surveyors who are marking the boundaries of the Gift. Is this agreeable?"

"Why take our names?" Karsi asked.

"So that we have a fair accord on how many of you must serve the wall when the Others come," Taylor said. "We have no wish to call children or the elderly. None over thirty have to serve at all until the White Walkers come. That was our agreement."

Karsi scowled but nodded. "Aye, t'was."

"When?" Mance said.

"Now," Taylor told him. "Get your people moving, Mance. Your future's waiting for you."

~~Quintessence~~

~~Quintessence~~

Taylor had the courtyard of Castle Black filled with tables. Each table had one of Maester Aemon's stewards or the similar office from among her soldiers standing by with bottles of ink, quills and parchments.

Karsi led the line, holding two beautiful young girls in her arms as she led her clan through the gate. She had a travois tied to her back piled with the total of her life's possessions.

Taylor herself met them. "This way," she said, leading them to the very last table, while Jon Snow led those behind her to the next table. Samwell Tarly sat at the table with his own little surprise-a wildling woman he'd evidently run into and saved while he'd gone ranging with the now deceased former Lord Commander.

"Hello," Samwell said with a friendly smile at the girls. "What're your names and ages?"

Karsi answered for all three. Sam dutifully wrote their names in a small script, mindful as were the rest that they would be dealing with huge numbers. With their census taken, Taylor led the chieftainess out of the castle and into the snow-crusted land beyond.

It was not surprising that Karsi came to a stop at the gates when she saw the rows of tents. "What…?"

"I'm restoring the fortifications of the walls," Taylor said. "Remember, Karsi. These men are no longer your enemies, they're your allies. Come, your campground is this way."

Taylor had soldiers there as well, but these were her personal Unsullied, led not by one of her Ghiscari officers, but by the newly promoted Captain Greyworm. She had him and a few hundred Unsullied come so that she would have men with no stake in the old grudges between the Free Folk and the Northern lords.

"Mummy, why is he black?" one of the girls asked.

The question startled Taylor, for a moment making her think of another world, and another time.

Karsi's answer was, in a way, worse. "I don't know, love. I've never seen a man of such a color."

"His name is Grey Worm," Taylor answered, forcing a smile. "His people come from a far-off land called the Summer Isles. It's a beautiful land, with birds whose feathers come in all the colors of the rainbow. They're mighty warriors and great sailors, and like you they have spear wives who fight alongside their men. All of those men who will help you settle come from across the Narrow Sea. I chose them because they've never been raided by the Free Folk. If you treat them fairly, they will do the same to you. Now, since you were the first, you will get the first camping spot."

The line didn't end. As the day progressed with no end in sight, Taylor climbed the stairs to the top of the wall and stared down to the line that stretched across the tundra into the trees. The sun would be setting soon, she saw.

When she returned to the ground, she sought out Ser Baelor.

"Your Grace?" the man said as he stood from his dinner. The others of his knights did the same.

"Ser Baelor, gentleman," she said with a nod. "This is likely going to take days. Please have your men stake out torches across the plain to the trees for the Free Folk. Set a perimeter guard as well, in case we get any unwanted visitors overnight. Make sure to switch them out every hour-it's going to be very cold."

"Wisely spoken, your grace," the nearly stereotypical gallant knight declared. "I shall see to it at once."

The stewards worked shifts, switching out to give their cramping hands a break, or to warm them. They burned through oil and torches at a prodigious rate as the people kept coming. All day and all night they came, and another day and another night as well.

Those taking the census quickly developed their own tricks, tallying off every ten names and then ticking off the tallies at the bottom of each page, front and back. Each sheet of parchment held nearly two hundred names, and they'd already filled over three hundred such sheets.

Not just people came. The giants came with their mammoths, who could just barely squeeze through the tunnel. They came with flocks of a hearty, arctic sheep or elk; cages of thick arctic hairs and dogs. Skinchangers came with their animals (the snow bear nearly started a fight). It wasn't just people-it was the migration of an entire civilization.

On the third day, Taylor rode out with Bran and a handful of Robb's guard to the godswood just inside the forest. Though the young man's vision was powerful, he still needed the trees to see perfectly. As they rode out, she saw with some appreciation that Mance, Tormund and Laboda had taken it upon themselves and their entourage of warriors to stand sentry with Ser Baelor's men. Taylor wholeheartedly approved.

The Free Folk just nodded to her, but that alone was for them a gesture of respect. The godswood, when they found it, was a semicircle of nine ancient weirwoods half a league into the forest. They passed by thousands of Free Folk still camping in the shelter of the trees to wait their turn.

Taylor dismounted, and watched with some pride as Bran slid off his horse and cushioned his fall with the Force. Using his crutches, he walked awkwardly to the first of the trees before sitting down. The dozen men of their escort remained mounted and vigilant.

"A quick look only, Bran," Taylor said. "I just want to see where they are."

The young greenseer nodded before he touched the root of the tree. The way his eyes misted over with cloudy white reminded her of how Quaithe or Zhan Li looked when using a Valyrian glass candle. Different mediums, but a similar power.

Not five seconds later, she felt a surge of alarm through the Force as he came back to himself. "They're here!" he shouted. "Just miles away!"

"Fuck," Taylor muttered. She didn't hesitate to levitate the young man onto his horse. "All of you get back to the castle and warn them. Get everyone inside the gates and muster the soldiers to defend the citizens. Go, now!"

Bran went, better on horse than on foot, and his soldiers followed. Taylor mounted as well, but rode for the camps. "The White Walkers are coming!" she bellowed, using the Force to augment her voice throughout the wood. "Gather only what you can carry and make for the Wall now! Don't wait, move now!"

The Free Folk didn't scream. They lived hard lives, with death an ever-present companion. But they weren't stupid. Men and women grabbed what they could and started running for the field. She could hear horns blowing-once, twice, three times-to make sure the Nights' Watch was ready.

The temperature suddenly dipped in a way she'd never felt before. The Force didn't scream-it groaned in her mind, as if it had been violated beyond repair. She looked over her shoulder and saw a little girl standing on the edge of one of the newly abandoned camps. Her eyes were an icy blue, but her skin was pale.

Her throat had been torn out, as if by a vicious beast.

The dead walk.

The girl burst into motion, moving far faster in death than she could ever have in life. She launched herself right at Taylor, only to fly into different directions as Taylor split the living corpse in half with a lightsaber. The child's blood was composed of red crystals.

Other wights came shambling out of the trees in various states of decomposition. Taylor fought back an urge to look for cameras and George Romero crying, "Action!"

Instead, she spurred her horse forward. "Hurry," she screamed at the straggling Free Folk. "They're here! Run like monsters are about to tear out your fucking spines!"

They ran. Taylor saw one women struggling with two more children than she could carry. Taylor rode up to her. "Give me!"

She took the two younger kids so the mother could run with the older. Behind her, she felt the terrible cold of the oncoming wights and their masters. Rather than linger, she spurred her horse forward with the two terrified kids in her arms until she cleared the trees. She felt both relief and worry when she saw Ser Baelor assembling men in a defensive line around the quickly gathering crowd of terrified Free Folk. The gate was slowing them all.

She handed the children off to the first soldier she saw before turning her mount back to Ser Baelor. In the back of her mind, she made a call for help and felt relief when she felt the answer. Ahead, the last of the Free Folk fled the tree line. Taylor's heart thudded painfully in her chest when she saw what followed them.

The entire line of trees seemed to crawl as thousands of wights emerged. Every few hundred feet, she saw something else move behind them. Creatures with ice-blue skin and malevolent, glowing blue eyes that rode mounts of rotting horseflesh.

"By the gods," Ser Baelor whispered.

The wights charged, darkening the plain as they ran after the much slower, terrified Free Folk. It would have been a slaughter, if not for three little things named Temeraire, Saphira and Elliot. The three dragons crested the wall with fierce roars as they swooped down on the encroaching line of wights. Their fire lashed out in broad swathes, and the moving dead burned quickly.

At Taylor's mental direction, the dragons continued to immolate not just those enemies on the plain, though. Constantly rising and diving, they swooped down on the forest as well, burning the trees and all those within it, as the Free Folk fled desperately for the protection of Ser Baelor and his men.

After five more passes, the dead stopped running from the forest. Taylor left her horse with Ser Baelor and walked out onto the plain. Her dragons circled over her head before coming to a landing around her. She mounted Temeraire's neck. "Let me borrow your eyes, love," she whispered.

The dragon opened his mind. The White Walkers were the opposite of normal humans-their figures appeared as black spots against the cold ground in the dragon's eyes. Despite the fire, dozens of the demonic creatures survived. Rather than attack, they sat astride their walking corpse-horses and watched her through the burning trees. Unmoved, implacable, and filled with a steady hatred.

"Ser Baelor?" Taylor began.

"Aye, your grace?"

"I want you to work with Lord Commander Baratheon to restore the castles of the wall-all of them. Send a raven to your father to report what you've seen just now. This was just a taste of what's coming."

"Aye, your grace," the man said in a subdued tone. "That I shall, and have no doubt of it."