A.N.: Hi everyone, happy weekend! Thank you so much for the amazing reviews. I hope you enjoy!
Valyrian Steel
30
The True North
"On the morning of my eighteenth name-day, my father came to me. 'You're almost a man now,' he said, 'but you are not worthy of my land and title. Tomorrow you're going to take the black, forsake all claim to your inheritance, and start north… If you do not,' he said, 'then we'll have a hunt, and somewhere in these woods your horse will stumble, and you'll be thrown from your saddle to die… Or so I'll tell your mother… Nothing would please me more'…"
It gave Jon some great pleasure to outfit the great Lord Randyll Tarly in wildling furs, to take away his fine sword - not the Valyrian-steel Heart's Bane passed down through his family, but a plain steel sword, new-forged - and replace it with a rudimentary dagger and a spear both tipped with obsidian. Jon could feel the hate emanating from Lord Tarly…but not so his younger son, Dickon, who stood as tall as Jon, grateful to still be alive, almost relieved to see the ramshackle Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, buried in snow and frozen solid against the very end of the Wall.
After their journey, brief though it had been - they had been blessed with fierce winds to fill their sails, and the worst of the storms had chased behind them - Jon was very relieved to disembark at Eastwatch. He had never been to the eastern-most fortress held by the Watch: He knew they had as much trouble, if not more, from slavers from Essos than wildlings, with whom they traded, along with Ibbenese whaling vessels and Skagosi. Anything to survive, Jon thought, sighing with relief as his boots hit the pebbly beach. Snow fell, but it was gentle, almost as if welcoming him back, and the snow did not stick to the shoreline as angry waves crashed in.
"There's a light up ahead," said Gendry thoughtfully, as he strapped his two great war-hammers to him, and Jon frowned, turning toward the fortress, where indeed, a rich orange glow was emanating from one of the windows that had, seconds ago, been shuttered against the elements.
"Someone has a fire going," Jon said gratefully. He cast an eye over his companions, those men - and women - who had volunteered to join him. Ser Jorah wore his bear-adorned armour beneath a heavy fur-trimmed cloak, tucking a shield over his back. Obara Sand permanently had her double-ended spear in her hands; the blades had been removed, crafted into twin daggers with obsidian spikes set into the pommels, by Gendry, who had tempered new obisidian blades for her spear: After Lord Tyrion had managed to analyse and write out in plain speech the flowery High Valyrian instructions on tempering obsidian, which Missandei had found in the archives, Gendry had taken to the forge in Dragonstone, and spent days in there, working with obsidian. Gendry had left his sword on-board the ship, the weapon he was least-skilled with: He carried his enormous war-hammer, which even Dickon Tarly could not lift, and the second he had forged at Dragonstone, its dark brother, made of steel and bronze and obsidian. He carried both strapped in a leather harness.
It was one thing to know Gendry was a trained blacksmith and armourer: It was another thing to see him adapt and improvise his training to an unfamiliar material, crafting weapons of superior quality in mere days.
His craftsmanship had earned Gendry a good deal of respect from the likes of Obara, wrapped up in leathers beneath her furs, and Lord Barahir and two of his men: Lord Barahir wielded twin gladius swords, and his men each carried an obsidian falchion and a brutal scythe-like blade attached to a steel chain. Gendry had even managed to forge brass knuckles - with spikes made entirely of obsidian. One of Lord Barahir's men was notorious for being hands-on, lusting for a good brawl.
Ser Davos and the Tarlys made up the rest of their party, and the spiteful look on Lord Randyll Tarly's face was enough to put a spring in Jon's step as he pushed off along the rocky shoreline, approaching the fortress, wondering who he would find within. Cotter Pyke, the intimidating Ironborn commander of Eastwatch, had been with him at Hard Home: Cotter Pyke's attitude toward the wildlings, and Jon's leadership, had done an abrupt about-face since then.
"No-one to greet us?" Lord Tarly said querulously. He was a brutal, unpleasant man without humour, and a somewhat warped sense of his own honour. He was the only one to ever defeat Robert Baratheon in battle, and supported the Targaryens during the Rebellion.
He had his own reasons for not kneeling to Daenerys Targaryen, and Jon respected them. Just as Lord Tarly respected Jon for refusing to yield the North to her.
Not that Lord Tarly had wanted to join Jon on his expedition: He had no choice. Lord Tarly had refused to kneel to Daenerys, and he refused to accept that Daenerys had the power to force him to take the black. No-one could force a free man to swear his vows, Jon had told him; and they were all in a unique position.
"If you were tucked up in the warm and dry, my lord, would you leave the hearthside?" Jon asked, striding ahead. The others sounded happy to be off the ship; Jon certainly was. As they had weighed anchor, he had watched in gruesome fascination as a pod of weirwhales hunted narwhal, the sea churned red with their blood. He had never seen either, but knew what they were from the books at Winterfell. Weirwhales were monstrous, pure-white whales that feasted on other great beasts of the sea; and the narwhal was alleged to be a sea-cousin of the unicorn, on account of its single great horn. Weirwhales were sought after by Ibbenese whalers for their blubber which, when treated into oil, gave off brilliant light and was odourless when burned, a great benefit that afforded it a high price. Jon only hoped there were no Ibbenese whalers about foolish enough to try out the blubber on shore beyond the Wall, as was their habit if they were close enough to land when they hunted successfully - this, according to Cotter Pyke, who traded with the Ibbenese whalers, who brought him news from beyond the Wall.
Eastwatch wasn't like Castle Black, Jon thought, and it gave a false impression of the Watch to those who had never visited the Wall to know that the great stone fortress was an exception, not the rule. Castle Black was falling down: Eastwatch had been built to endure. And yet it was just as poorly-manned as Castle Black - even more so, Jon thought, frowning, as they approached the castle. At Castle Black there was always the sound of men working and training, in all weathers. Eastwatch was eerily still, but for that flickering golden light up ahead.
Jon unsheathed his sword.
"Your Grace?" Dickon Tarly frowned, as Jon edged toward the front gate, which stood open. He eyed the tracks on the ground, though the snows had settled and softened the markings. The fact that the snow lay undisturbed made him suspicious.
"There should be men training," Jon murmured. "The snow is undisturbed…" His mind went to the worst possible scenario. Then he heard a soft neigh, and slipped into the yard, peering into the stables; horses bedded down with hay and oats and blankets.
Had the Wall been breached and the fortress attacked, there would have been nothing left alive. Yet the horses were content, cared for. Where were all the men?
"Fine beasts," someone grunted, and Jon raised his eyes - to find an arrowhead aimed between them.
Then someone laughed, and Jon knew the sound. Long Claw slipped from his grip as someone collided with him, with enough force to knock him clean off his feet. Matted furs and fiery red hair, a wild grin.
"Tormund!"
"Jon Snow!" he laughed, embracing Jon like a brother. Jon grinned and hugged back, then frowned at him. "We didn't think to see you here."
"Who's we - and what're you doing here?" Jon asked, slightly dazed. Tormund grinned his mad grin.
"We're the Night's Watch now," he growled tauntingly, his eyes scanning the others behind Jon, Gendry scowling deeply, ready to take Tormund's head clean off with his great war-hammer. Tormund saw him, saw Dickon Tarly with his falchion raised threateningly, looking uncertain, and grinned like the madman Jon knew him to be. Tormund laughed. "These boys have giant's blood or I'm a maid."
"Tormund, what're you doing here? Where's everyone else?" Jon asked.
"All the crows have flown down from the Wall, all your brothers, called to Winterfell," Tormund said gruffly. "Best place to put up a real fight."
"They've left the Wall unmanned?" Jon blurted, horror settling in. Edd, you idiot! "And when the Night King's army breaches the Wall?"
"The Three-Eyed Raven will know," Tormund said solemnly. Jon stared at him. The ways of the wildlings were still foreign to Jon. A few months with them, years ago, spending most of his time trekking through the snow and wrestling inside Ygritte's furs was one thing; he was not Mance Rayder, immersed in their culture for twenty years. Whatever the Three-Eyed Raven was, Jon had no idea; but it was obvious that Tormund respected it.
"Come, little crow, I'm freezing my balls off out here. Warmer by the fire. We've good stew, and songs. One of your brothers never shuts up. But he does sing so prettily," Tormund said, his usual wry humour in full force. "Who are these people?"
"Tormund Giantsbane, this is Gendry, Obara Sand, Lord Barahir and his men Bors and Dagonet," Jon said, introducing everyone, and Tormund embraced Ser Davos. "And Lord Dickon and Lord Randyll Tarly."
"Tarly? Like your brother?" Tormund grunted, frowning, and Jon nodded.
"Aye, they're Sam's kin," Jon said.
"This one looks like he's trying to shit an anvil," said Tormund, brandishing his short, brutal sword at Lord Tarly, and Jon's mouth twitched. Tormund leered, striding toward Lord Tarly with that predatory swagger Jon knew so well. "Not for nothing, but the last time someone looked at me like that, we ended up married for three moons." Jon scoffed, smirking, and he shook his head. "Come. Inside, where it's warm. You can tell me why you're here." He grinned, gestured to Jon, and led the way to a rickety staircase. The wildling with the bow had already disappeared inside, and by the time they entered the small chamber, which was glowing from the fire filling the great hearth that spread warmth over them in waves, Tormund's companions were roused and grinning.
Night's Watchmen in their faded blacks and wildlings in their ragged furs, Jon saw; they shared the hearth, and the contents of the castle larders. He recognised a few faces - Karsi smiled at him, the firelight gleaming off the muscle-shells armouring her furs, and Long Tom from Castle Black. There were two tall, terrifying Thenn, Asa and Sigurd, who had survived Hard Home, and two other wildlings, Hvitserk and Hali. From the Watch, there was also Kenner, Greef and a tall, slender young man with a cheerful face named Yaskier.
"I see, so you've been feasting," Jon said, his lips twitching toward a smile as he noted the foot being shared out - the barrel of mead that Tormund seemed to be sitting on.
"Just enjoying some well-earned comforts," said Yaskier, handing bowls of stew to Lord Barahir and Obara. "We had the worst journey atop the Wall."
"Got here six days ago," Tormund said gruffly, filling his drinking-horn, and grinning tauntingly at Lord Tarly, who accepted a bowl from Yaskier only grudgingly - and only because the young man wore the black. Obara sat beside Karsi, who openly admired her double-ended obsidian spear.
"Why are you here?"
"The Three-Eyed Raven sent us," Tormund said, unhelpfully. "And you?"
Jon sighed heavily, accepted a bowl gratefully from Yaskier, whose face was alight with excitement, as if he was about to burst if he could not say something - he bit his lip, grinned, and ducked back to his own seat. Jon told them.
"Isn't it your job to talk him out of stupid fucking ideas like this?" Tormund accused Ser Davos, who sighed grimly.
"Is it a mad idea? Aye. Is it the only chance we've got?" Ser Davos said, nodding fiercely. "I don't like it, and I wish to the gods it could be done any other way, but it's necessary."
"How many queens are there in the south?" Tormund asked, scowling.
"Two," Jon said.
"And you need to snatch a wight and show it to the Queen of the dragons, or the one who fucks her brother?" asked Karsi, making Dickon Tarly start, staring at her coarse language; Lord Tarly frowned, perhaps surprised to hear the scorn in her voice. Even beyond the Wall, where there were few laws, incest was taboo. Gendry scoffed, grinning, as he accepted a horn of mead from Tormund, who was shaking his head.
"Both," Jon said.
"How many men did you bring?" Tormund asked.
"Those you see here," Jon said. "It's my hope we can do the thing quickly, without alerting the White Walkers that we're there…though I'm not sure how. If they were at Hard Home months ago…"
"They could be waiting beyond the gate," Yaskier murmured, cheek pouched with fish stew, his eyes widening in sudden horror.
"We looked; they're not," Hvitserk said, with a roll of his eyes.
"No word reached me at Dragonstone that the Wall had been forsaken," Jon said quietly, glancing at Long Tom, Greef, Yaskier and Kenner. "We were hoping some of the brothers could help."
"Jon…you saved us at Hard Home," said Karsi, and she shook her head, "and for that I owe you my life, and those of my daughters. Let me save yours, now; do not go beyond the Wall. You know what waits for you there."
"I do. That's why I must go," Jon sighed. "We need more men; we can't get them, without southern support. And they're stubborn and stupid and spoiled, and I need to shock the hell out of them if we're to get what we need to defeat the Night King's armies."
"You really want to go out there, again?" Tormund clarified, his voice low, concerned. They had both survived Hard Home, though barely. He glanced at Greef, at Hali. He sighed heavily, shaking his head. "Southern fools. You're not the only ones trying to get beyond the Wall."
"What do you mean?"
"Finish your stew, first," said Karsi, sensibly, as Tormund rose. They finished their meals, grateful for them, and Tormund led Jon - with Gendry as his hulking shadow - to the ice-cells.
"Asa scouted them a mile south of the Wall," Tormund said, stopping by one large cell, inside which several bedraggled-looking men seemed to be resting. As they neared the cell, Gendry started to laugh softly. He leaned against the cell door, grinning.
"Well, this is a twist of fate," he said, his voice rich with irony. Several of the men looked up. "Remember me?"
"Gendry," said one of the men, who wore an eye-patch, his hair thinning. "I remember you. I remember all of them."
"You know these men?" Jon asked. Gendry nodded, his eyes narrowed.
"They're the Brotherhood without Banners. During the War of the Five Kings, they claimed to protect the smallfolk from the horrors of war…they sold me to a Red Witch to be murdered," Gendry said fiercely, scowling at the men.
"You're still alive?" said a soft, silky voice in the shadows. He sat forward, pale eyes glowing in the brittle light. He stared at Gendry. "How? The Lady Melisandre took you for a purpose."
"She did."
"How are you still alive?"
"Because in spite of how you treated me, there are still men out there who do what is right," Gendry said fiercely. "He freed me, when the Red Woman wanted to burn me alive, offer me up as sacrifice so her god would put Stannis Baratheon on the Iron Throne."
The man with the pale eyes peered at Gendry through the gloom.
"And how would your death have helped put Stannis on the throne?"
"King's blood," Gendry said softly. "The King's blood, flowing through my veins… King Robert was my father."
Jon turned to stare at Gendry. That was why he seemed so familiar. He definitely looked like Robert Baratheon, with his fierce, flashing blue eyes and black hair - though he was a lot leaner. He resembled Stannis, somewhat. That's why Gendry's looks felt so familiar to Jon, yet he had not been able to place them. There was a hint of Stannis in Gendry's occasional sternness, but the two men were very different in personality, Gendry open and charismatic, fierce-hearted, humorous.
"You were one of Robert Baratheon's bastards," said another man, wrapped in a tattered cloak. "Thought Joffrey and Cersei had you all hunted down like vermin."
"They tried," said Gendry stubbornly. Jon recognised the man by his burned face.
"You're the Hound. Sandor Clegane," Jon said, staring. From what Sansa had said, he had rescued her during the bread-riots in King's Landing, and offered to take Sansa to freedom during the Battle of the Blackwater. The huge, scarred man barely turned his head to stare back at Jon; he was lying on his back on a bench, wrapped in a tattered cloak. At Jon's words, he sat up.
"And you're the White Wolf," he growled back softly, the nastiness in his tone softened by the thoughtfulness in his face as he stared at Jon. "Ned Stark's bastard."
"I am."
"You and her, you look alike," he growled, scowling. Jon frowned.
"Who?"
"That cold little bitch, Arya," the Hound grunted.
A soft voice in the shadows said, "Not still sore about that trial, are you, Clegane?"
"No, not about that," said the Hound ominously.
"They want to go beyond the Wall too," Tormund told Jon.
"We don't want to go beyond the Wall, we have to," said the man with the eye-patch, his voice deep and rich. "Our Lord told us that the Great War is coming."
"The last thing your Lord told you was to sell me to the Red Witch to be murdered," Gendry rumbled. "I'm alive, and you're locked in a cell. Tells you something about your Lord, doesn't it?"
"Aye," said the man with the eye-patch. "Perhaps it does… Here we all are…at the edge of the world, at the same moment, heading in the same direction, for the same reason."
"You don't know what our reasons are," said Gendry coldly.
"It doesn't matter what we think our reasons are," said the man. "There's a greater purpose at work. And we serve it together, whether we know it or not. We may take the steps, but the Lord of Light -"
"For fuck's sake, will you shut your hole?" interrupted the Hound impatiently. He raised his dark eyes to Jon. "Are we coming with you or not?"
"Don't you want to know what we're doing?" Jon asked, frowning.
"Is it worse than sitting in a freezing cell waiting to die?" asked the pale-eyed man.
Jon sighed heavily. "Let them out."
"You're sure?" Tormund asked.
"We're all still breathing. That puts us on the same side," Jon said grimly, and Tormund shrugged, unlocking the cell door.
The Brotherhood were given the last of the stew, while Yaskier and Karsi outfitted the newcomers with furs; Jon contributed obsidian daggers. They weren't much, but the idea wasn't that they were waging a full-scale war against the Night King; they were only there to sneak in and lead a raid on his soldiers to carry one off.
A wall of snow three-feet high collapsed as the gate rose, and the wind howled through the icy tunnel. Jon sighed, as they stood at the gate. Ser Davos, who was staying behind, had opened the gate; he would let them back through the Wall later. He turned to the others, swaddled in rough furs, carrying their obsidian weapons, each of them strapped with coils of rope, a skin of strong drink and enough dried meat to keep them going, the means to make fire and shovels to carve dig from the snow - these, brought on the advice of the Free Folk, who had survived more winters above the Wall than any Ranger of the Night's Watch had ever dared.
Before they set off, Jon glanced at the others - at perpetually-angry Obara, at grim but determined Karsi; at Asa and Sigurd, two Thenns who had battled at Hard Home, evidence of it in Asa's lost eye, Sigurd's mutilated face; at Lord Tarly, bristling in his wildling furs, and by his side, his favoured son, handsome and nervous; at Ser Jorah, following in his father's footsteps; and Lord Barahir, new to Jon's cause, but adaptable and determined, and the rest, men he had never met but appreciated their presence, remembering the notorious strength and skill of the Hound. "I hope we can get this over and done with as quickly as possible."
"Oh," Yaskier winced, looking wounded, and he held a gloved hand over his heard. "I've heard that far too many times before."
Gendry laughed, and the tension faded. Whatever they were to face, it did not jump out at them as they stepped out of the tunnel, leaving the safety of the Wall at their backs.
In fact, they met nothing. No life, but for the trees and the howling of the wind as it snatched at their furs, and even that died down as they left the Wall behind them, and started their long march. As night fell away, a pale white light guided their way, and soon the sky was bright and blue overhead, the snow beneath their feet glittering, and they were tugging at their furs uncomfortably.
"Sam…ventured beyond the Wall with you, Your Grace?" It was Dickon Tarly, and Jon glanced at Sam's younger brother.
"He did… I thought Sam would have stopped at Horn Hill on his way to the Citadel," Jon frowned softly. "Did he not mention the Great Ranging?"
"He…wasn't much encouraged to speak of his time at the Wall," said Dickon fairly, with a wince. "But his lady, Gilly…she… She stood up to my father. I'd never seen anyone do that."
"Gilly's endured worse than your father," Jon said grimly.
"My mother liked her," Dickon said. "She was kind and she…she has faith in Sam. Mother said…she saw Sam's true worth, which my father never could."
"Sam's a lot braver than he thinks he is," Jon said, "and a far better man than he knows. He is one of the best men I have ever known."
"I never spent much time with Sam," Dickon admitted, almost mournfully. "Father would not allow it; I was in the training yard most of my childhood…but I do remember Sam reading to me. He'd sit me on his knee - when I was still small enough! - and he'd tell me stories. They were wonderful… I always enjoyed it when Sam opened a book; all the things he could tell me… Would you tell me more stories of my brother's adventures, Your Grace?"
They were as different in looks, Jon thought, as a sword and a scroll, and yet, as they walked through the ice-meadows, and Jon told of the Great Ranging and Sam's stewardship, naming Jon as candidate for Lord Commander, Sam's bravery during the Battle for Castle Black, his wisdom and guidance to Jon, his bravery in defending Gilly, Jon knew that deep down, despite appearances, Dickon Tarly shared the same profound sense of integrity that Jon had always respected in Sam.
"You still angry at us, then?" wheeled Thoros of Myr, as he tottered beside Gendry, stoppering his skin of black-strap molasses rum. Gendry glanced at the drunk.
"I spend all my days hitting things; my anger's long since spent. Besides, anger makes you stupid," he replied, glancing up ahead at the King, remembering what he had told the girl at Dragonstone. "Stupid gets you killed." Gendry frowned, and glanced at the Hound. "You defeated Lord Beric in the trial-by-combat. The Brotherhood set you free. Why are you still sore about Arya naming you a murderer?"
"I'm not sore about that," said the Hound, his tone aggressive. He scowled at Gendry. "That little bitch left me to die."
"When?" Gendry asked.
"After she'd scarpered from us," said Thoros. "After we sold you to the Lady Melisandre. Ran off into the woods - this one snatched her out of the shadows. Had her wandering all over the Riverlands, from what we've wheedled out of him, trying to find anyone who'd pay for her."
"Don't tell me tiny Arya got the better of you?" Gendry smirked at the Hound, who scowled.
"Not her."
"Who, then?"
"It was a woman."
"A woman?" Thoros said, his eyebrows raised, and he gave a smoky laugh. "A woman bested you, Clegane? Did she get you deep into your cups same as Anguy, and bludgeon you?"
"No. Single-combat," the Hound growled irritably. "It was Brienne of fucking Tarth. She's no ordinary woman."
"Why's that?"
"She's a trained warrior," said Beric Dondarrion. "Her father Lord Selwyn, the Evenstar, had no surviving sons; she would have been the stronger of any of them. She was a more fearsome fighter than any of the Stormlords' sons, even when I knew of her - they nicknamed her Brienne the Beauty out of spite… I should have liked to see that fight, Clegane."
"Why were you fighting?" Gendry asked curiously.
The Hound scowled. "She thought Arya Stark needed protecting from me."
"Arya never needed protecting," Gendry said fondly. He frowned. "But…how did you and the lady-warrior end up fighting over her?"
"The Tarth bitch had sworn an oath to Catelyn Stark, to protect her daughters and bring them home," the Hound shrugged.
"So…you were with Arya?" Gendry said, frowning at the Hound.
"That's what I said, wasn't it?"
"But - until when? When did she leave you?" Gendry asked, glancing ahead at the King again. He was talking to the tall young Tarly.
The Hound shrugged. "Two years ago, maybe," he said.
"Where?"
"The Saltpans," the Hound grunted. "After the Red Wedding. A few days after Lady Arryn took fall from the Eyrie. She took my coin-purse and left me broken."
The Hound shifted his pack higher on his back, scowled, and shoulder his way past Gendry, the conversation brought abruptly to an end. To Gendry, the Hound didn't sound so much sore over his defeat as almost hurt at Arya's abandonment. He marvelled. Arya had still been alive two years ago?! In the Saltpans - away from the fighting that had ravaged the rest of the Riverlands. There was a chance, then…wasn't there?
Gendry's last memory of Arya was her telling him, "I could be your family."
He had been with her for years: Jon had known nothing about her fate until Gendry had arrived at Dragonstone, and told him. And Gendry had seen the young King's heart break with the news of all Arya had endured. Gendry thought of Arya…the thought of Neva suffering the same fate filled his mouth with the taste of bile, filled his belly with a seething rage that made his hands shake, almost frightening him.
And to learn such things had happened to her, after the fact - powerless to have done anything, because he thought her dead…
He didn't know how the King could stand it.
But then, Gendry supposed…he had more worries on his mind than just one of the sisters he had lost. There were others, he knew. Arya had called them the Red and the Black: Sansa and the King's twin-sister, Larra. One kissed by fire, one caressed by moonlight and shadows. That was how she described them. Fire and night. And Larra's direwolf, Last Shadow - so named, because her shadow was the last thing you were ever likely to see.
Gendry raised his eyes to the brutal, beautiful landscape, the craggy hills and snow-capped peaks, the fissures and gorges filled with ice. This was the direwolves' natural home, he knew, from all Arya had told him of her own direwolf pup Nymeria.
This was where they had come from. Where the direwolves had come from…and where the Starks had come from, also, years before the Wall, when the First Men had carried bronze spears and rode direwolves into battle against the Others, all through the Long Night…
He shivered, and shook himself. They had a job to do. And he had vowed to himself that he would protect Arya's brother. He found the King, striding ahead, and kept a close eye on him.
It wasn't that he distrusted everyone: It was that, well…he was smart enough to realise the two Queens fighting over the Iron Throne would likely both consider the North declaring its independence, with its own King to rule them, as treason.
And one of the Queen's men was among them, Ser Jorah, a known traitor and slaver.
It would be handy if the King in the North disappeared in the True North.
The sun beat down on her face, warmer than it had been in days - ever since the King had departed. Days of ice-rain had kept people indoors, and kept Daenerys away from her dragons, who had been spotted, only once, diving into the depths of the Dragonmont, where there were, according to Lord Tyrion, great caves where the dragons of old had nested among the fires and vapours of the volcano.
In their last two conversations alone, Lord Tyrion's knowledge of ancient Valryian dragon-wisdom had far eclipsed anything Viserys had ever told Daenerys about dragons. Lord Tyrion dropped the little titbits into conversation, taking for granted his great wealth of knowledge, his voice always soft with wonder and respect, as if the mere presence of the dragons had reminded him of his lifelong admiration for the creatures he had, with an abiding sense of grief, bitterly accepted were extinct.
Now, though, Daenerys could see the Lord Hand stood on the cliff-side, wrapped in a great fur cloak, his gaze upturned to watch the dragons as they wheeled and soared and circled high above him. And she beamed, feeing the wind in her hair and watching the water churn beneath her, the air shimmering with the heat radiating from Drogon so that it looked like he was almost smoking as he soared through the gentle rain. Her hair was freshly braided, and she wore a new coat with broad sharp shoulders, deep charcoal-grey wool tufted with narrow vertical stripes of tufted ermine, and down her back, the dainty strips of fur were sewn into an intricate spine that resembled the spikes extending down Drogon's tail. It was a winter coat, fitting for the coming storms. It had been finished with an elaborate silver chain, looping from her shoulder to her hip, clasped with a three-headed dragon. She was the Mother of Dragons. In this coat, she looked half a dragon herself. She looked a true Winter Queen. And she felt strong, powerful and content, with Drogon's heat beneath her, radiating deliciously even through her furs and her leather gloves, the wind tugging insistently at her braids, the sun caressing her face every time they swooped around and she felt it fierce on her face.
Drogon swooped, his wings snapping like the clap of thunder as he changed direction in a heartbeat, and Daenerys smiled breathlessly: He was healing. He swooped again, diving, hurtling headlong toward the sea - then at breakneck speed, snapped his wings out; Daenerys gasped, jolting on his back, but clung on as he soared high into the air.
They passed Viserion, who screeched and dropped back to tumble through the air and catch himself, billowing through the mist, and Daenerys smiled, for her children were playing.
She glanced around for Rhaegal, frowning, watching her bronze-eyed child swooping on Viserion, butting all his strength against his brother, snapping his great jaws and shrieking. Viserion hissed, and Rhaegal tumbled away, flapping his bronze-veined jade wings mightily, soaring into the air, high, high above them, and Daenerys shuddered, frowning, as Rhaegal dived toward them from above, shrieking and hissing and calling to Drogon, who grumbled and let out a half-hearted roar, as Rhaegal swooped, darting before them, and began circling Drogon, pestering him. Daenerys had never seen Rhaegal act so strangely before - usually her two smaller children never bothered Drogon. But Rhaegal was shrieking and snarling and, Daenerys thought, frowning in consternation, crying. Rhaegal snapped delicately at Drogon once, made that beautiful rumbling, purring coo Daenerys knew so well, as if heartbroken and disappointed to be ignored, and fell away.
Drogon roared, and Daenerys' stomach dropped away as they plunged; Daenerys clung on, and managed to peek about her when Drogon levelled off. Far ahead was a glimmering speck of green; Rhaegal. And chasing after him was a swift bead of bright golden-white light, Viserion. Drogon roared again, and flapped harder, until he had overtaken Viserion, and descended to fly at a level with Rhaegal.
The choppy sea passed beneath them, and Daenerys chanced to twist around, and gazed behind her. Her insides seemed to disappear, as Dragonstone became little more than a dark seam on the horizon.
"Drogon, where are we going?" she asked, striving for calm. He had carried her off once before, and she had ended up at Vaes Dothrak. She had been untouched, but the bloodriders of Khal Moro's khalasaar could have raped her half a hundred times and left her to die; all because Drogon had abandoned her in the Dothraki sea. "Drogon?"
He ignored her.
Drogon was growling and screeching and cooing to Rhaegal, who kept flying, determinedly beating his great veined wings.
They were communicating, Daenerys understood, as terror settled in, watching the clouds tumble above and the sea thrash below, and her dragons seemed to smoke as they flew through rain, faster and faster, until the sea beneath was nothing but a blur, and Daenerys tucked herself tight against Drogon.
No matter what she said, what she did - slapping her palm against Drogon's back, pulling on his great spikes - he ignored her. He was implacable. And her dragons kept flying.
She had never felt so vulnerable, not even when the khalasaar had descended, not when the Sons of the Harpy revealed themselves, not when Khal Drogo led the way through the night to claim her beneath the stars.
Within an hour, she was panting with dread. By the second hour, she saw a rocky shoreline beneath them, to her left side. They were headed north.
The dragons did not stop.
Not even when the weather became stormier, more unforgiving as day turned into night… Her eyes widened, and Daenerys tucked herself against Drogon's back, though he was heedless of her as her three dragons flew headfirst into billowing, angry storm-clouds. Over the course of hours, she was pelted by ice and hail, alternating soft snows, hellacious winds and brutal thunderstorms that petrified her to her marrow, sobbing as she clung on to Drogon and forks of lightning speared the sky, illuminating everything with a clash and a clamour, as if giants were at war among the clouds, her children uncaring of her suffering.
Day had long turned into night, as she cried and clung on. Night fractured into day, with a hailstorm that had her bones aching and her teeth threatening to shatter as she shivered, Drogon's warmth the only thing that saved her from freezing to death, utterly exposed to the elements.
She had never known true fear like this, as her eyelashes turning brittle, delicately kissed by ice as they flew through moonlight.
Utterly exhausted, Daenerys knew she would die upon Drogon's back.
She had always convinced herself of the illusion of having control over the dragons' actions, her children - especially Drogon, with whom she was bonded so intimately, her husband reincarnated as her fiercest mount…and she wept, her tears stinging her wind-burned cheeks, realising that she had lied to herself, she may have given the dragons life by feeding them to the funeral pyre of her sun and stars…but they were so much more than she would ever be. Strange magic had birthed them; stranger magic still had bonded them. And that bond was mercurial and unknowable, and had lulled her into the belief that she had power over them…the mother of dragons… She had wielded them as weapons, as others would trained hounds or tigers, unshakeable in her belief that they would never turn on her. And yet they were unknowable creatures, fire made flesh, power incarnate, and they were free…
What was the will of one little girl compared to three dragons?
She found herself lulled by the cold above her, the cold within her, Drogon's heat beneath her. The heat kept her alive, but not conscious; Daenerys drifted into an exhausted sleep, dreaming of her stickily hot tent in the great grass sea, riding her sun and stars to their pleasure…in her dreams, his burnished bronze skin grew pale as moonlight, his oiled braid cut short, his black hair curling all over his head…as it had every time she had this dream. Drogo became Jon Snow, and yet the lust, yearning and admiration in his eyes was the same. She ached for it, as much as she ached for the feel of a man - that man - between her thighs.
She dreamed of Jon Snow, as the fire of her sun and stars reincarnated kept her from death.
"The first time I went North of the Wall was with your father," Jon said, glancing at the older knight, as up ahead Yaskier hummed the tune to a song he was composing, called Dark Sister. Ser Jorah was as fit and healthy as any of them, and only the unfamiliar terrain made for slow going. But Ser Jorah was of the North; he knew snow, even if he did not know the True North.
"He was a good man," Ser Jorah sighed regretfully. "He deserved a better son… Were you with him at the end?"
"I was a prisoner of the Free Folk," Jon admitted sadly. "But we avenged him, I want you to know that. Every one of the mutineers found justice, by my sword or those of my brothers."
"I can't think of a worse way for him to go," Ser Jorah said grimly. "The Night's Watch was his life. He would have died to protect every one of those men, and they butchered him."
"I hate that he died that way," Jon said fiercely, and there was a sad smile on Ser Jorah's face as he looked at Jon; perhaps he could see the fierce love Jon had had for the Lord Commander, a surrogate father to so many boys like Jon, abandoned at the Wall. Jon sighed heavily, his breath billowing around them like a great cloud that disappeared in the breeze that was today almost gentle. The snows had cleared; they had made good progress. "My father was the most honourable man I ever met. He was good, all the way through. And he died on the executioner's block."
"Your father wanted to execute me, you know?" Ser Jorah said.
"I heard."
"He was in the right, of course. Didn't make me hate him any less," Ser Jorah said.
"I'm glad he didn't catch you," Jon said. He had heard the stories on Dragonstone, after Ser Jorah's return. What would the world look like, he wondered, if Ser Jorah had never become young, newly-married Daenerys Targaryen's protector? He had witnessed the death of her first husband, and the birth of her dragons. He had been with her throughout all of it. Daenerys had a fierce love for him, even if she did not love him the way Ser Jorah would have wanted her to. Time and again, that love provoked Ser Jorah to do extraordinary things for her, things that put his life at great risk. Ser Jorah was adamant that Daenerys Stormborn was worth the fight.
He knew a very different Daenerys to the one Jon had met.
"Me too," Ser Jorah smiled, and Jon knew he was thinking of his Queen.
Jon sighed, and reached for his belt. He unfastened it, the supple leather giving way, and he offered Long Claw to the older knight. "Your father gave me this sword," he said softly. "He changed the pommel from a bear to a wolf, but it's still Long Claw."
Ser Jorah took the blade, gazing mournfully at it.
"Lord Commander Mormont thought you'd never come back to Westeros. But here you are. And Long Claw's been in your family for centuries," Jon said solemnly. "It's not right for me to keep it."
"He gave it to you," Ser Jorah said meaningfully.
"I'm not his son," Jon said, meeting the knight's eye. Ser Jorah unsheathed the blade by a few inches, to examine the dark smoky ripples of the folded steel.
"I brought shame unto my House," Ser Jorah said grimly. "I broke my father's heart…" He sheathed the blade with a gentle shnick. "I forfeited the right to carry this sword." He passed the blade back. "It's yours… May it serve you well, and your children after you."
Children, Jon thought, with a jolt, as Ser Jorah walked on. Yaskier was still singing softly, and Tormund was talking to Gendry about experiencing his first snow.
"- never seen snow before."
"And how do you like the True North, hm?" Gendry grunted.
"It's brutal," Gendry said, gazing around him. It truly was awe-inspiring; he had never seen anything like it in his life, could never have imagined anything like it. "But beautiful."
"Brutal and beautiful," Tormund nodded, with a gruff noise in the back of his throat. Gendry had never met anyone like Tormund, fierce and untamed - but good-humoured. He told tall tales without arrogance, laughed quickly, and according to Jon, was a fierce ally to have, a chilling warrior to have by your side. "It is. I can finally breathe again!" He seemed to come alive the further they roamed, unperturbed by any shifts in the weather, even as it worsened.
This was home to him. And he and the other Free Folk knew how to withstand the storms. They tied ropes to each other, lest they lose each other in an ice-storm with a brutal wind that battered even the Hound.
"You don't look much like him," said a voice, and Jon glanced at Lord Beric.
"Who's that?"
"Your father. I suppose you favour your mother," he said, and something niggled in the back of Jon's mind - Lady Olenna. Her suspicions. He frowned at Lord Beric.
"You knew him?"
"Of course I did. Fought beside him during the Rebellion," Lord Beric said. "When he was Hand, he sent me off hunting for the Mountain. Your wildling friend told me the Red Woman brought you back… Thoros has brought me back six times. We both serve the same Lord."
"I serve the North," Jon said stoutly. He knew nothing of the Lord of Light - and after Princess Shireen, had absolutely no interest in joining his cult of followers.
"The North didn't raise you from the dead," Lord Beric said.
"The Lord of Light never spoke to me. I don't know anything about him, I don't know what he wants from me," Jon said, with a bite of impatience.
"He wants you alive."
"Why?" Jon asked, glancing at Lord Beric. Why Jon? Why not one of the thousands of other innocents who had lost their lives at Hard Home? Why not one of his brothers, devoted to the Night's Watch? Why not Father, or Robb? Why not Larra?
"I don't know."
"That's all anyone can tell me," Jon sighed. "'I don't know'. So what's the point in serving a God if none of us knows what he wants?"
"I think about that all the time," said Lord Beric. "I don't think it's our purpose to understand. Except one thing. We're soldiers. We have to know what we're fighting for." He stopped, turning to Jon. "I'm not fighting so some man or woman I barely know can sit on a throne made of swords." Jong grunted his agreement.
"So what are you fighting for?" he asked curiously.
"Life," said Lord Beric simply. "Death is the enemy. The first enemy and the last."
"But we all die," Jon said softly. Lord Beric smiled.
"The enemy always wins," he said, still smiling, "and we still need to fight him. That's all I know. You and I won't find much joy while we're here. But we can keep others alive. We can defend those who can't defend themselves."
"I'm the shield that guards the realms of men," Jon murmured, and smiled. Perhaps it was as simple as that.
"Maybe we don't need to understand any more than that," Lord Beric agreed, smiling. "Maybe that's enough."
"Aye," Jon agreed. If that was why he had been brought back…then that was more than enough. To keep doing what he had been doing. To keep fighting, no matter how exhausted he was. "Maybe that's enough."
In the corner of his eye, there was a flicker of fire. Not true fire; just Tormund's wild hair. But Jon's mind went to the solar, to the firelight glimmering off Sansa's long hair, as she sewed complacently, tucked against him on the settle.
What wouldn't he endure, to sit by the fireside with her?
Did it matter why he had been brought back, just that he had?
He trudged on, and quickly realised that the others had stopped hiking through the snow. Clegane was stood, watching the snow-capped mountains. The fog and cloud had lifted slightly, and Clegane was pointing.
"That's what I saw in the fire. A mountain like an arrowhead," he said.
"The Gods' Arrow," Tormund said gruffly. The Thenns said something in an ancient tongue that Jon would have no clue how to write down on parchment; the name of the mountain in the Old Tongue.
"Are you sure?" Thoros asked, and the Hound nodded.
"We're getting close," he said softly.
The snowstorm hit them as they descended into a valley, and they bunched together, ropes tied between them to stop them wandering away from each other. One of Tormund's men went on ahead, staggering against the wind, spear at the ready. Tormund, whose eyes were sharper in the snow, brought them to a halt, as they squinted.
"A bear," Tormund growled, pointing. "Big fucker."
Gendry, scowling from inside his fur hood, asked, his deep voice clear through the howling wind, "Do bears have blue eyes?"
They heard the tremendous noise of the bear lumbering toward them - lost him, in the snows, and a startled yell was cut off, Tormund's man disappearing in a glimpse of lethal fangs, a decomposing maw and vivid, glowing ice-blue eyes. They rushed headlong, and found a bloody smears and a broken spear in the snow.
They stood back to back, weapons at the ready.
The bear attacked out of the storm.
Beric and Thoros lit their flaming swords, and as the bear bit down on one of the Thenns, flinging the warrior with horrifying ease, Beric caught the beast's fur alight.
Snarling and growling, the burning bear with its vivid blue eyes advanced on the Hound, lumbering in the snow, being consumed by the fire. The Hound did nothing, stood frozen in terror - not at the beast, but at the flames.
Thoros knocked him aside, threw up his sword - was knocked down, shoved the flaming blade of his sword between the beast's jaws, struggling. Tormund bellowed, attacked the beast. The Hound watched helplessly on the ground, as the beast snarled and bit at the sword, wrenching it from Thoros' grip, flinging it aside with a vicious snarl - and bit the priest. It bit, embedding its rotting teeth into Thoros' flesh, snarling and thrashing.
Gendry watched the beast, as he un-looped his new obsidian war-hammer from its leather harness. As the others advanced, with flaming swords and short daggers, he approached.
With a roar, he swung his hammer.
A skull was far softer than an anvil.
All his life, he had been training - maybe not for this, but it certainly made this easier. The beast collapsed, its head caved in, brain and matter splattered, bone crushed, body already being consumed by the fire. Waves of warmth drifted off it, and Gendry stood back, as Yaskier and Lord Beric dragged Thoros away from the flaming carcass.
Gendry panted, exhilaration flooding him, and he stepped away from the bear. Lord Beric's flaming sword drew his eye, as Yaskier's nimble fingers deftly tugged Thoros' clothes away from his chest, the better to see the damage.
"We have to get him back to Eastwatch," said Ser Jorah grimly, but the Red Priest just shook his head.
"Flask," he said hoarsely, and Lord Beric offered him the rum. Gendry still remembered the potent, sweet taste of it when the Red Priest had shared the drink, all those years ago. Too sweet for him; he preferred ale. But the Red Priest liked it, was never without it, had once joked that his friends had endured the tedium of his sobriety before: Thoros needed that rum. Especially in that moment, with Lord Beric's sword blazing above him, his chest carved up like a hot rake had been dragged through butter. He gazed up at his friend, after a healthy dose. "Go on."
Lord Beric sealed the wounds. Thoros stifled his screams, but the sound of his flesh searing in the heat of the flaming sword was almost too much. The Hound turned away, the light of the burning bear flickering over his scarred face.
Thoros panted, gasping, and his friend covered him up again, Yaskier quick to secure his buttons and fastenings. They could not get cold in a place like this.
"You alright?"
"I just got bit by a dead bear!" Thoros declared indignantly.
"Aye. You did," Lord Beric chuckled softly.
"Funny old life," said the Red Priest softly.
"Right then…" They pulled him to his feet.
They had bodies to burn, two of them, and Lord Beric set to it quickly with his flaming sword. It was not honourable, to light them and leave - they had no choice. They could not linger, and if they stayed still too long in this storm… The bear's bloody footprints had frozen in the snow.
Climbing out of the valley, the worst of the snowstorm abated, and a clear, cold day broke, still grim because of the low clouds, but there was no snow, and the wind had died. In the hours that had passed since the bear, it had occurred to more than one of their party that…Thoros of Myr was dying. He staggered on, struggling to stopper his flask, but he did it, he kept marching alongside them, talking cheerfully with Ser Jorah about charging through the breach on Pyke during the Greyjoy Rebellion.
"I thought you were the bravest man I ever saw."
"Just the drunkest," Thoros joked, climbing after the rest as they made their ascent.
Tormund held up a closed fist. Crept up to a boulder to spy below them… Jon crept up beside him, and peered down into a narrow gorge.
There. A line of the King's soldiers, ambling along.
"Where's the rest of them?" Jon breathed, his expression dark.
"If we wait long enough, we'll find out," Tormund warned. The pushed away from the boulder, and slipped down soundlessly to the others. Quietly, they made their plans. They staged their ambush.
They lit a fire by the trickling creek, little more than a small thermal stream winding through the crevasses of the mountains.
There was only one of the Night King's commanders leading them, his pace slow, as if enjoying a walk through a flowering meadow. Snarling and jerking around him were his soldiers, a dozen of them.
They needed only one.
Long Claw unsheathed, Jon advanced; the others followed, bellowing their war-cries, attacking the wights.
The commander narrowed his eyes slowly as Jon approached, swinging his razor-thin blade of ice. As Gendry roared and bludgeoned one wight with his great war-hammer, and a second which was overpowering Yaskier on uneven ground, taking its head clean off so that it crumpled at Yaskier's feet, another wight choked Ser Jorah, and two bore down upon Lord Tarly, who stood shocked, for a moment, at the sight of corpses with blue eyes snarling and raising their weapons against him - until his son appeared out of nowhere, and slew them with a practised swing of his falchion.
They heard the strange, sonorous ringing of Valyrian steel against the razor-sharp ice-sword of the commander, and those without a wight to fight watched as Jon Snow swung his sword - if the commander had been made of flesh and bone, Jon would have cloven him in two through his midsection.
The Other was not made of flesh and blood: He shattered into a thousand pieces of ice, scattering down around Jon's boots.
With hissing, snarling screams, the wights exploded all around the gorge, startling those who were mid-swing, defending themselves. Piles of bones and decomposing tissue collapsed to the ground. Jon gasped, turned to cast an eye over his men. He saw the wide eyes of Gendry, of the Tarlys, of Ser Jorah and Lord Barahir's men, Obara Sand blinked dazedly as she poked a pile of bones with the tip of her obsidian spear.
A single wight remained, and as it snarled and thrashed, they surrounded it.
"No obsidian," Jon said in a low tone, and the others nodded. They needed this one as it was. Their whole reason for being here.
Tormund, being Tormund, punched the creature.
The Hound threw himself over the writhing corpse to pin it to the ground when it staggered back.
It screamed.
A high, animalistic scream, echoing off the walls of the gorge, a call… The Hound tried to cover its mouth; its flesh peeled away, to the horror and disgust of the men who did not know…
Staring in horror at the wight, Dickon Tarly turned to Jon, and panted, "Sam killed one of them?"
"No," Jon corrected, and he pointed Long Claw at the remnants of what had been one of the Night King's commanders, glittering in the snow. "He killed one of them." Jon raised his eyes to Dickon, who gaped, and turned to stare at his father. Jon stared at Lord Tarly, as the older man stood, looking utterly harrowed; he raised his eyes to Jon's face. Jon told him fiercely, "Sam was the one to find dragonglass weapons at the Fist of the First Men. He was the first to kill a White Walker in thousands of years. We know that dragonglass kills White Walkers because of him. We were able to mine it from Dragonstone because of him. Sam's the wisest and bravest of all my brothers."
Lord Tarly was visibly stunned, speechless.
It was an uncomfortable process for him, Jon imagined, being educated on the true character of Samwell Tarly.
Thunder started rumbling. Jon turned his gaze to the skies. The clouds were wrong…only they weren't, he realised, because they were changing as he watched. It wasn't thunder…it was the clamour of thousands of the Night King's soldiers. The same sound they had heard at Hard Home.
Hastily, Ser Jorah shoved a canvas bag over the wight's head, as the others bound it with rope.
"Yaskier!" Jon called, and the young man glanced up. "Run back to Eastwatch. Send a raven to Daenerys Targaryen, tell her what's happened. She's the only one who can get here fast enough." Yaskier nodded hastily, climbing off the ground, his eyes wide, and he turned - and ran, as fast as he could the way they had come. Jon watched him go, as the Hound hauled the wight off the ground. Jon only hoped Yaskier made it back to the Wall at all, let alone in time to save them.
The rest of them ran, out of the gorge, into a wider, open meadow of ice…
Not a meadow.
A lake.
A frozen lake.
The ice fractured as they ran out onto it.
"Stop!" They froze; the ice continued to fracture.
The hordes descended.
Ice before them; death behind them. They ran, for the rocky outcrop jutting up at the heart of the lake.
"Go!" Gendry shouted, falling back, and he eyed the ice, fractured under their weight. The hordes…were harrowing, he thought, but paid them no mind as he choked up his grip on his war-hammer, and swung it with all his might.
The ice fractured, and the wights disappeared in a heartbeat as ice-water churned up, claiming the corpses. On the uneven ground, Gendry staggered; someone grabbed him from behind as he slipped, and they stumbled back - away from the fractured ice.
"Come on!" Jon gasped, and Gendry regained his footing, and ran. Behind them, the wights thrashed and flung themselves toward the living - they disappeared under the ice - but more ran around the great fissure… They made it to the rock, climbed on top of it, glad of solid footing beneath them.
Gendry turned, and watched. Gripped his hammer, as the others adjusted the grip on their weapons, ready.
The dead surged in like the pounding waves on the shores of Dragonstone, relentless and even more dangerous.
The rumble of thunder had warned them of the horde's approach. Great ominous cracks echoed off the mountains rising up around them, over the snarls of the writhing masses - and the ice, compromised by their weight, shattered by Gendry's war-hammer, fractured.
Some reached the rock, but met their obsidian blades.
They watched in quiet awe as the ice collapsed, and the wights dropped out of sight, the water churning. Not for long: They could not swim.
"That was some hit," Tormund said, as Gendry stared. He was strong, he knew it; but he had never done anything like that. Never had a need to.
"A lucky hit," Gendry said. What had he done?! He had fallen back - to give the others time, to compromise their enemy's advance - Rhysand's flashing eyes, Neva's smile flickered in his mind's eye, and his heart ached. What had he done? He had risked…never seeing them again.
The wights snarled and thrashed, and sank beneath the water. But more had stopped, eerily still, waiting at the very edges, where solid land had frozen over, not water. They formed a ring around the lake. And at the heart of it, surrounded by icy water and impenetrable walls of the dead…they were stuck.
The captive wight snarled and thrashed, almost mockingly.
Yaskier ran.
As night drew in, he ran on, faster than he knew he could move, ignoring his discomfort as his lungs screamed and his legs ached. He was spurred on by the very real terror of having to explain to Lady Larra that she had been within weeks of reuniting with her twin-brother…and it was Yaskier's fault he had died before that could happen, because Yaskier hadn't been fast enough.
What were the White Walkers compared to Lady Larra's wrath?
She'd carve him up with her shining sword and feed him piece by piece to her direwolf while he watched. And she would weep as she did it, for the brother she had been so close to reuniting with, and lost because of him. And that would kill him, Yaskier knew. Her tears. He never could stand for women to cry in front of him. One glimmer of tears and he was theirs, utterly. That was how he had ended up at the Wall in the first place.
A beauty had sent him to the Wall: A beauty had commanded him to abandon it.
Yaskier was nothing if not a slave to the whims of beautiful women. He fell in love far too easily, and far too often.
But he also respected Lady Larra, from their time journeying together from the Wall to Winterfell: She was tough and fierce and had a sharp wit and a profound sense of loyalty, and loved so deeply, it hurt Yaskier to witness it.
All he had ever wanted was to be loved by someone, the way Larra loved so ferociously.
He knew it hurt her to love so fiercely. He knew it hurt her to be separated from her brother.
They would not be parted by death, because of him.
So he ran, and ran, and ran…and finally, blessed Mother above! The Wall. Never, in his all his time as a sworn brother of the Night's Watch, had Yaskier ever truly been glad to see it. Taking the black had not been his choice. And yet it had become his life.
Approaching the gate, waving his aching arms to and fro like a madman, he hollered and shouted, hoping the wind would not snatch his voice from the ears of those he needed to hear it.
He stumbled, finally defeated, as he slipped on a patch of ice and collapsed in a heap. He was vaguely aware of the rattle of enormous chains, and then the glow of firelight smarting his eyes, and someone shook him.
"Yaskier!" The accented voice of Karsi, chieftainess of the people of the Frozen Shore.
"Raven!" he gasped, shivering. "Ravens! Daenerys Targaryen! They're trapped. Have to send a raven!"
"Help me get him inside…"
The flames guttered out, and he was hefted off the ground, carried between two people.
Ser Davos' voice was urgent as he asked Yaskier for details. He was so tired; all he could do was repeat what Jon had said. "Daenerys Targaryen. Daenerys. They're trapped…"
"Thoros?!" The snarls of their captive wight had woken them from their doze; they hadn't dared to truly sleep, taking it in turns to stand watch and huddle against each other for warmth, all through the night. Now, the light was brighter, and Lord Beric was leaning over his friend.
Thoros of Myr gazed up at the sky, as snow drifted gently from the soft pale-grey clouds. His face was chalky, now. The light had left his eyes. Lord Beric whispered a devastated, "Thoros."
But they all knew.
Lord Beric draped his friend's cowl over his face, and the Hound knelt beside him.
"They say it's one of the better ways to go," he said, with an uncharacteristic gentleness. Then he stole the priest's flask of rum.
"Lord of Light…show us the way," said Beric softly, folding his friend's arms over his chest. "Come to us in our darkness and lead your servant into the Light."
With a scowl, Jon snatched the flask from Clegane. The other men did not know how wights came into being; but the Free Folk and the Watch had learned how to stop the strange magic from taking hold. "Lord Beric…we have to burn his body."
"He would have wished it so," said Lord Beric gravely, gazing down at his friend.
"We'll all be close behind him," Tormund said gently, as Jon splashed rum over the dead man's body. "Unless the Lord of Light is kind enough to send us a bit of fire."
Lord Beric unsheathed his sword, and in a dramatic gesture, he lit it, flames dancing along the steel. The Hound turned away, as the blade lowered.
"Lord of Light," said Lord Beric sombrely, "come to us in our darkness…."
"For the night is dark, and full of terrors," Gendry sighed, watching the flames take hold, and Lord Beric's eyes met his across his friend's burning body. Gendry remembered the prayer; he had sometimes found himself thinking it, as he lit a candle in the night to chase away his children's terror - Rhysand suffered nightmares he never spoke about, even with Gendry, and Neva woke herself crying for her mother. By the light of the candle, they could always find Gendry, to cuddle up beside him as he slept by the hearth. He watched the flames catch on Thoros' furs, his hair, and closed his eyes, turning away, thinking not of the burning man but of his children, of Neva's gentle smile and Rhysand's sharp wit and rare affection. Dark and fair, they were - and his.
"Who are you thinking of?" Jon asked him quietly.
"My children," Gendry said hollowly. He raised his brilliant blue eyes to Jon. "And you?"
"Sansa," he said mournfully. By now, the Lannister girls might have reached Winterfell, and with them, Neva and Rhysand, and the letter he carried for Sansa.
In one paragraph, he had told Sansa what to do to prepare if Jon succeeded in this mission.
Another detailed what she must do if he failed.
They would know, soon enough. That he had failed. That he had taken the risk…and lost everything. In the fires of Thoros' burning body, Jon saw her vibrant red hair, her stern eyes and the exquisite sweetness of her rare smiles. His battered heart moaned and ached, sobbing, for just one more evening in the solar, cuddled up with her under the warmth of the fur, the fire crackling lazily, lulling him to sleep - the most relaxed he had been in years.
He wanted to go home.
He wanted to go home to Sansa.
"We'll all freeze soon." The querulous voice of Lord Tarly. His face was still dour, but there was a strange sort of respect shining in his eyes, and he stood beside Jon, sighing heavily. "And so will the water. It's only a matter of time, which kills us. The cold or the dead…"
"Not what I'd hoped for," Jon said quietly.
"When you slayed the White Walker, almost all the dead that followed it were destroyed," Lord Tarly muttered. "Why?"
"Maybe he was the one who turned them?" Jon muttered.
"Has such a thing happened before?"
"Not in my experience," Jon said. "Hard Home…was a massacre. I killed a White Walker there, but there were…so many. So many wights, and more commanders who did not engage in the battle… Ancient magic created the wights; if the ones who wield that power are destroyed, it makes sense that what they control is also destroyed."
"Take out the commanders, take out the legions," Lord Tarly said, and Jon remembered that he had been the only one to defeat Robert Baratheon in battle.
"The one time in history where killing the commanders really would put an end to the war," Jon said grimly, and Lord Tarly nodded.
"How many are there?"
"I've never seen their full strength," Jon admitted. "At Hard Home, the Night King was there…maybe twenty commanders…but if they're his generals…"
"There will be more," Lord Tarly said grimly. "Far more. They have a King?"
"The oldest and strongest of them," Jon said, and he nodded, across the lake, where five Walkers sat upon dead horses, carrying great spears of ice, watching stoically, as they had for hours, their blue eyes glowing through the night. Even from here, Jon could see the horned ice crown of the King glinting in the brittle light. "The very first White Walker."
"The very first? Then he created the rest," said Lord Tarly, glaring across the ice. "He created them. His death will destroy them."
"We'll never get close enough," Jon said firmly, giving Lord Tarly a warning glare. "Our best chance is Daenerys Targaryen, even if we freeze to death before she can get here… If she comes beyond the Wall, she'll see…she'll understand…and if she is the woman Ser Jorah believes in, then she will do what is right. We may not live, but others will…"
"If that's the case," Lord Beric said, appearing at Jon's other side, "then we might as well fight, give everything we have. The Lord brought you back, he brought me back. No-one else, just us. Did he do it to watch us freeze to death?"
"Careful, Beric," the Hound warned, his voice dripping with irony. "You've lost your priest. This is your last life."
"I've been waiting for the end for a long time," Lord Beric said carelessly. "Maybe the Lord brought me here to find it."
"Every Lord I've ever met's been a cunt," the Hound said bluntly. "I don't see why the Lord of Light should be any different."
They waited. They waited, clinging to the tiniest flicker of hope - that Yaskier had not been killed, waylaid by more wights on his journey back to the Wall; that the ravens were not caught in storms on their way to Dragonstone; that Daenerys Targaryen would heed their call for help…
Jon glanced at Ser Jorah, frowning thoughtfully. Her oldest friend… She would come for him, no matter her personal and political feelings about Jon or any of the others. Yes, she would come for him…but in time?
Jon had said it so easily, that if they died while waiting for her arrival, then at least Daenerys would see the truth with her own eyes.
But it was one thing to say it, and quite another to sit, for hours, with nothing to do but think about the realities - if they did not make it out of this frozen lake alive… Who would take over the war preparations? It would be left…to Sansa.
Sansa, and Daenerys, and whoever else they could convince.
And how would that work? With Jon's death, Sansa would become Queen in the North, and Jon knew her stance on Northern independence - she would fiercely defend it, with her life…and Daenerys would take it, when Sansa stood in her way, and refused to yield the North.
If Sansa refused…and Daenerys had fought side-by-side with the North…what rights would Daenerys feel entitled to, over dominion over the North that she had saved, as she had saved Astapor, and Yunkai, and Meereen?
What would happen to Sansa, without Jon to be her shield, her sword?
How could he protect her if he was dead?
"It's stopped snowing." Dickon was frowning at the sky, his palm outstretched.
"It's getting colder," said Tormund grimly, and Jon's eyes lowered. Every Northman knew that if it got too cold, it would not snow: Ice would settle instead.
And ice was forming, before their very eyes…the Night King on his dead horse had raised his hand. The wights snarled in unison, shuddering awake, after waiting, still and ominous all night, and for every inch the ice grew…they advanced…
They palmed their weapons, said their silent prayers, and fought.
Obara Sand was a marvel with her double-ended spear; and Gendry, an untrained soldier, was truly gifted with his war-hammer. Jon carved through the wights with Long Claw, and fought back-to-back with Ser Jorah, as Tormund fought back-to-back with Dagonet. Lord Beric slashed out with his flaming sword, and burning corpses soon glowed in the miserable light, snarling and hissing and thrashing about, knocking into other wights, the ice beneath their feet glistening wetly. The heat melted the ice again; more wights crashed through the unstable ice, and they fought on.
"Fall back!" Jon bellowed, and they did, and the Hound grabbed Tormund, pinned to the ground by more wights, some using him to lever themselves out of the ice-water, and Obara covered their retreat, aweing to watch as she spun and stabbed and moved like a sand-snake, quick and lethal.
And yet…
Sigurd stumbled, fighting a wight; he fell, and the horde tore him apart. Jon stared at where the great Thenn had disappeared beneath the sea of wights, and their horrifying, decaying faces turned to his. His breath gusted before him, too cold now to snow; ice-crystals started to sparkle on the air, as the cold bit at is face, and across the lake, the Night King was faintly smiling. The ice hardened beneath the wights, and Jon could hear it, the strange noise of ice settling and groaning. The wights climbed on top of each other as he watched, clawing to get at him; they climbed the rock. He raised Long Claw, dreaded his end, a flicker of vibrant red hair in his mind's eye as he accepted it, and heard the clap of thunderclouds signalling more hordes descending…
An explosion of fire, ripping through the sky; Jon saw the glow on the wights' faces and ducked on instinct, and understood in that heartbeat: The thunderclaps were wings. The light was fire. Dragonfire.
The fire shocked him; he shuddered and straightened, hands still gripping Long Claw, and he gasped, relief sweeping through him, as Rhaegal swooped and bathed an entire legion of wights in fire. Even from here, Jon could feel its heat.
And Rhaegal was not alone. Viserion the white-and-gold screamed and bathed another legion in fire as the wights ran mindlessly toward the attack.
Stunned, Jon glanced at the others, their faces masks of shock and relief and exultation as they watched the three dragons dance above them, destroying entire legions with a single burst of wildfire. Clearing the way.
Clegane grabbed the wight, through it over his shoulder, as Drogon roared and landed nearby, his scarred neck extended as he breathed a great swathe of fire across the advancing legions, turning them to ash, melting the ice, making the water bubble… Jon glanced down, at Drogon's feet, where his enormous heat was turning the ice beneath him slick…it was melting.
A pale face caught his attention: Daenerys. Her eyes were barely open, glinting in the light of Drogon's fire: She raised her head, though barely, and her gaze rested on Jon. Her lips parted on his name, but he did not hear her voice.
"QUICK!" he bellowed. Drogon climbed onto the rock, as if he understood the danger, and they ducked as he opened his great jaws, bathing more of the wights in flames. Vserion swooped and wheeled and circled overhead, bathing the lake in more fire. "EVERYONE CLIMB ON!"
He saw more wights advancing, saw bursts of fire from Viserion, frowned as he noticed Rhaegal had disappeared - he slashed out with Long Claw, determined to give everyone precious time to climb on Drogon's back.
Ser Jorah climbed, his first time ever daring approach Drogon so closely; as the others hastily climbed on, holding on where they could - the Hound literally lodged the wight on Drogon's great spiky spine - Jorah reached for Daenerys. Her lips were dark as blueberries, her face pale and wind-chapped. And she was cold, so icy cold, Jorah knew…she would die, if she did not get warm soon. Hypothermia, the maesters called it.
He covered her with his body, chilled though he was he was still warmer than her, and he lent her what little warmth he had, shielding her body - from the cold, yes, but from the wights, too, still advancing, even as Drogon bathed them in dragonfire.
"Ser Jorah," Daenerys sighed, barely a whisper, but his heart seized at the sound of it, relief sweeping through him, as much as it had when Rhaegal had descended from the clouds, bathing them in the protection of his fire. Now Rhaegal had disappeared into the clouds again, as Viserion circled and wheeled and screamed as he bathed the wights in fire.
"Jon!" Gendry bellowed; he was still fighting. Fighting to give them time. Ser Jorah shouted for the young man, but Gendry had turned back, rather than climb onto Drogon's back, and went after Jon.
"Go!" Jon shouted, slashing, and Gendry scowled, bellowing as he took the heads off three walkers with a single swing, as he watched movement across the lake. The commanders had climbed down off their horses. He struck out again, covering Jon; and when he saw one of the generals hand the Night King a great spear of ice, Gendry knew.
What was the white one's name? He struck out, bludgeoning a wight attempting to ambush Jon from behind as he dealt with another two. He remembered Lord Tyrion telling Neva about them.
"VISERION!"
If anyone had any doubt that Gendry was the son of Robert Baratheon, even Lord Randyll Tarly glanced over from Drogon's back, thrown back twenty-odd years to the Battle of Ashford, Robert's bellows echoing across a battlefield as he led his men. Gendry had inherited his father's battlefield voice, the deep bellow that cut through even the clamour of battle.
And the dragon heard him.
In the second it took for Viserion to turn in mid-air, the Night King's aim was thrown off.
His spear did not strike true.
It did not hit Viserion's neck; it glanced off his armoured spine, shattering. A piece lodged itself in his wing-joint.
Viserion's scream was terrible, and he hurtled toward the mountainside - but he was alive, and his clawed feet found purchase on the ragged rocks.
A general handed over another spear.
"GO NOW! GO! LEAVE!"
Drogon rose, bathing the lake in fire once more, and he screamed at his brother, whose blood splattered the mountainside, but who rose, his wings beating furiously against the pain.
Jon glanced at Gendry, who breathed deep, and accepted it. He choked up his grip on his obsidian hammer, glaring at the Night King and his commanders, daring them to come closer, to face them, not send their creatures.
They ran, back toward Drogon - they had enough time to climb on his back, as he unfurled his great wings. Ice cracked behind him, and Gendry glanced back - Jon had fallen through the ice. Long Claw landed with a clatter beside a gaping hole where Jon had stood a heartbeat before.
Without thinking, Gendry skidded and turned back. He threw himself onto the ice, as Jon splashed and struggled, and disappeared. Heedless of the danger at his back, Gendry thrust the haft of his hammer out into the water. Grunted, as something jerked at it.
He pulled.
Jon resurfaced, spluttering, shocked from the ice-cold water, his hair already starting to freeze.
Gendry jumped, as great wings beat overhead, and the green-and-bronze dragon descended, screaming and breathing fire; he landed behind them. Ahead, Gendry saw fire. Where the Night King and his commanders had been was now only fire, and, perhaps, movement flickering within the flames.
"DON'T LET GO!" Gendry bellowed, using his hammer to drag Jon to the edge of the hole, and lever him out of the water. He grabbed Jon's hand, and pulled him out of the water, twice his weight for the water clinging to his furs, already starting to freeze - but he got Jon out. Rhaegal screamed, and Gendry threw aside his obsidian hammer; he picked up Long Claw in one hand, and threw Jon over his shoulder. He ran to the dragon, who had dipped its wing for them to climb on.
He not-quite-so-gently shoved Jon onto the dragon's back, climbing up beside him, instantly feeling the intense heat of the dragon. The dragon gave itself a shake, shrieked, spread its wings, and in two great flaps like thunder, he had risen from the rock. The other two dragons were nowhere to be seen, and Rhaegal rose in the air, away from the clamour of the hordes.
They did not fly south: By Gendry's estimation, it was north-east they flew, over the mountains… Rhaegal grumbled, low and dangerous, his body seemingly smoking as his heat reacted with the brutal cold around them, and Gendry kept a stunned Jon pinned to Rhaegal's back, an arm banded over him, tucking the slenderer man close, keeping them both pinned against the dragon's back, heat searing through so that Gendry finally understood just how cold he had been, relaxing in shuddering, painful waves as the heat lulled him. Not for long: the reason for Rhaegal's detour became apparent, as they skirted another mountain-range, and Gendry heard it.
More dead.
Rhaegal descended from a bank of clouds, and Gendry saw…seas of the dead. Rhaegal flew low, and Gendry watched in horror, Jon stirring beside him at the sight of entire hosts of giants and woolly mammoths waiting patiently with tens of thousands of more soldiers tucked safely out of sight of the frozen lake.
The rest of the Night King's army.
The lake had been but a glimpse of the army, little more than the vanguard.
Rhaegal targeted the giants. The mammoths. He bathed them in fire, setting them alight. Bathed legions in fire. And before the White Walkers could react, he banked and rose, higher than the mountaintops, until Gendry was lightheaded, and they were out of range, and he thought they might be flying south.
Ice-sleet started to lash down, and Rhaegal rose, higher than the clouds, above the storm.
Gendry shook Jon, whose eyes had closed…
"Jon… Jon, stay awake!" Gendry told him. What had Arya once said, of the brother who was going to take the black - she had worried that he would die of cold in his sleep, the way so many Rangers did, caught beyond the Wall in winter.
The worst thing you could ever do in true cold, Arya had said, was give in and sleep.
You would never wake up.
A.N.: Thoughts? It's tough to right action-scenes!