THE RUINS OF STARFALL – DORNE

Fury burned behind his cold eyes. Fear followed. Then reality sank, as sure as the stars into the sea. Jorah lifted his arms and ran his eyes over the faint traces of Quaithe's runes. They were already fading into his flesh. Her blood. His Queen. What had she done? No good ever came of blood magic. It is known.

"Undo it." He commanded. She shook her head, blackened with soot from the smouldering towers of Starfall. They crumbled behind, leaning awkwardly with the smaller contemplating a final tumble into the waves. Ten thousand years had fallen to a single flame. "Undo it!"

He had never raised his voice to her but now he dared, striding forward until she shrank against the wall. He was a bear.

"I can't... What's done is done."

"No!" Jorah refused to believe. "We shall find Quaithe. I will make her take the words back. She promised me in that hell of a city that you were safe. She lied. She lied."

"I'm as safe as I can ever hope to be in a world that wants all things to die." Daenerys pushed off the wall and approached him with renewed fervour. "This was my choice. A gamble, I grant you but if I had not taken it I'd never have made it this far. It wasn't only your life I bought that night – it was mine as well."

Even if that were true it felt like a lie on her tongue.

"There's no point us arguing about the things we cannot change," she added, when the silenced dragged between them. It was filled by the sound of rubble crumbling. On the other side of the city, citizens fled into boats, braving the incoming tide to escape the dragon. Their boats missed the port and washed into the Torrentine, breaking on the curves of its meandering tail, expelling them onto the banks. From there they spilled into the Red Mountains.

Jorah understood that Daenerys was right. Forcing himself to focus, he turned to the black towers. The dragon had damaged them severely but at least all of Yronwood's men were dead. Beyond dead...

"Could the sword survive?"

"Most likely," Jorah replied. "Though it will be many hours before the tower is cool enough to enter. Khaleesi? No..."

Daenerys brushed right by him and wandered over the ash, limping with her injured leg. He could not follow. The heat pushed him back to the rock-wall where he was forced to watch the queen vanish into the doorway whose wooden beams were still red and licking flames.

Inside, the tower might have been the spine of R'hllor himself. The stone, once blonde and sparkling, now dripped with grease. It struck to her as she passed through the entrance, falling onto her back only to slide over the rivets of bone. There were bodies piled up against the walls, not quite burned through. Locked in life's final gasp, they had clawed at the only window but been met by flame. She forced herself to look. This was the truth of her dragon. If she faced the horror it might protect her from becoming like her father.

She climbed the steps. Their bannister was made of blackened charcoal so she dragged her right hand against the wall instead where it was warm, as though the rock itself was now alive. Perhaps it was. She'd always felt there was a soul residing inside the jungle city of Sothoryos and the buildings of Asshai which moaned in despair.

Higher.

The windows revealed a cloud of smoke stretching towards the mountains. It had a cold wind at its back, unusual for this time of the year. She lingered when the glow from the Hightower caught her eye. From this distance it appeared as jewel clasped at the top of an obelisk.

Higher still.

Daenerys reached the final level. It was a small space – circular and bare except for a single wooden table. It had disintegrated in the heat and now lay as a pile of broken wood without legs. The glass case that sat atop was smashed and its glass re-melted into puddles that looked like water collected in the leaves of Spring. The Valyrian steel holds that held it together were unharmed. She picked them out from the mess, marvelling at them for a moment.

What lay beneath was the most beautiful construction man could make. A milkglass blade – pale as pearl, was held by Valyrian steel claws and decorated with gold and flecks of ruby. On the top of its handle was a crude carving of the rising sun. Dawn. The most magnificent of swords.


THE SUNSPEAR – DORNE

Face to face with Rhaegal, Missandei knelt in the wet sand. The dragon was deeper in the waves, splashing and playing as the tides moved towards the shore. They were running fast, stealing the flats away. In a few short hours, only water would remain, shimmering like the desert's thousand mirages.

There was nothing sublime about the serpent. It had wings but they were scaled and edged in knife-like tips. Feathers from doomed gulls were woven into its skin while large scars from previous violence had healed a paler shade of green. Its eyes were a filthy hue of gold that watched the world for prey. They were creatures of death – enormous beasts that fed upon the weak and brought empires down regardless of their worth. One dragon alone, even one as small as Rhaegal could alter the future of the world. A walk through history revealed them and their ruthless masters as the founders of slavery. Empires formed of blood.

But how to kill one?

Dragons killed dragons but to bring down a creature without one required nerve. Missandei gazed into its eyes. They were large and guarded by a thick, transparent skin. It was through those eyes another dragon had met its death in Dorne. Meraxes' head lingered in a dungeon beneath the Red Keep but her body was left to wash out with the waves. It had been said that her silver scales still washed up on this stretch of sand for a moment in the sun.

Without warning, Rhaegal rounded on Missandei. The beast waded through the water, slithering towards her at terrifying pace. Even on land they were dangerous. It stopped where the water ended and reared up onto its legs. Its wings spread out, dripping salt in two great fans.

She fell onto her back, raising a hand in submission.

"Easy..." Missandei cooed at it, concealing her fantasy. The dragon turned its head from side to side like a bird, inspecting her with each of its eyes separately. Something of its mind pierced hers. Searching. Whatever it might have been looking for, Rhaegal lost interest and scrambled off along the beach, picking up pace before launching into the air. It would circle the Sunspear for some time before finding a nest in the old tunnels situated on the sea-edge of the great city. Abandoned and vast, there was more than enough room for a dragon to curl up.


"Lost your bride already?" Varys asked casually, as he entered Prince Quentyn's room. The man was lazing in scraps of silk that barely covered his lean form. Muscles quivered in the breeze creeping through the window. Golden chains hung low to his navel – sliding against each other as he reached across to a smoking pipe. "Or perhaps it is of no concern..."

"Careful spider – I'm not one for your web,"" Quentyn warned, as he wrapped his lips around the neck of the pipe and dragged the smoke into his lungs. He held it there until the burn forced him to expel it into the room. It joined the rest which already swept across the floor in a perfumed mist.

If Varys were capable, he might have smiled. "I believe you may be right."

"That's the thing about spiders," the prince continued, as if he had not heard Varys' reply. "They wait for fate to decide. Hidden away in keyholes and cracks in the walls. Then they scurry out and wrap the dead in yards of silk for later. It's a coward's kill."

"I suppose you prefer hornets."

"Hornets hunt spiders," he shrugged. "You need not look so worried," Quentyn offered Varys a drag from his pipe. For politeness he obliged but not without a wary once over. "I am an honest man. I do what I say I will do. Games of the throne tire me."

Varys fought back the urge to cough out his lungs. The smoke was vile. He was sure that the world was hard enough to survive without poisoning oneself. "And yet here you are, in line for a crown." Being engaged to Daenerys was no small thing. "An accident of circumstance?"

"Necessity," he assured Varys. "I want what you want."

"My child..." Varys drawled patiently, "you have no idea what I want."

"Another guest? I am popular today..." Quentyn remarked, as the Lannister also appeared in his door. Tyrion and Varys eyed each other curiously for a moment before Varys ceded and shrank back into the palace to net some other insect. "Be careful with that one," Quentyn added, when he was alone with the imp. "Never trust anything without a cock."

Tyrion frowned even though that was not the first time he'd been offered those words. Mind you, Dorne had a particular focus on cocks. They adorned most of the architecture along with embossed panels that would make most lords and ladies blush. If it weren't for the pressing war of conquest with the realm he'd consider retiring to a villa within the city. "Women don't have cocks." He pointed out, to which Quentyn nodded.

"Exactly. Sit." Quentyn cleared the small table in front of them, unearthing a battle map of the city and surrounding lands. "Tell me, what is it like to fuck your sister?" He asked, rather casually as he weighted down the edges with stone idols.

Tyrion stammered, set off balance. "Wrong Lannister..." Was all he could think to reply with.

"Ah – wise. The queen is mad-cunt. Never a good idea. Dorne has plenty of those. They say it is the heat. I rather believe it to be the pipe. Smoke?" He offered it to Tyrion as he had with Varys.

Unsure what exactly to say and certain he didn't want to smoke, Tyrion cleared his throat and focused on the map. "I understand the Sunspear has won a great many wars."

"Mostly against your like." He placed markers for their standing armies around the map. "It's the ones we lost that interest me. You learn very little from a victory."

Behind his boyish face and pretty looks, Quentyn was every bit the schemer. Martells were famous for it. Tyrion was yet to decide if he could be trusted. That could wait until after the war, if they were still alive. "What about Yronwood in particular?"

"Not since Nymeria brought every man in Dorne to his knees. Unfortunately for us, he is less likely to quiver before your silver lady. They did not exactly take to one another at the festivities."

"Well – this time we have a dragon," Tyrion said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He'd always thought that the world was too big for him, especially as his feet dangled in an undignified fashion over the edge of the cushion.

"An unbroken steed," Quentyn dismissed. "He's a terror in the sky. Has he been blooded?"

Tyrion cleared his throat. "Ah – sort of. A bit." That was a stretch. "In Braavos he and his brother brought the Iron Bank to heel."

"That was the black one, if the stories are to be believed. Lying to me will do you no good. I ask these questions in the hope of drawing a battle plan where the pair of us get to keep our necks."

"Isn't that a job for-" well, he didn't want to insult the prince but surely...

"Someone else? I am commander of the Dornish army when I'm not wooing young dragon queens."

Children. The fate of the realm lay in the hands of children. "Right. Well... If Rhaegal gets the scent of war he may join in. From what I've seen he acts in the queen's interests best he can. An attacking hoard will be easy enough for him to distinguish but if fighting spreads into the city he might get – excited..."

"And gift us to the Lord of Light."

Tyrion nodded. "As you say."

"Let us aim for a different outcome."

Tyrion shook his head in dismay at the documents. "This is not the war we intended to fight."

This amused the prince greatly but he would not say why.


THE WALL – THE NORTH

Lord Commander Thorne braced himself against the door. Its planks of ironwood were clogged by ice welled into every hollow. Melted by the fires within Castle Black it soon felt the touch of Winter and froze again, sticking the doors and windows until everything became impossible to use. They were being buried alive inside their home. A tomb, Thorne lamented.

"You bastard, shift!" He hissed. With a firm kick the ice cleaved off and he fell with the door. It slammed into place, sending a tremor through the soul of the building. Everything creaked. Sometimes he feared that the castle was held together with nothing but ice. Perhaps that had been true for a while.

Since Jon Snow's magical resurrection, The Wall had been held in a truce. Men of the Night's Watch and Wildlings that refused to travel South with their kin lived together, huddled around the fires. Despite his initial apprehension, Thorne was glad of the extra hands. They were rough, to be sure but half his lot were murderers and the worst of the kingdom. At least the Wildlings knew the North. They helped gather wood soft enough to burn and brought in squirrel meat when the weather was fair to ease their stomachs. Anyone caught speaking ill of anyone was reprimanded. Truthfully, there'd been none of that of late. It was as though they could all feel the danger creeping toward them. The presence struck the men into an eerie quiet. They lived in The Wall's shadow. Sometimes the only sound Thorne heard was the crackle of his candles or the deep cracking of ice. Others said there where whispers coming from the stone. They uncovered white roots, woven into the masonry – bridging gaps between the rock and the ice. He'd found a few poking out from the corner of his room.

"Another five," one of his men said, stumbling in from the kitchens. His beard was speckled with ice and his skin a sickly grey from a short trek in the forest. "Found them sleeping beside the corpse of a bear."

"Fighting men?" Thorne asked.

"Two, yes. The others are women."

A year ago he would have bawked but now he dipped his head. "Ask them if they want to wield an axe or work the kitchens. See if any of them can read. What about the bear?"

"Rancid. Looks like it died before they got to it."

Shame. A bear was enough meat for a week.

"Aye and a – somethin' else." The man waited for his Lord Commander to nod. "Word from the West. Had a traveller say there was a large explosion near Westwatch by the the Bridge. They were sure it was the bridge..."

"Right," Thorne replied. He'd send ravens to the Mormonts. They were closest to that castle. News of the Wildling massacre on their shores had reached Thorne last week followed by sightings of pack ice in The Bay of Ice.

Some men faced death and found religion. Thorne stared down the end and emerged with his honour reformed. He re-took his vows and communed with the old gods. He spent time with the frail and young, teaching them how to hold a sword but more importantly – set fire to the snow. That said, he was still an ill-tempered shit. In the last months he'd sent ravens to every corner of the realm, begging for support. A few came. Many were unprepared, dying on the road. Others heard of the horror at Winterfell and ran from their caravans into the snow where they'd surely die. Every corpse south of The Wall was a waste. The maesters at Oldtown had sent barrels of wildfire. Thorne scattered it through Castle Black. If their defences fell, the last thing the enemy's eyes met would be a wall of green flame.

Thorne descended the uneven steps into the depths of the castle where the library nestled. They begged him daily to burn the books for warmth but he'd rather burn the men and threatened to do so if they asked again.

When he had first taken to spending his evenings here he'd assumed it would be the warmest room in the castle. He was wrong. There were times that he swore the library was boarded by The Wall itself and its stone was made of ice. With no windows, the soot from his candles collected in sinister orbs on the ceiling – which was hazardously low, scraping his skull if he forgot to crouch.

Tarly and Snow spent all of their free hours with noses buried in the scrolls. Who was he to argue with a man that could fight against the tide of death? Even the old dragon used to meander around the narrow rows, seeking something left in the collection. After weeks of idle searching, Thorne decided to approach the task like everything else in his life.

He strode to the end of the furthermost shelf and emptied it onto the floor. Every last scrap found itself splayed across the stone. Then, accompanied only by his candle, he picked the items up and examined them, one at a time, before replacing them on the shelf. Anything that caught his eye he set aside on a table. He'd learned many things since then. An entire wing of Castle Black was rediscovered behind what they had mistaken as a storage cupboard. It now slept their growing numbers. The recipe for wildfire – though they lacked the ingredients to test it. Ancient correspondence between the Kings of Winter and the early Commanders of the Watch. Thorne had read those with particular interest, especially as they described a Winter deeper and colder than what surrounded them now. He wondered if they had the strength to live in cold that froze eyes solid and turned men into stone where they stood.

It was there, late into the night, with sleep dragging at his soul, when the candle died. First a flicker – then a trail of smoke rising from the glow. With darkness came the sound of ice. Throne dropped the parchment and took hold of the brass candle holder. He moved swiftly between the shelves, focused on locating its replacement he'd left at the desk. As the glow appeared around the last shelf, Thorne leaped backwards into the parchment, knocking a storm of books to the floor. Breath evaded him as he held his chest, digging his nails into the fur. Fear, like that he'd never felt, gripped his muscles and glued him in place.

Behind the halo of light, lurking in the depths of the shadow, was a pale face. Dead. Alive. Dream or ghost...

He looked again but the face vanished. Mustering his courage, Thorne approached the candle and lit a fresh one for his holder. The room brightened but he was alone once more.

I am half mad... He thought. The hunger got to everyone eventually. If not the hunger – the cold was waiting to steal the last of a man's sense.


WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH

Pausing at the markings, Tormund sat his towering body on the snow. He'd been walking the outskirts of the Godwood, scouting the area for game and runaways when he'd come across an odd formation of rocks. Once hidden beneath ferns and weeds, the snow had killed everything but the towering pines. Their girths were large enough for five men to form a ring and still have room spare for a good looking woman. He'd seen pines like those in the Haunted Forest, too heavy and old to sway. They were more akin to stone than tree. Their size would prevent them from freezing even when the worst of Winter arrived.

The stones reminded him of formations uncovered while building the last great Wildling city. Mance himself had knelt between them, holding commune with the rock. 'Made by Children,' Mance had said. He'd spent some time teaching Tormund what the odd markings etched into their surfaces meant. Tormund had never gone so far as to ask how Mance learned to read such things.

He brushed snow out of the grooves and lingered with them for some time.

Later, Tormund discovered Jon Snow beneath the ailing Weirwood. Frost had turned is red leaves white and it no longer gave to the harsh wind. "They look like this where I come from," he said, softening his approach.

"Dead?"

"Sleeping. Mance said the blood trees never die. They wait with closed eyes for the world to pass."

"I wonder if they can still hear our prayers..." Snow replied, absently. "My father used to come here all the time. Sit on that rock," he pointed to the boulder leaning into a steaming pool, "and sharpen our family sword. He always joked that he came out here to escape mother's nagging but I found him once, whispering to the tree as though it were one of his old friends."

"Shouldn' go whisperin' to trees an' the like," Tormund replied. "Never know who's listenin'."

"What is wrong with the Old Gods hearing our prayers?" he asked. Jon had always seen the Weirwood as an old friend – the one place in all the world where he could come to be close to his father. His bones weren't even in the crypt. There was an empty tomb and a statue in his likeness – built by Lord Baelish of all people, as part of a pact with Catelyn Stark. It was not the same. Northern kings rested beneath Winterfell. That was their way.

"The gods don' do us no good."

It was hard to fault that argument. "My brother Robb was meant to rule the North," Snow added, stepping away from the tree. Steam continued to lift from the pool beside them. He'd thought with the dragon gone it might freeze over but something else stoked the fires beneath Winterfell. "Never me. I'm the bastard – sent to The Wall."

"We don' have bastards beyond The Wall. Every man is someone's son."

"If enough of us die, that might become true here." He stood in front of Tormund – a friend, it was fair to say. There was more holding them together than divided. "The Wildlings do not trust me. They've..." he looked toward the mountains, "...scattered to the wind."

"I said they'd come back when yer call an' they will," Tormund swore. "They must rest. You must rest. Death is coming for us. There is no point losing sleep over it."

"I can't sleep."

"Bugger yerself with wine."

"It's not that," Jon replied, tugging the furs around his neck. It was growing colder. Night clawed at the edges of the sky. The Red Witch's fires had already been lit around the ruins. Winterfell was rising from its corpse, stone by stone with Baelish's coin. "I don't dream any more. When I close my eyes there's this wall of emptiness. Darkness without end. There's no rest in that."

"You've gone an' looked beyond the night – no one's meant ter do that."


"Breaking the army into smaller parties and sending them to hold various castles has helped keep them alive," Sansa announced to the room. It was night. An urgent strategic meeting had been called with Jon, Sansa, Davos, Tormund and Peter. Other lords kept to the edges, shivering. "We are spread perilously thin. An attack from the Crown would be indefensible at this point."

"The Crown has better things to do than fight over a feuding North. They're only interested in us when they've use of our army." Snow replied.

"I disagree. Queen Cersei is vile, savage and mad. Revenge is cause enough to move her to strike but it'll be entitlement that wields the sword. We're hers by right and she'll see to it that we're returned to the fold on spikes or our knees. Now..." Davos leaned over the map, nudging some of the figurines around, "the closest army loyal to her is holding the Blackfish under siege in Riverrun."

Sansa shifted uncomfortably. "They'll be there for a long time. He'd starve in his castle rather than open the gates."

"I agree. Not sure his men do. Most of 'em are hungry and suffered during your brother's war," Davos continued. "Sooner or later something will give. However, given the choice, Cersei might send the Lannister army after us. Your uncle is pinned to the castle whether there are men on the ground or not. If that happens, we're not in any kind of shape to fight them off."

"The snow might..." Jon finally spoke. He was watching it fall now, tumbling outside the crack in the castle wall. "They're Southerners. Riverrun is all mud and mist but up here – their horses will freeze to death and the men with them."

"Begging your pardon, my Lord," Davos clasped his hands respectfully behind his back, "Stannis was a Southerner and his army pushed beyond The Wall." He did not repeat the outcome in respect of Tormund.

"Then what do you suggest, ser Davos?" Sansa asked calmly. The snow was so heavy it sounded like rain. If this continued, it would be in danger of putting out the fires.

"One more week of rest then we gather our forces and head North. There are plenty of castles at The Wall. We settle in for the battle to come. Mend the structures. Bulk our supplies. The Lannisters can take the North-" he was interrupted by sudden unrest but he quietened them enough to continue, "-for now. If there's no one here to conquer and the weather remains hostile, they will leave or occupy in such small numbers that we can reclaim the land when we are done."

Everyone seemed to be in agreement. It was a sensible plan. Strategically sound. All except the bear.

"No..." said Lady Mormont, her word so firm it nearly snuffed a candle. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Abandon the rest if you will but Sansa must remain here for the duration of the campaign."

Davos tried to be polite and mindful as he replied, "It is not the time for superstition."

"You are mistaken. Superstition exists solely for times like these."

"It's all right," Baelish stood, approaching the table. He'd been sitting at the edge of the room, observing like the others who were not directly involved. "I'll assign part of the Vale's army to her protection. We will continue fortifying Winterfell."

And when the curtain falls, Littlefinger will control the heart of the North. Jon, Sansa, Lyanna and Davos all saw the natural progression of the offer but it was the least dangerous one on the table. For now.

"That is kind of you, Lord Baelish," Sansa replied for the others. "I will remain, in the crypts if I have to. We'll make of this ruin what we can."

"Keep the children and those unable to fight. Fall back to the Vale if all else is lost." Jon added, and it was agreed. "To The Wall, then..."

"To The Wall..." The room agreed.

"Send the ravens."


Sansa helped Jon pack, not least of all because he had no possessions of his own. They met in maester Luwin's chambers where some of the Stark things had been stowed away during the Bolton sacking. Many of their treasured things had been burned but Eddard's Stark's clothes were put away in an old chest which Jon dragged into the middle of the floor.

It felt strange, looking down on the material remains of his father. He felt Sansa's hand on his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts.

"I'm a lot smaller than him," he noted, holding up a leather tunic.

"The furs will hide it," she replied. "And one of the Wildlings is rather good at alterations. She is headed to The Wall with you. I will ask her to help."

"Is this what our great house has become? Picking through scraps..."

"These are the times great houses are formed," she assured him. "We built this castle out of the rock and ice, we'll do it again." Sansa paused, catching his eye. "Winter is here – perhaps the night with it. We won't be the only ones with nothing by the time this is through. All we have to do to win is survive so you go to The Wall – you take these people – friend and stranger – and you survive. Swear it. I can't do this alone unless I know you're coming back."

Jon felt death in his soul. An old friend, it called back to him, arms outstretched and face smiling. They'd meet before the end. "I know what you want to hear," he replied. "But I can't say the words. You have to survive for your own sake."

"There's no denying you're a Stark..." Sansa reached up, brushing her glove across his cheek. "Harsh and cold like the snow but no less honest."

A knock at the open door disturbed them. Davos entered, dipping his head. "Pardon, Your Graces... There's a convoy coming into the valley flying Reed banners. What shall we do?"

The siblings looked to each other. "I will ride out to meet them," Jon replied.


STARFALL RUINS – DORNE

Dawn was nearly as long as she was tall. Daenerys took the ancient weapon in both hands, salvaging it from its ruined bed and dragged it out of the collapsing tower. Emerging from the wreck she saw her knight – torn and weathered with the sea at his back and Drogon scratching through the smoking gravel beside. Ruination. Hell. These are the things fire left in their wake. From the pitch, life would claw out – feeding from destruction. She'd seen it before on the black shores of Sothoryos. Perhaps green forests might replace the ice one day, feasting on her warmth.

"Kneel..." she commanded, stopping in front of ser Jorah. He was shocked, staring at the jewel sword in her hands. Never had a more beautifully crafted slither of sword graced the world. It was flawless in balance and sharp to a fault. As Daenerys moved, both sides of its blade cut the air. He was so distracted that she had to repeat her order.

Knees in the dirt, Jorah lifted out his hands, receiving the sword from his queen.

"To hold in trust – until one of us dies..." she whispered.

"Aye, Khaleesi. Then to return to its home." Jorah shook his head, quite unable to believe the item in his hands. Eventually he stood and began weighting his sword – spinning, swinging and holding it to the sun.

Daenerys recovered Snowflake from the ash and together they approached Drogon.

"Are you warming to her?" Jorah asked, when he caught her smile at the ice.

"Appreciating her worth... Why do some weapons have names?" She asked, when they were on Drogon's back heading toward the stretch of desert. "A sword doesn't need a name to kill."

Jorah's thumb kept finding the indent where one of the stones was missing. It was still the most glorious weapon. A jewel in its own right. It should be laid on velvet and displayed for the world rather than shut up in a tower with decades passing it by. "They are the castles of the weaponry world. A town may build a hundred huts but it's only the creature of stone rising from their heart that bears a name. It is the same with swords. Blacksmiths name their favourites – the ones that define them. Sometimes for a sentiment, often for a purpose."

"Dawn..."

"The rising sun. This sword is named for hope." Or something else. He'd thought about it before, a lifetime ago. When his father had first sat him down in the empty halls of Bear Island and taught him of the Valyrian swords he'd wondered about the outlier from Dorne. As Dacey always told him, the simplest answer was usually correct. Was this the sword that brought about the dawn after the night?

"Why don't you tell me what you're thinking?" she asked. "I see you – looking into the sky but the words are writ in those scars of yours."

"The Battle for the Dawn involved a rather famous sword – one that burned in the dark and vanquished the frozen army. This sword is the oldest on record. It pre-dates the Valyrian conquest. The Daynes always boasted that it had been in their house ten thousand years. Those are the Dawn Days, Your Grace – the time of heroes and monsters. Even if only some of that is true..."

"Our sword isn't burning."

"Fair point. That comes with magic. Daenerys... I know where your heart lies. Your dreams are of snow not a throne in the South. Why risk a battle at King's Landing?"

He'd caught her out. She avoided his gaze, preferring the dunes rising in front of them. "Unity."

"No."

"Legitimacy. I need Westeros. They won't follow me into the abyss if I am not their queen and when I am done, I intend to leave rulers in my wake to pick up the pieces of what will be a terribly broken world."

"You will rule in peace as well as war," he tried to assure her.

"Not in my dreams..." she whispered, her voice wavering. "There's only darkness. I never see the dawn."

The sword across his lap was the closest she'd get to the rising sun.


THE WALL – THE NORTH

Thorne woke in a pool of sweat. His sheets had already begun to freeze, crunching as he sat up and rubbed frost from his beard. It was the same dream, three nights in a row – ever since he'd seen the face behind the flames.

It was a woman's face – dipped in ice and eyes like the blue rose.

Her vision had latched onto him. Every time he closed his eyes she was there, silently following. He decided not to sleep at all.

Gathering himself, Thorne took to the lift that braved the face of The Wall. The old chains groaned as he grasped the wheel and pushed. The cogs screeched. In the North it was too cold for rust. Their steel was as strong and clean as the day it was made, lifting Thorne above Castle Black. The height confirmed what he had feared. Less and less of the forest survived. The trees that did – mostly the old pines, were starting to snap under the weight of the recent snow falls. Mole's Town was a sad bump in the snow and the roads South had vanished. He thought he'd hate it – or fear it but Thorne found some comfort in the Winter.

"Snow on me all you fucking like..." he whispered. "You won't make me like you any less."

He almost re-considered his words at the top. The wind from the other side was so fierce that it blew a mist of razor sharp ice off the crest and on the other side, the Haunted Forest had nearly vanished under the carpet of white. The rest was shrouded in fog, so thick he could not tell where the snow ended and sky began.

"Mornin'..." One of his watchmen said, opening the lift gates for the Lord Commander. "Come to take a peek?"

"Fresh air," he replied, swallowing a lump in his throat he was sure was ice. "Anything?"

"Nothin'. A whole lot of silence."

"Don't bemoan the quiet days – you'll be praying for their return one day."

"Be-?"

Thorne shook his head in amusement, stepping onto the landing where the metal brackets of the lift ended and the true wall began. Its ice foundations were nearly blue, as if they were made from sea water. He'd heard stories of the rises of similar ice near the Fist of the First Men. When the men of the Night's Watch laid eyes on the twisted forms they'd fallen to their knees in the snow and whispered urgent prayers to whichever god was closest.

"We was about to finish our watch," the man continued, leading Thorne towards their small fire where the other one was making tea out of pine needles. "Was there somethin' you needed?"

"Tea would be lovely," Thorne replied, taking a cup from the other man. "Strange bird."

"Beggin' yours?"

Thorne pointed with his steaming cup. "Over by the gap where the sun's coming through." They had to squint to follow Thorne's lead but sure enough, cruising in circles at the edge of the wood, far off along the Eastern bank of the wall, was a bird.

"We're still gettin' eagles – mostly white 'nes."

"That is not an eagle," Thorne assured him. "How far do you figure that is?"

"Near thirty-four mile." It was almost at the edge of their horizon.

"Keep watching it..." Thorne replied, finishing his tea.

He left the watchmen to their perch and returned to his study where a fresh cluster of ravens warmed themselves in front of the stone fire. Their letters lay on his desk, unbound and flattened best as could be done by his new steward. His other one up and died to a fever in the night. They'd had to feed him to the dogs to keep the beasts alive.

"Has the world heard us?" Thorne asked the boy.

"The North has heard. There's an army on its way made up of those that usurped the Boltons. They ask permission to man abandoned castles along The Wall."

"Let us hope they had the good sense to bring supplies or they'll be eating snow like the rest of us. Tell them to start with the Nightfort. We've men there who can help them. Then I guess... Westwatch and Eastwatch – doesn't hurt to keep an eye on our flanks." Unless Snow brought fifty thousand men with him it made little difference. The magic of The Wall kept the Winter at bay – nothing else.

The boy nodded and penned the reply after which he scampered about the room, capturing one of the ravens. It struggled as the message was tied onto its leg and resisted its rude exit into the snow.

"This?"

"Archmaester Marwyn."

"Does the creature having nothing better than whisper in my ear? Go on then, what mischief has he now?"

"He speaks of Lord Hightower-" that served to catch Thorne's attention. "-Marwyn does not presume to know the details of your correspondence but warns that the man himself has been dead for some time. Then – then something I cannot read."

"Valar Morghulis..." Thorne read for him. "It is a Braavosi saying. All men must die. Hightower was murdered. Anything else?"

The steward held up a silver coin.

"All right. No reply. File it away and feed his bird. It's a warning – nothing more."

He nodded and gathered up some scraps of bread. There was barely enough to sustain the collection of bone and feather. "Did you hear, this morning... There was a song on the air."

"Your vows apply to Wildling women just the same..." he cautioned.

"No... Rather, a bird of some kind like I'd never heard. It sang all through the last of night until the dawn."

"I did not hear it," Thorne replied. His nightmares had ownership of him during that time. The woman and her silent death.


The days were short and raced toward their end. Noon came and already a shadow grew from The Wall. Men, who had retired to sleep through the day, woke to re-take their watch. Castle Black's lift cut its way along the ice. In all its thousands of years, the craftsmanship held true. If The Wall was half as strong as the chains dragging their weight, perhaps they'd have a chance.

"You see that bird?" One of the men asked.

The skies were clearer. Fog from earlier had burned away leaving them with a brief look at the sky. It was empty. "Nah. Must've flown South – if it had any sense." They laughed together, meandering along the narrow divide between the rises of ice either side that acted as turrets. As soon as the ground began to curve underfoot it became impossible to scale so they'd hammered nails into their boots for grip. In every respect, the structure was a nightmare to man but that hostility to the world protected them. "Thought your brother was comin' up?"

"Stayed South when my father died. Sparrow got him." His compatriot gave him an odd look. "Not a bird sparrow. It's the name they give to the faith leader – the High Sparrow," he explained. "Father was in King's Landing on trade. Sparrows beat 'im in the street with all them Southerners cheering. Fuck the South. Brother's taken the name and moved ter 'ighgarden. Yer know, I'm glad. Glad he doesn' have to see this shit."

"Shit like that!" The other Watchman suddenly reached forwards and dragged his friend away from the edge as a veil of silver scales erupted from the other side. A creature that was certainly not a bird scraped its sprawling wings along the cusp of ice.

"Aye man! Fuckin' dragons! Fuckin' dragons!"

There was only the one dragon but its vast size dwarfed the Watchmen as they cowered over each other. Silverwing latched onto The Wall with her talons and came to a perch, flapping her wings several times amid a desperate flurry of snow before she folded them back and surveyed The Wall.

They gripped each other, a mess of fur and fear, while Silverwing tilted her enormous head to the side and focused a swollen blue eye in their direction.


"No – no..." Thorne drew his men back with whispers. The entirety of The Watch had gathered either on The Wall or beneath it . Thorne was closest, moving carefully so as not to startle the beast. They were not the mythical creatures of Lord's nightmares – they were animals, somewhere between a horse and a wolf. "I know who you are..." he whispered to it, lowering his body so that appeared submissive. "Been reading stories about your kind, aye, Silverwing...?"

It blinked at the sound of its name, re-shuffling its claws in the ice. The dragon had pale scales – translucent like the fur of white bears. Hers had ice sticking between them, corrupting their edges. As she lifted her feet, vibrations moved along the wall.

"Easy..." he cooed. "Were not going to hurt you." Even though some of his men clasped their swords as though they were life itself. There was no point against a dragon. Their armour was thicker than stone and their jaws lined with a thousand swords. "It's wild," he explained, to the men close enough to hear. "She used to be ridden by a Targaryen queen in the last great war. Her jewels built Deep Lake." The archives were full of stories from Queen Alysanne. "The dragon knows us and this wall. Move slowly. Leave her be..."

Eventually Silverwing tired of The Wall and launched herself into the air, leaving deep grooves in the ice where her claws had been. She headed North, towards The Lands of Always Winter and the bank of fog which had gathered in prelude to the night.


Beneath The Wall, at the edge of the forest, Dacey Mormont stopped. Cruising down the flank of ice beside Castle Black's gate was a silver dragon. Nearing the ground, it beat its wings and curved upwards, clearing the trees. Certain it was a dream, she collapsed against the trunk of a pine. It wreaked of age and stank of magic. Was this her tomb? A tree beside the wall and patch of ice... No. She'd rise again with dead eyes, forever walking the world. Do not die here. Die where there are men to burn you. Fires in the ice. Die there.

Dacey looked again and this time she saw white trails of smoke atop The Wall and the black dots of watchers manning the towers.


FAIRMARKET – RIVERLANDS

The bulk of the Lannister army camped around the flats surrounding Fairmarket, turning the grass fields gold. It soon ended in slick mud, drowning men to the knee and felling horses that tried to drink from the Trident. Unseasonal cold struck the reeds a dead grey while wrens that made their nests hastily folded the waxen threads around themselves.

A bored army was the most dangerous of beasts. Months of siege with no blood to show for it had left Jaime Lannister with a mob who ebbed toward Fairmarket with an eye for whores and drink. He tried to control them, sending accompaniments of captains with the soldiers but he might as well have sent the wolf in to mind the deer.

"We cannot stay here," Jaime sighed, nudging Bronn awake. He'd dozed off in the sunlight, using his armour to collect the warmth. "You great, lazy lizard..."

"Least I'm not fookin' my way through the town," he replied. "Those other cunts have the right idea. 'alf my luck to be stuck 'ere with you."

Jaime's weary facade of 'patience' was wearing thin. His eyebrows, which had no right to own as much of his forehead as they did, dipped low. "You're doing all right... I could have left you in King's Landing."

"Could 'ave," Bronn sat up and dusted dried grass from his chest. "Yer didn't though. Must be my company yer were after."

It was but after all these weeks Jaime was starting to question the wisdom of his choice. "It's a fair ride ahead yet."

"I'm still not quite sure I understand what we're doin' here... Way I look at it – Northern folk are rough bastards. Loyal to their own – unless yer name is 'Bolton' then you're good as snow. If we ride in, done up in all our shining lion cloaks they'll remember your nephew killed their Lord and carve us to pieces."

"We greatly outnumber their forces."

"Fine. We slaughter them all then what – sit in an empty castle and wait for Winter? Madness."

Jaime remembered the last time he was in Winterfell. The North had a different feel about its bones. There were things living in the woods and snow that haunted the dreams of their men. Most of them, Jaime realised, were probably true. He didn't want to murder the armies of the North any more than Bronn but it was a command of the Crown.


Skirting around the edge of the camp, a pack of wolves waited in the shadows. They had been tracking the army – staying behind their scent. Sooner or later, a feast of blood would follow – all the wolves had to do was keep their distance. Their leader pawed at the loose earth, digging a shallow where she laid her enormous body. Her grey fur shivered in waves as the cool wind passed into the forest. Nymeria dreamed of glistening pools and strange, pale mountains. Of yellow dirt and tiny fires in the darkness.