EASTWATCH BY THE SEA – THE WALL
Lorath backed slowly away from a two foot wide crack that traversed the wall diagonally. Beneath the fresh wound was an unblemished stretch of ice. Trapped within that, spider-like silver hairs knit into a mesh. Rubble dripped from the split, bouncing on the stone. Prince Bu Gai hissed behind him, reaching for his sword. It slid from its sheath with a ravenous cry and, held aloft, glinted in the swinging lanterns.
He struggled to keep the blade raised – his body lurching between curse and divine will. Death had come knocking, battering down the wall and he'd be there, on his feet, to answer the call.
Petyr wrapped his hands around the slick bars of his cage as it swung haphazardly back and forth dripping oil. He pressed his face to the gap. The foreign men were on the ground, felled like trees by the shaking ground. They scrambled for their torches but the flames obscured their view through the darkness. It was Petyr, suspended above the light, who was able to see a finger of ice tilting away from the Wall, teetering towards a sea grave.
Groaning ice and cracking stone. They sang to each other. Tiny pieces split from the Wall and fell in continuous cascades like wind disturbing snow on the pines. Sometimes soft – a few stray flakes and then entire tides of crushed ice like curtains of white hair.
Larger pieces cleaved free with raucous howls, showered in powder as they plummeted six hundred feet to their doom. One clipped the Western edge of Eastwatch castle, vanishing it beneath a plume of snow. Thunderous roars screamed out of the ground as the slabs hit. They landed flat, crushing terrified men into paste before snapping under their own weight into white shards.
Those set back on the ice field stared dumbly, overwhelmed by the immensity of the natural forces. The sheer power of the noise vibrated inside their chests while the display of indifferent ferocity spoke to something deep in their fear. Waking giants. Yes. Petyr could hear explosions building out of sight like pots of wildfire igniting. One by one, the fires on the ice were snuffed until only the castle windows remained lit. A lonely black stain. Crumbling. Dying. Disintegrating stone by stone.
The air snapped.
At the furthest edge of the Wall, the tilting pillar of ice suddenly folded in on itself and collapsed like a soldier struck at the knees. Forever it appeared to fall, gracefully rushing toward the sea. A surreal dance made in perfect silence until it hit with a roar and fans of freezing water that reached hundreds of feet into the air, nearly as high as the Wall. The ships moored closest leaned away until their masts were nearly parallel to the bay only to be violently sucked back toward the turbulent water. Many were torn in half. Another column of ice followed immediately ripping even more sudden cracks that birthed monstrous plumes of ice.
Petyr's breath shuddered from his lips.
A gap appeared as the spray and mist settled. A slip of beach bridging the Lands of Always Winter to the North. How innocent the view, thought Petyr. In the moonlight, what lay beyond was little more than a continuation of Eastwatch's beach with a dark forest pressed to the water line. Scrambles of black rock rolled casually in the water and a few fat seals flopped about in the dark, calling out in alarm.
The ground was far from quiet. It breathed, shivering and growling. The iron in his cage trembled.
As the terror quietened, people were drawn to the collapsed edge of the Wall. Petyr watched as their insignificant torches clustered into a sea of stars. The ships rocked in the mess of water. The cage beside him had fallen in the chaos and broken apart, spilling the Crow's ashes onto the snow.
The fog thickened over the water in the distance. At first Petyr thought it was a trick of the moonlight but soon it was clear that the fog was creeping closer, twisting around ships – strangling them with its swathes of white menace. Skagos vanished in the white-out. Then the definition between water and land. Finally, there was nothing at all except the whisper of cold gods.
Petyr retreated slightly from the edge of his cage. The already frigid temperature dropped. Frost crystals grew on the iron in front of his face. Pain clawed at his flesh where the cold tried to still the throb of blood. His weight shifted the cage. Creak it went, groaning on its chain. Then he heard the sound of hooves trampling the snow. A thrash of steel. The slap of leather. A rustle of bone. Muffled spasms of hurried violence.
The horrific stories of his childhood clawed into his mind. Suddenly they were alive in front of his eyes. A sea of blue dots peering from the fog and the splash of water as the army of the dead curled around the edge of the Wall.
Struck with the same lameness as the foreign soldiers, Petyr did nothing but watch the first throes play out as shadows in the mist. Screams pierced the fog. Blunt swords came down on the living with such force that their limbs were hacked off with shredded flesh attached. Pools of blood smoked on the ice. Entrails dragged behind lumbering corpses, caught in fists of bone. The initial flurry of fighting gave way to running. Emerging from the fog, the Queen's foreign army fled dropping everything – even their spears. Horses reared up, snapping their leather ties. They too galloped wildly in the night, kicking over lamps that dashed their oil in fresh fires, their whinnies turned to screams.
The last lights in Eastwatch went out and the fort vanished. Its absence snapped Petyr back into the moment. The mad shrieks of people in the throes of murder filled his ears. Their terrible, curdling sound twisted in his stomach. He swore and, finally possessing the will to survive, started rushing at the bars of his cage.
Again and again, he threw himself at the iron. The cage lurched – jumped – shuddered. The chain mewed under the strain but its links were tough and reinforced by a fresh coat of ice.
Horses rushed below – the first to reach him. They galloped wildly, lifting their behinds to kick wildly at the sound chasing them. One trod straight through the pile of ash, sending it scattering into the air. Petyr covered his mouth as the stink of death touched his lips.
As men appeared, Petyr shouted desperately to them. Those that lifted their heads in his direction – even pitifully – did not dare stop. Fear spurned them on. They would not stop for their own children let alone a howling Crow. Then – emerging from the fog – the first line of dead men. Petyr could not comprehend their speed. The stories spoke of lumbering bones, dragging swords and the creep of Winter. These creatures raced at the living, possessed with a sickness.
With nowhere to go, Petyr pressed himself down into the bottom of the cage and pulled his cloak over his head, blending with the darkness. He waited. Hidden in plain sight. His cage slowly stilling. Perhaps… Perhaps they would think him dead. Another pile of blackened bone suspended above the ice.
HORN HILL – THE REACH
Several levels beneath the castle, Gilly noticed the blushing walls broken by veins of gold and blood. The blocks of sandstone that had been used to build Horn Hill possessed a certain inherit violence. Bleached on the surface like the bones of a corpse, beneath the ground they retained their bloody truth.
Innumerable rows of doors opened either side of the long tunnel. Behind them were simple, square rooms which that once belonged to housekeepers, stable boys and cooks. Now they were filling with the first wave of desperate survivors from King's Landing. Many of the newly arrived howled in pain with terrible burns wrapping around their flesh courtesy of rampant dragons. Others were blinded by toxic smoke. Countless more were lame, carried or dragged inside. In the North, Gilly knew that they'd have been killed on sight. Suffering was not endured because it was ultimately pointless. The injured died with stinking limbs consumed by frostbite. The weak were picked off by wolves and dragged into the forest to be feasted upon. In the South they wasted their time trying to save those that could not be saved. The Freeborn believed this to be a weakness. The South insisted it was their strength. She could not decide. Perhaps it was possible to be both.
A shadow brushed behind her. Gilly turned to see Darkstar lingering by the wall, resting against it in full armour. His gaze picked hers apart. Was he thinking the same thing as her? The Dornish were not like the rest of the realm.
"What are you doing all the way down 'ere?" Gilly asked.
Darkstar took his time replying, waiting for another group of souls with rags for clothes to pass. Even in their desperate state they managed a harsh glance in his direction. The silver streak through his midnight hair summoned bitter feuds from the dust of time. "Keeping an eye on you," he replied. "Lord Tarly asked that I do this thing. He is beholden to the Queen where my services are pledged. So I do as commanded and follow you here..."
For reasons she could not quite grasp, Gilly doubted the truth of his answer. "You needn't," she assured him. "These people are barely alive and more wary of you than me." Then she shook her head at the narrow passageway. "There is a temple down 'ere but I cannot find it. The one with the Weirwood roots. They say there they Old Gods can hear our prayers. After what I seen – I thought to bring 'em an offering." She held out a small cluster of lemon roses taken from the courtyard.
Darkstar dipped his head in an unusual flourish of softness. "The Gods do not deserve your flowers, Gilly. The old or the new."
"All the same," she insisted.
He accompanied her through the endless twisting passages until the rooms died off and were replaced with brass plaques set against the stone. Darkstar brushed his gloved-fingertips across some of them, mumbling names and dates. They were tombs of a sort. Markers for the past lords of Horn Hill. The bodies were buried somewhere else. At the end they found a bland sheet of iron, riveted along all four edges with an arch at the top to match the sharp of the ceiling. A pair of torches burned either side, lit by invisible hands – the same, Gilly imagined, that roamed the fortress above when they were sleeping. The was a door better suited to a sewer than a temple. Inside they found an equally dismal shrine, barely elevated beyond the status of a cell. At its centre sat a stone pedestal made from red sandstone with a blue flame hissing in the dank and relative darkness. Instead of oil, it burned from a lick of gas escaping the rock. Gilly approached, eyes wide.
"I've seen these flames before," she said, circling the shrine. "There's a spring in the Haunted Forest, where the Milkwater reaches the silver dam. Blue flames come from beneath the river stones and the surface of the water burns cold."
"I heard that Valyria was lit thus – all its shining buildings and streets, dancing in the blue light. There," he nodded at the tangle of white sticks set into the wall on the far side, "is that what you are looking for?"
Gilly knelt in front of the Weirwood branches, closed her eyes and started whispering in a language Darkstar had never heard before. Delicately, she draped her lemon roses onto the unforgiving stone and showered them in prayers. The blue flame flickered. Darkstar watched. He'd never been able to feel the pull of the gods so he watched on with a cold disconnect. To him the room was nothing but a sorrowful block of rock with tinder in the wall.
"What was it that you asked for?" Said Darkstar, many hours later as they walked through the sunny courtyards behind Horn Hill's walls. There were more lemon roses beside them, rambling across every crack. Weed-like, they lumbered in enormous thickets wherever the sun was warmest shedding petals like tears.
"Names," she replied, always wandering a few steps ahead of him. Little Sam toddled beside them – hugging the wall. He was continuously tumbling backwards onto onto his rear or falling forwards with both soft, pink hands against the sharp thorns. Every now and then he stammered a few words. "Of the family that Sam has lost since this terrible thing began."
"Where is the Lord of Horn Hill?"
"In his castle," Gilly replied, tilting her head up to the towering walls. They glistened with dew. As beautiful as pearl. "He speaks to ghosts but not the gods. You know, I think he was better off at the Wall, facing death with a sword in his hand, despite what you all might think of him."
They were married under pink bowers of Trial Trees, with arms so heavy in flower that they dipped toward the ground. Lanterns were set along both sides of the path, lighting the way for the bride who emerged from the castle after sunset. Gilly wore a thick crown of white carnations in her hair and more stitched into her trailing veil. Wrapped in a white satin gown, she looked as lovely as any Southern maiden except for nymph-ish features – slightly narrow eyes, fine bones and a petite height. A Wildling dressed as a lady.
Sam wore the trappings befitting his station as a lord. The Crown welcomed news of the marriage. Solidifying lordships loyal to their cause across the kingdom was as important as raising battlements. They had told him to make a show of it and so the wealth of Highgarden backed proceedings. News of the wedding was read as far as Winterfell where it was met with unexpected disinterest from the Freefolk.
With no Weirwood, there hands were bound beneath the sapphire leaves of an Ironwood though some might say that its beauty and warmth easily surpassed the bleeding trees. They said the words together, turned and waved to the crowds pressed into the courtyard.
Darkstar stood among the masses with his patient gaze on the couple and his ears pricked to the uncharitable whispers spreading through the shadows. 'Pretenders' they said, 'Northern cunts...' The fires stirred.
DRAGONSTONE – BLACKWATER BAY
"There's no sign of the other dragon?" Daenerys asked, standing at the head of the war table fresh from the parade. She'd done exactly as Loras Tyrell had asked – mounted Drogon and flown off in front of the entire city. It has been a spectacular show as she'd leaned into the wind, red fabric rippling behind her like a veil of blood with Viserion and Rhaegal snapping at the wind beside her. It had been good for the beasts to stretch their wings and loop casually around the mountains bordering the Crownlands. From there, she'd taken them down along the grey spines of Crackclaw Point and let them dive and fish through the waters at the mouth of the Bay of Crabs much to the shock of a few idle fishing boats. Finally she'd returned, flying low across the waters of The Narrow Sea approaching Dragonstone from the rough, ashen flanks of the Dragonmount. Its heavy, foul smoke trickled into the air while a few flashes of fire caught from a crack widening on one side.
Jorah found himself alone in the ghastly room with his Queen, standing at the opposite end of the table. One side of the cavern was open to the sea which hissed beyond, repeatedly clawing at the castle through the hide tide. He remembered when other would-be-kings had stood here and peered down at the wooden figurines, fashioning visions of war. He had always found them a poor representation. A polished surface of rock was no comparison to the swamps, mountains, ice fields and terrible seas of the Seven Kingdoms. "No sign, your Grace. Dragons are slippery things and this one was born of wild eggs. We may have to consider it lost."
"I am not particularly comfortable with a dragon falling into the hands of our enemies. I am Queen in no small part because of my dragons. What will they think if a common merchant or worse, a pirate appears with one on their shoulder?"
"Dragons take many years to grow. Even if the dragon was found and tamed, the great war will be won or lost long before we have a chance to argue the point. Or rather, that dragon may eat anything that tries to befriend it. My Queen," Jorah shifted the topic, reaching over the table to point to the Kingsroad. The action dislodged his white cape which had a tendency to fall around his broad figure like a sheet of snow collapsing into a mountain glacier. "The Dothraki and most of your Unsullied that are not with the Tyrell's left this morning as requested – heading North-West along the Kingsroad. They should proceed uncontested through this part of the empire but there are reports of unseasonable rain across the God's Eye which could bog an army down. Harrenhal is the only defensible position to rest an army along this path." Jorah moved the piece representing her army to Harrenhal's bitter peaks. "The towns are too small to support our presence and Varys warned about reprisals so close on the heels of the tragedy at King's Landing. We will fly directly to Harrenhal and wait for them."
"I thought Petyr Baelish had control of that ruin?"
"Indeed he did, until he swore fealty to the Starks, bringing The Vale to their cause in the last war against the bloody Bolton uprising. Our informants are not clear on what transpired in the North but Lord Baelish was sent to The Wall and his men left to languish in Harrenhal. Most have run off and the rest will flee at the sound of three dragons. Neither Stark Lord or Lady has shown an interest in re-manning. It's abandoned."
Daenerys tapped her bony fingers on the surface of the table, thinking. "You and I will be alone without guard for several days."
"This is not the East," Jorah warned her, carefully. "We cannot risk landing the dragons in the open fields where they are vulnerable to slaughter. Dragons need perches – Harrenhal has many vicious peaks of stone to make their nests. From this point on, you will live as they do, skipping over the broken rafters of the realm."
Her knight's advice ran contrary to everything Varys and Tyrion told her and yet she was inclined to follow it. Jorah had never given her bad council. His words, however harsh or unlikely, had kept her alive when the sands wished to consume her or the hoards of greedy slavers bayed for her royal blood. "This is your land, Ser Jorah… We do this your way."
"No, my Queen… This is your realm. Our blood washes together in these seas."
"And the city?"
"The Dornish are no friend to the Golden Company. Who better to keep an eye on Varys' than Southern swords… Besides, they have a royal marriage to protect. It is in the Dornish interest to protect a Tyrell caretakership. Always align people with their interests, your Grace."
Later, Daenerys untangled her mother's crown from her hair and sat it on the windowsill. The moonlight filtered through its gem stones, scattering colour onto the stone. Despite its beauty, the twisted creation reminded her of a dying wreath. Her mother's sorrow clung to the metal curves as if she'd woven despair itself into its melancholy features. A large, warm hand brushed against her lower back. She had almost forgotten he was standing there.
"There are times when I feel like we're the only two people in the world..." She whispered, leaning sideways until her head rested at the base of his shoulder. His armour was gone along with all his trappings of rank. Daenerys preferred him like this – an open cotton shirt where his scars shone silver in the evening light.
Jorah lifted his arm, wrapping it around the Queen. They had been unable to tread the fine lines required of their station. No one understood exactly what they were to each other and that made people like Varys desperately uneasy. "My father taught me something about ruling that I have been waiting to share with you. Clarity comes from simplicity. Whatever else might be true about Jeor, he was a wise man. He said that the greatest trap man can fall into are the games of lesser men. Murky waters. Crystal waters. Fresh – salt. Black, red or sapphire. They are all the same to the hull of your ship. Leave the troubles of the South here," those last words were his.
"But – my mother..." Her fingertips brushed the sharp edges of the crown.
"Your mother was a creature of ruin. You'll go mad deciphering her will." Jorah's fingers played with the curled ends of her hair where the braid ended. It had a tendency to unravel towards the end of the day but she tied it every day like the great Horselords of her dreams. He knew that Daenerys had more affinity with them than her bloody relatives. In fact, he was quite sure that if she had ever met the ruling Targaryens she'd have taken an immediate dislike to their ways. "Are you ready?"
"I am ready to stand on the smoke of the world and strike the match..."
Jorah snorted softly, amused. "I meant, are you ready to retire to bed, your Grace?"
She softened at once, turning into Jorah's chest – lifting her hand to latch onto his shoulder. The one thing she was not ready to do was let him go. "I feel lost in this tide," she admitted, as they wandered toward the moon-drenched bed. Daenerys sat first, reached up and fished for Jorah – tugging him gently down. He seemed reluctant to come, wary of the thrall of pirates outside the walls.
He was not surprised, considering he had almost lost her in a real tide.
There they lay, unable to sleep in the few hours that remained to them. Their world was the constant swell of the Narrow Sea, the rumbling of the Dragonmount and the continuous 'chip' 'chip' 'chip' of the dragonglass mine beneath the mountain.
They took to the sky on dragon-back before the sun rose over the lip of the world. Daenerys always rode Drogon. His immensity grew by the day, especially now that he had oceans to fish and mountaintops to sharpen his claws on. His vast, ribbed hide grew nests of bone horns. Most of them were as black as ebony but a few had their smooth surfaces cracked with seams of gold. Fragments of kelp were caught between them, stinking of salt. The wind knocked them free as they climbed into the sky and flew against a cold draft of wind.
Daenerys turned to her right to see Viserion tilting gently from side to side in the breeze. His wings dripped from grazing the water earlier while Jorah's white uniform left him easy to pick. However out of place he might look now, that would all change as they pressed into the North. That left Rhaegal, forever the outsider, flying slightly higher with his scales glistening in the last whisper of starlight.
Already, the burning ring of orange pressed against the Eastern horizon. Fire, lifting from the water. It was made more beautiful by the serenity of the air. The sun rose in time for her to look down and see her army progressing along the Kingsroad. They were a terrifying force that trailed forever, simply overwhelming anything nearby. In her mind, the villages and cities along the passage North had been formidable capitals like the desert empires of Essos but her inexperience mislead her. There was nothing of the sort in front of them. Westeros was heavily tribal with its people scattered far and wide, farming the land via a folly of minor lords and castles that were completely indefensible from a sizeable army. They had wagered their entire security on the power of the realm – when that fell, they fell. No wonder her ancestors had thought to conquer it.
Drogon had not escaped the fray at King's Landing unharmed. At some point, he'd been struck by large blocks of rubble which had knocked several of his clam-shaped scales loose. For a while they'd stay in place but the tissue and tendons beneath the surface had gradually let go, allowing the scale to die. One in particularly lifted up and down so fast that it vibrated in the wind releasing a strange strain of music into the air. As the first hint of the God's Eye marsh appeared, the scale snapped off and vanished in an instant – spiralling through the air until it landed in the middle of a wheat field. Beneath lay an uneasy wound of soft flesh. It was pink and raw, bleeding slightly where the last strings of flesh had torn prematurely. The new scale had begun to grow, emerging as a ridge of black. Daenerys had no idea how long it would take to heal but she didn't like the idea of flying him into battle without his armour.
A permanent fog hung over the marshes. They went on forever, marring the edges of the farmland – drowning and killing the crops. Their brown stain began nearest the river so unremarkable that no one had bothered to name before quickly spreading until all Daenerys could see were flat, sunken lands densely packed with dying pines, stinking peat, swap figs and wild vines. The water beneath hid several feet of silt-mud. Jorah had warned her of the armies that had met their end trying to cross the marsh. Those that had not drowned or fallen foul of arrows were dragged into the depths by crocodiles and snakes with jaws that could swallow horses. According to her knight, there was enough steel in the water to open a mine. The Kingsroad wound around the edge of this mess, sometimes too close. It was a classic bottleneck for an army to weather.
Jorah struggled to keep Viserion from diverting in the air. He'd spied a field of sheep grazing in the open and flexed his jaws in a hopeful chirp. Both Drogon and Rhaegal replied in kind, chattering like birds between each other but neither of the smaller dragons would break ranks without Drogon, whom Daenerys managed to hold steady.
As the sun reached its highest point, the blanket of mist on the ground parted and she caught sight of the lake surrounding the Isle of Faces. It was the largest body of land-locked water in Westeros, rumoured to gleam red and gold with the embers of the setting sun. She didn't doubt the stories. Many feared that it with the island at its centre, it resembled the eye of a dragon staring up at the world from the fiery depths. A monster that poisoned the land. Its reputation was one of magic and horror, not helped by the carpet of Weirwood trees densely packed onto the island. Daenerys lifted herself up slightly to peer over Drogon's side. She found the waters of the lake a perfect blue – reflecting the sky more like the eye of Winter, threatening from afar.
Whatever the truth about the place, it was easily defensible. Harrenhal's drunken ruin lay on the Northern bank as a rise of grey, deformed fingers. There was no denying their enormity. Even collapsed into oblivion, the innards of the castle towered over the landscape and in the afternoon they created shadows that stretched like curses. From above, she could see other parts of the structure suffocated by the swamp – laying submerged in the water or entirely overrun. It was one of the first echoes of her family's terror.
She held Drogon back, waiting as Jorah sailed past to circle Harrenhal. People fled from the ruin in their dozens, scampering like rats across the fields. Visersion approached the second tallest but most stable tower of mutilated stone, pulling his wings back at the last moment while thrusting his clawed feet at the surface to land. Unlike the ruins in Essos, nothing tried to grow on Harrenhal. It was a barren vault of melted granite, incinerated by Balerion.
Jorah climbed from Viserion's back, drew his sword and crept over the roof. She waited in the air as he vanished into the depths of the tower. Eventually he emerged at the ground, stepping out to wave her in.
A shiver crept down Daenerys' back the first time she stepped onto Harrenhal's grey exterior. It reminded her of the black forts at the far Eastern edge of the world, though without the oil leeching from the surface. The stories of its demise were well spoken in the East. The Free Cities thought its ruination might topple the Targaryen stranglehold and turn the tide of support against the dragonlords but they were wrong. Here, on the very stone at her feet, was where the Westerosi learned to fear the red banners.
She was standing on the true Iron Throne. The bones of resistance.
"They say this castle is cursed?"
"More like bad luck," Jorah corrected, as they walked through the rambling 'gardens' between the fallen towers. It was perfectly wild with only a few old trees and hedges left from its glory days. The rest was weed, wildflower and saltbush. "Even before the castle was built, this area has been the subject of dark magic. You see there," he nodded through the trees to the murky waters of the God's Eye, "the most reverent place in all the kingdom – and the feared. Very few cross the lake to stand on the island where the red trees bleed."
The idea intrigued – her head tilting curiously at the fearsome swamp.
EASTWATCH BY THE SEA – THE WALL
The screams came and went – dying in the South behind. Petyr did not dare breathe let alone move to lift his cape and glimpse the world. He remained hidden beneath it, relishing the darkness and sound of his own heart beating. Against his skin, he felt the freezing fog brought by the Others. It wasn't moisture suspended in the air but a densely packed storm of ice crystals that rattled against the metal bars of his cage, shattering. The cold was so intense that the links of iron that had kept him an unwilling prisoner snapped.
His cage gave a deafening shriek as it sank through the air and crashed onto the ice – warping and splitting. Petyr was thrown from its corpse, spiralling madly across the ground in a mess of oil and ash. Petrified, he opened his eyes – darting side to side expecting a blade at every edge. He found nothing but fog – pushing into his eyes, consuming even his own limbs. Petyr was lost in it and prayed that whatever crept in the darkness was as blind as him.
Quietly, he crawled forward, searching the ground with his hands until he came upon the pile of possessions the foreign army had stripped him of. His sword, gifted by Sansa, lay atop. He collected it, kneeling to wrap the leather holds around his body. He took the dead Crow's gloves. Turned. And ran.
A cleave of ice hit the left flank of Eastwatch, tearing one of its towers straight off the main structure. The force shattered the ancient granite, pulverising it into showers of black crystal that ended up sandwiched between the ice like black sand.
The catastrophe took part of the floor with it, dragging the slate into a lopsided gait which knocked Lorath and Prince Bu Gai off their feet and sent them tumbling like rag dolls. Bu Gai's inlaid gems glistened with the dying gasp of the last torch. Darkness followed. With thick shields of fog blocking out the moon and stars, they were left blind.
Bu Gai reached across to Lorath, clasping his arm to shake him back to consciousness. It came as a fright to the smaller man – who went to shout only to find Bu Gai's bronze hand smashed over his mouth. Quiet. They had to be silent.
All around them the limbs of Eastwatch fell away, crumbling in pieces along with the Wall, which itself was flaking off into the Bay of Seals. He could hear it crashing into the water. Great, thunderous impacts.
They scrambled to their feet, pressing their backs against the awkwardly slanted castle wall. Lorath looked to his right through the fresh gash in the outer wall and saw the impenetrable mist coiling into the room. It stank of rotten flesh. There was no need to tell Bu Gai what was coming – he'd taken heed of the Dragon Queen's words. He knew that his last breaths were to be drawn here, protecting the realm of the living.
The ground beneath their feet shifted again. They were in danger of being crushed along with the collapsing castle so they climbed up the slanted floor and into the next room. It had a balcony that opened onto the Wall. Emerging, they saw the opal expanse on their left. Not particularly high up, they would have to start climbing to light the beacon at the top of the Wall and raise the alarm. An impossible task. The remains of the staircases swung loose, dangling from their rivets while the wooden platforms lay in sad piles at the bottom of the Wall.
Something grey whistled through the layer of fog beneath them. Lorath turned his head, not quite catching it. He watched the mist curl from the disturbance. His gaze shifted to Bu Gai. He'd seen it too. There was something more than ice down there but where were the men? There should be thousands of foreigners swarming for their swords. Had they all been struck dumb by the collapse?
Lorath found himself shoved toward the uneven ruins by the prince who shouted panicked things in High Valyrian. For all his worth, Lorath grabbed the ice and climbed.
Bu Gai stumbled backwards until his dying body hit the stone wall. He could feel the poison tearing at his nerves sending shrieks of pain in rivers down his back. It did not matter. Turning, he gripped the broken rock and leaned into the mist, peering at the ground. Pol Qo's cone-headed tribal warriors were finally emerging from shock – drawing their savage blades to the freezing air. First a dozen, then a thousand – they amassed from hiding. Their motion cut through the fog, splitting it so that Bu Gai could catch a glimpse of the broken Wall. Clumps of ice, taller than the remaining castle, lay on their sides dripping veils of snow.
Corpses were scattered through the devastation. Bags of bone threaded together with rag. Eyeless skulls. Ancient Night's Watchmen mummified by centuries in the ice. All of it gripped in a deathly silence. Then a tall, white spirit riding a dead horse stepped through one of the gaping fissures in the Wall. He looked upon the scene, a set of piercing blue eyes smiling at the Southern shore. With a terrible cracking howl, he lifted his ice-capped spear and all the bodies in the snow picked up their swords.
Bu Gai screamed the N'ghaiese word for, 'Attack!' rattling his sword. They lurched forwards valiantly, coming down upon the dead things with crushing force. Had they been living, their blood and bones would have formed the next layer of snow but these terrible creatures endured the blows. Steel had no power over magic and in the end they realised they were cutting nothing but air.
The army of the dead pushed back against the warriors, tearing them down and raising them up with their blood still hot in their veins. Seeing this horror, hundreds turned their backs and fled. They were chased through the fog – run down and murdered in relative silence. Those that fought did so back to back, spinning in pairs or small groups, lasting bravely until they too were struck – torn to pieces and revived with a breath from Death. Even the Skagosi waged war. If they could find fire they used it, brandishing swords dipped in burning oil or bare flaming torches in the face of the skeletal soldiers. Bu Gai saw one of the largest lift a half-decayed skeleton above his head and tear the thing in two before kicking over a lantern, setting its corpse alight.
The Other riding the horse tilted his head up, spying Bu Gai in his perch. Bu Gai pushed himself away from the wall. His eyes scanned the ruin. He knew what it was to mark someone for death and that creature had just poured an invisible stain all over his flesh. Above, the man from Lorath continued to struggle through the mess of rock and ice. He was heading for what remained of the staircase. There had to be a way to buy more time.
Summoning the last thrust of life his body had, Bu Gai cast his sword aside, tossing it onto the ground then withdrew a pair of daggers from his belt. He savoured the feel of his heart thrashing in his rib cage and the taste of blood edging into his lips. Bu Gai looked across the top of the fog to the black sea basking in the bleakest gasp of starlight. Somewhere beyond the lull of waves lay Essos and his sandstone empire. The voices of its kings and queens whispered in his ear. Could they feel his soul drawing nearer?
With only sheer will, Bu Gai took the treacherous castle wall at a run – vaulting over the broken ledge before throwing himself off into the fog. He fell, dropping like a stone in a fatal plunge. Daggers angled down. Arms out. Bu Gai smacked into the horseman, knocking both him and the horse the ground. Before either had the chance to retaliate, he stabbed both daggers into the Other's skull. The longest emerged on the other side, forcing its way straight through the Whitewalker's eye, leaving a gaping hole. It screeched in wretched pain, arching its back in spasms.
Bu Gai held fast, latching on to the creature as it rolled across the ice hissing and writhing. He pulled one of the daggers free. It came loose, bloodless. Back in again – splitting the creature's ribs. Still it lived. Like its hoard, refusing to succumb. He plunged the dagger repeatedly, leaving holes in its glistening hide. Ice knit them back together as if it were forged from Winter's heart instead of the stinking mud.
The Whitewalker forced its way on top of Bu Gai, pinning the prince down with its nearly seven feet of taut crystallised sinew. Bu Gai found himself staring up into the blade protruding from the creature's face. There wasn't a drop of blood on it.
Bu Gai didn't see the sword thrust into his stomach. He kicked his feet as the sliver of ice split his flesh, spilling him open. His poisoned blood smoked on the ground, fanning out around him in a red tide. Even the creature withdrew at its bubbling veneer, tilting its head in confusion – almost fear. There it left him, dying in the fog. A patch of sky opened and with his final moments Bu Gai thought he saw the pale halos of his long forgotten stars. Maybe they were nothing but a dream for when he looked again there was only an endless ocean of white.
Lorath climbed for all he was worth but without gloves, the bitter cold snapped at his fingers, numbing them to everything until they simply slipped from the surface. Desperately, he scrambled – clawing at the outcrops of rock he'd passed. He caught several of them but not for long, bouncing between them until he landed back where started.
With heavy groan, Loras turned his head to the side and saw Bu Gai's sword laying on the stone. Limbs seizing, he rolled in its direction until he landed on his knees and saved the sword from the stone. The cracking of ice dragged his attention to the shadow of the castle. A ghostly figure had appeared in the slanted doorway. Gleaming like dew on Spring grass, its white skin skimmed a cage of bones. There was nothing soft to its features. They stuck at severe angles, even its remaining eye which tapered at both sides. The other side of its face had been hideously butchered – the second eye gone and it skin awkwardly knit over the empty crevice.
Lorath wasn't quite sure how to hold the prince's sword and even if he did, he struggled to keep his fingers curled around the grip. Swallowing his fear, Lorath stood his ground. "You're not the first curse a man has seen walk the land!" He growled at it.
The creature ducked out from the door and strode onto the open balcony with Lorath. It was so calm that it wasted a few moments, surveying its battle. Eventually it imposed itself on the pitiful human and batted away its sword with a single swipe.
Lorath startled as the sword in his hands shattered into a thousand pieces at the first touch of the creature's ice-made blade. Learning the lesson of those who'd perished below, Lorath took flight – launching himself at the Wall instead of facing the Whitewalker. This time terror drove him, pushing him higher and higher past chasms he'd been unable to bridge moments before. He gained height, clambering onto the wooden platform. The first post he grabbed tore free, collapsing into nothing before flying down the side of the Wall. Lorath looked down only to see the Whitewalker step casually out of the path of debris. It lifted its hands almost in prayer of the Wall. For a moment, nothing happened. Lorath kept climbing. Then all of a sudden the ice around the structure began to tremble and crack apart. Foot-long bolts embedded in the ice pulled free and soon the combined weight of the structure caused it to tear from its holds.
He screamed as the huge structure fell, taking him with it. A stroke of luck knocked him to the left where he rolled inside one of Eastwatch's open stone windows. He rolled away and covered his head as the hell of wood and ice rained over the remains of the castle like storm. From its snowy depths, the Whitewalker appeared. They moved as the wind, languishing between the realms of magic and hell. Lorath scrambled for the lonely torch burning in its iron hold. Terrified, he brandished it in the mutilated face of the ice creature – swiping it backwards and forwards. The Whitewalker let its ice blade drag along the stone floor, splitting the rock with its tip leaving a wake line.
Lorath sucked in a shuddering breath.
Then, without warning, the enormous section of the Wall behind the Eastwatch shattered into a wave of ice, falling haphazardly in a white tide. The black walls around them collapsed and all at once, Eastwatch vanished.
The roar created by the Wall splintering shook the roots of the earth. There was nothing to compare the force to except perhaps the plume of fury that consumed Old Valyria. The fog that had settled was pushed away, scattered into nothing leaving a clear night with a setting moon casting its silver glow over the scene.
Its perfect structure ruined, the East end of the Wall had birthed from its destruction a new wall. Instead of glossy heights of blue ice, this new wall had formed from a colossal pile of rumble but was no less impenetrable, once again sealing off the North from Westeros. Several hundred wights and two Whitewalkers found themselves cut off from the bulk of the Night King's army. Unable to go back they pushed forwards, perusing their prey.
Some diverted towards the water – stalking into the shallows to pick off those who had run and now found themselves trapped between the dark tides and impassible army. They cut them down leaving crimson swirls in the salt foam.
Petyr ran until his lungs burned through his rib cage. His throat closed over, choking him as his feet slid and stumbled along the ice-covered rubble. He had to clear the open ground. By no means was he near the front of the fleeing pack. He lagged behind, set well into the dead army's ranks. The only thing that had kept him alive was the lateral space that had opened up as people spread out in a fan, scattering to the horizon. To his left and right he had seen warriors slaughtered in violent fits of quick mayhem. Some were overrun, others were slowed down by arrows and spears. All of them rose again to join the chase. Close behind he heard the slap of loose flesh hanging from a dead horse as it galloped towards him. Its silver rider had its arms spread to the night, calling forth the others.
Somehow Petyr made it to the edge of the sparse forest. The trees were like needles, half dead with barely a branch of green between them. Soft drifts of snow collected between them, hampering everyone that tried to vault the gaps. Petyr's early years of play returned to him as surely as the instinct to breathe. He climbed onto the fallen logs, balancing as he raced along their backs – leaping from rock to tree to rock. Anything that wasn't white. He made progress, edging ahead of the ungainly Jogos Nai. Short, they were at a disadvantage in the snow and so too were their corpse doppelgangers. The dead army were only as strong as those they converted and here at least, Petyr had the edge.
Then a miracle.
Picking at pine needles from a fallen tree was a saddled horse. By the looks of the leather, its owner was long dead. Even the steed had scars running down its bronze neck. With no choice, Petyr slowed his pace and clicked his lips at it, beckoning the horse. It dipped its head, at first shying away from him but its training took over and let him take the reins from the snow. There was only one stirrup which he used to mount. If it weren't for the terror pumping through his blood he doubted he'd manage it given the horse's enormous size. It was something the likes of Ned Stark might ride, nothing like the refined mares that he was used to.
He could hear the dead creatures drawing closer and so, without looking back Petyr kicked its sides and whipped it into a frenzied gallop.
Petyr rode for days stopping only to rest his horse. Even then he forced the creature to walk beside him in the forest. They'd found an old hunter's track and used it to gain distance but while he had to rest the dead did not, creeping ever closer. Starving, Petyr drank the snow but found no time to hunt. He chewed pine bark for something to do, eventually slipping into an inhuman state of sheer survival. Every moment was reduced to making it beyond the next bank of trees alive. Conscious thought left. He became less than the lowliest forest hare. There was so little of him left by the time his horse collapsed into the snow at the edge of the Last Hearth that he merely lay there with his leg trapped beneath its weight, enjoying the warmth of its crushing death throes.
