HORN HILL – THE REACH
Darkstar knelt to retrieve an ink-stained page skipping across the courtyard. It was flipping over, catching corners on the soft edges of the ill-matched slabs until it collided and curled around his blistered palm. It was a mess of smudged fingerprints and words sick with fever. He tried to read their madness but it may as well have been writ in Old Ghiscari. The rest of the book lay in two pieces connected by sinuous threads of waxed bindings – dismembered and broken like the story it held.
On his knees, obscured by shadow at the base of one of the castle's towers, Darkstar heard a peculiar rush of air gather force. It was an odd sound. Dull. Understated compared to the grand wheel of life that was in full thrum around the bustling castle in pursuit of crescendo.
Blood sprayed across his face.
His eyes stung – lashes glued together as he blinked the horror into his tears. Warm – it dripped off his hair, onto his tunic, hands and neck. Droplets died on the stone with hollow echoes as petals stripped from their bud. Darkstar did not register the body laid awkwardly and instead saw only the black lake spreading over the courtyard. It soaked into the pages of the book, warping them like the folds of rock in the mountains around Starfall. The castle had always been hungry for blood and here it was, eagerly drinking Gilly into its veins.
Gilly was concealed from Darkstar like the ground hid beneath a mirage in the gap of trembling air. Maybe that was all life was, a lie drifting above the sand.
The impact brought people out from the nearby kitchens. Several screamed. Their pitch woke Darkstar who found himself beside Gilly's corpse. Her eyes were open but death had left a pale finish over their veneers. Half her skull was pulverised by the impact along with limbs which were snapped at unnatural angles. She was both perfect and destroyed. The world had butchered her.
A small noise of distress quivered out of his lips. His head fell back to search out the tower window in bewilderment. Sam sank from view into like a demon. Confusion shifted to fury. He's pushed her… It was the only thing that made sense. That bastard's pushed her out the window.
Darkstar placed the back of his hand delicately on Gilly's cheek. She was warm. How far was she from life? A few breaths. No more. Death was a door and she'd slammed it shut.
The blood kept flowing. It soaked into his pants as he unhooked his cloak and laid it over her body. Amethyst, it made a pool of Nightshade. Another wasted life of pointless suffering en-route to a bitter death. The gods enjoyed misery. Those soulless cunts in their caverns and pits. Darkstar was determined that while ever he lived he would find a way to rob those wrathful creatures of their wretched lust. If they truly lived perhaps they could also be killed...
A crowd gathered at his side, shocked and crying. Little Sam… If Lord Tarly really had turned mad, there was no telling what Gilly's death might bring. A deeper madness – violence – rebellion, even. He had seen volatile cities go to war in Dorne over less. Horn Hill was bursting with thousands of King's Landing refugees frothing with revenge fantasies for the terror of Daenerys' conquest and Sam Tarly represented her crown and her slaughter better than most. This act of violence against Gilly might be the spark needed for the fire. It was possible these people could forget their prejudice for her Crow father and instead latch onto her blood – paint their anger with it.
He left Gilly's body in the courtyard and fled to his rooms. Darkstar packed, changed his clothes and saddled his horse. The mare was skittish as he led her out of the castle stables and into the field where he tied her to a rotting pear tree which, despite its age, was flushed with a crown of new leaves and unseasonal blossoms. The creature was black like the soot that stuck to the fields and Darkstar knew that the mare be no good when the snows set in. He could not bring himself to choose another though, not when she had pale blue Northern eyes.
On foot, Darkstar entered the terraces where he'd seen one of Gilly's ladies playing with Little Sam. He found them in the shade with the woman singing to amuse the child. The fat babe babbled back joyfully, unaware.
The nursemaid startled in alarm. Whether it was the manner of Darkstar's brusque advance or the fact that he'd neglected to wash Gilly's blood from his face, the woman took the child and backed away, issuing empty threats. He reasoned with her for as long as he dared. She even gave a desperate offer to accompany them. Darkstar was tempted but…
"The boy's only chance is if no one knows who he is, not even him. He'll be a Dayne. My son. Gilly's horror ends right here. Little Sam will never learn that his father was a monster and his siblings walking with the dead."
The wailing from the courtyard weakened her resolve. She eyed Little Sam. With his pale gold hair and crystal eyes, who would believe he was the Dayne's son? Reluctantly, she passed Little Sam into Darkstar's arms. Blood smeared across his round, white cheek.
"You should leave this place." He added, warning the woman. "Head South, as far as you can manage. The Summer Isles even... Do not die as fodder while your lords war for a crown. Winter is coming. You know what that means. Bells ringing in every city."
She gave him a small nod before kissing Little Sam's forehead. The child smiled and caught her hair in his fingers. "Winter is already here," she whispered, nodding at the pale clouds gathering over the distant mountains.
Sam starred at the hateful dragon figurine for so long and with such intensity that he imagined its three monsters twisting around each other like snakes in a pit. Targaryens lusting after blood. Blind. Burning. The realm had drowned in it once.
His ghosts were gone.
Gilly too.
Her death had shunted the room into excruciating focus. The mad reverie that had festered in Sam's life vanished in the instant bone shattered. Now he was left with the whole frigid hell of reality. With clarity came shame. It took his soul with such force that no other emotion could fight its way to the surface. His face set as if it were stone.
Gilly was dead. He'd killed her. Accidentally but she was dead all the same. He thought about climbing onto the sill and following her into the depths but that didn't seem fair. In the afterlife Gilly was free of him. If he were ever to see her face again Sam knew that he needed to do it on his knees. Pay his debt over a lifetime. He would serve even though it would never be enough. And Little Sam… His soul broke for what he'd done. Instead of hissing curses at unseen spectres, Sam crumbled to the floor under the weight of his fears. He beat his fists on the stone until they were bloody and the pain dissuaded him from the violence.
He could not be a Lord. He could not be his father's son. There was only one place for those who had fallen beyond redemption. The Watch. This was his fault. He'd made a pact with the gods and broken it. Sam had promised to be a creature of nothing and now the Old Gods had made certain of it. They kept promises with the living, had Jeor Mormont not warned him? Never defy a god, the old Bear had said, never.
Sam took only one thing with him from the castle. The dragon statue. A reminder of his debt…
No one stopped him as he left the castle on foot with the scraps of his life. Sam walked through the fields, over the stone bridges that criss-crossed the river several times and then up the rough roads that wound their way toward Highgarden. From there, he headed West along the Kings Road, following the same path he had taken years before. Sam knew the way back to death. First, to the Seaguard where he intended to pay his final respects to the unknowable Sunset Sea and then from there, the road North – to Jon – to his king. The King in the North.
KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS
"What do you mean, 'the Prince of Dorne is dead'?" Olenna demanded of Varys. The threat in her voice dragged the secretive man out of the shadows and into the scattered firelight.
Varys had a nose for power and obeyed as keenly as a sword held to his throat. No one really knew how far the old flower would go to sate her fury and that was rather the point. He didn't like mysteries – volatile ones, even less. "That is what they say, Lady Olenna..." Varys toyed with her title and dipped his head low in an unnecessary mark of subservience.
"Who are they?" Olenna demanded, not caring if it was the Spider or her grandson who answered. Loras was slouched on the Iron Throne as if it were a lounge in a favourite brothel. She had half a mind to knock him off his perch. The young bent terribly quickly to the corruptions of power. They'd no stamina for virtue and she was furious to see the weakness manifest in her flesh and blood.
"Ravens from the South," Varys cleared his throat, proceeding after a quick exchange of glances with Loras. "They flew in advance of your ships. Prince Quentyn is dead. Murdered with a relic from his famous collection. A spear, they say..."
"They – they – they!" Olenna stormed. She raised her hands to the ruined Throne Rome. "You sit here in the rubble like a pair of blind beggars waiting for birds to drop scraps. Leave us..." Olenna hissed. The guards sank away into the walls after Loras waved them off but Varys lingered, treading water. "That means you, too – my inconstant friend. What? There's more..."
"Yes, there is more."
"Tell me fast, Varys. I am in no mood for games."
Varys bowed again, lower. "Quentyn Martell was the last of his name. His father's fears of succession were accurate. With no blood heirs to pass on the Crown and a civil war so fresh that its combatants are still bandaging wounds, there is a great deal of uncertainty about who is to rule Dorne. We have had no ravens from interested parties and so we must assume that the Southern lands are poised to enter war. The Yronwoods, in particular, have a bone to pick with anyone that flies a Targaryen banner after Mormont killed their champion. Lord Anders Yronwood has done little but gather forces under the Torrentine banner. He spreads whispers from the Stone Way to Starfall."
"Let us hope that Yronwood has not noticed the cracks in the Capital or he might reach for a greater prize." Olenna added, dryly.
"The whole realm?" Loras mouthed, until his grandmother sent him a glare to crack mountains.
Varys wisely intervened. "The kingdom would be foolish to rely on Dorne for anything at all until a new ruler is crowned from amongst the snakes. It is best that The Crown remain neutral rather than risk offending the victor. Not even the Dornish can keep track of the layers in their plots but the sword sorts out the chaos soon enough."
Olenna's eyes narrowed with impatience. "Yes. This we knew. A child would know this. Why are you still here?"
"Margaery..." Another bow as he felt the metaphoric chill of steel on his neck. "The ravens say it is she who killed Quentyn. In his chambers. Self defence, perhaps. If there was a struggle we'll never know. It is of no interest to the Dornish now that there's a Crown on the table. His body was burning on a barge before the day's end. They say the perfumed smoke had eyes..."
Varys had Olenna's full attention. "Where is she now? Where is my granddaughter… Coups are dangerous affairs. I wager the odds are even between rival factions murdering a foreign princess as a symbol of the old reign and one of Martell's loyal supporters seeking personal vengeance."
"No one knows where she is. Princess Margaery was gone by the time they found the Prince. She was injured – all accounts detailed a great deal of blood on the floor but as to where she is – there is nothing. It is as if she vanished like a ghost."
"For the best, grandmother."
Olenna turned on her grandson. She could not stand to see the change in his demeanour. "For the best in the short term, that may well be but how do you imagine a girl raised in the courts would survive pregnant and alone in a foreign land? I am going back for her. At once."
"No. Wait..." A rumble of authority rose in Loras'. His grandmother stopped. It was unclear if she had stopped for her kin or if Olenna realised that as caretaker, Loras had real power over these decisions and that defying that power would weaken Loras' delicate position. "Wait." He tempered it with something softer. "You cannot go back to Dorne – for any reason. Something has happened in The Reach..."
After his grandmother had left, Loras called Varys back to his side. The Spider leaned over the boy's shoulder, listening intently to the whispers of pretending kings, as he had done for more years than he cared to count.
"I want Lord Tarly found," Loras instructed.
"To what end?" Varys asked, carefully.
"Lord Tarly has committed murder – a high born Lord pushing his wife from a castle window – making a bloody mess all over the courtyard? It is an action that cannot be left unpunished or other lords might get to thinking that our disinterest is weakness. Then those lords could meditate a little and wonder what else they might do without our approval."
"Such as… Start a rebellion?"
"I'll let you use that vigorous imagination of yours. Either way, make sure Lord Tarly is found. I want him on his knees in this room before the month is out. Can you do that?"
"I should hope so." Varys replied. Indeed, he would submit himself to the flames if he failed to locate someone as careless and predictable as the young Tarly.
As Varys left the fractured hall, he could not stop a smile creeping onto his lips. Loras Tyrell was many things but a fearsome ruler was not one of them. He played at tyranny like a child picks up a wooden sword. His grandmother was right to linger scornful looks upon him. Not even a master conspirator like Olenna Tyrell had concealed her disappointment.
He stopped and placed his hand on a pillar as the ground shook softly beneath. Tiny pieces of the building broke off and clattered to the stone floor around him along with rivers of dust. It lasted moments, no more and when it was done Varys averted his eyes to the twelve foot gaps in the palace that had once been windows but now towered as voids to the outside world.
It is the foundations settling, Varys told himself the same story that they had spread through city. Days dragged to weeks and yet the tremors persisted. Archways cracked. Rocks in the city wall tumbled into the sea. Houses collapsed on their inhabitants.
Varys closed his eyes and thought of the god hissing to him from the flame.
'They're coming...' Those filthy words came back to him. 'Burn it all.'
Olenna's carriage fell into a hole and shook violently from side to side. Its insides chimed with pointless lace and pearl trappings. In peace they were mediocre but within the thick of war they tested her patience. The King's Road was in the worst state near the city walls where King's Landing had shed its stone like scales off a dragon's back. Corpses decomposed in the mud, stinking and putrid with bone picked clean by ravenous animals during the day and crabs at night when the tides lifted and drowned the death with a fresh hell. A layer of ash hung low over the water – a mix of the bonfires set up around the city and the constant trail of smoke from the Dragonmount. The city had survived. It would be rebuilt but Olenna wondered if it would ever shake its sins off or if, like the Dragon Pit, they'd live as skeletal reminders as the bare branches in a sickly hedge.
Cities are eternal…
A smirk crossed her lips. Only fools believed themselves impervious to the motions of ruin. Olenna's childhood was filled with the stories of desert graveyards where the blocks of lost empires lay as bones. If empires could die, so too could cities. Houses were even more fickle, vanquished by marriage or war. The Tyrells were close to death – so near that she could see the frost on her skin. Her granddaughter's child was the rightful heir to the throne and by all the gods she'd have them safe.
Through the dense forest and out for a brief glimpse at the Narrow Sea from the cliffs, Olenna eyed the three ships that had latched onto the wind. They raced toward Dorne on her behalf. They made her heart ache. Despite Varys' warning, there were two groups on board. The brazen Tyrell soldiers in all their polished armour and blue feathers and the deck hands who would roam the streets at night, searching quietly for Margaery.
As much as she hated it, Varys was right. If Olenna followed her heart, the realm might well starve. Family was everything to her – everything – and yet she could not find it in her to defy reason. Her own people of The Reach would be prey for minor lords who'd been sniffing around Highgarden for centuries, eyeing her walls with jealousy.
THE RUINS OF CASTLE BLACK – THE WALL
The ground was an impassable ruin of black rock, ice and intemperate rivers fed from the glacial melt of The Wall. It had never looked more like a fragile curtain of snow – a sheet of silk dividing the present from its long forgotten songs. Thorne could hear them on the air. Moans. Hisses. Thunder and wracking screams. Each one accompanied by a fresh fall of ice tumbling in a cascade of white. It was beautiful and terrifying. How could eternity perish with such a brief brush of flame?
Quickly, as it turned out.
Thorne stumbled instinctively backwards as the ice behind the entrails of Castle Black rumbled. The top of The Wall had twisted and snapped under the violence of the initial explosion. There was an overhang on one side dangling free and – and bodies sliding off. This far away they were barely black specks but every now and then he caught a glimpse of someone's sword flicker in and out of life like a star. There was nothing left of the castle. He thought of its libraries reduced to ash and the fragile body of his feathered friend not realising that the bird was watching, perched on a gnarled root of black stone, every quill in place.
He swore when he realised that the shadows at the base of The Wall were actually glimpses of The Haunted Forest. So much of its girth had melted in the fire that it had become translucent – like the first layer of ice on the ocean, still creaking and shifting into its prison. It wouldn't hold the weight for long. He could hear fatal cracks... If it all decided to smash apart and fall well shit it would probably crush him into dust.
Thorne turned his back on The Wall and surveyed the eight foot split in the rock at his feet housing a shallow torrent of water in its throat. Black ice lined its edges and beyond that, there was a dragon writhing around in agony caught on the pines at the edge of the ruined forest. The Queen lay nearby.
He had seen the bones of the dead wake themselves to pursue her. What did that make this queen? The same as the Knight King? A necromancer from the East – a walking god…? Were the threads of the world's magic all the same or was she part of the cycle of terror that plagued humanity? He knew little of these things except the whispers his men brought him.
Growling, Thorne slid down the embankment, waded through the water and used a pair of daggers as ice picks to claw his way up the other side. The dragon hadn't noticed him yet. It was busy chewing through the pine branches that held its badly damaged wings in place. Carefully, he crossed the hell-scape. Tremors shook the ground every few minutes. He couldn't tell if the ground was damaging The Wall or if the shaking was caused by pieces of it smashing into the ground. Maybe tunnels were collapsing beneath them. Secret pieces of the North closing forever.
As Thorne came within half a dozen feet of the Queen, Drogon lifted his head. With one wing free, the dragon swivelled with a shriek of agony and roared violently in his direction. Even without the flames, Thorne could feel the heat in the air. He stood his ground, allowing the force of the sound to snatch at his clothes.
"Easy now, yer stupid thing..." Thorne pleaded, hands out in submission. "I didn' survive all tha' godsdamn shit ter be roasted by a fuckin' ungrateful lizard. Yer want me ter help you get off tha' tree, eh?" He added, even though the dragon couldn't understand a word he was whispering. "Then – I just – need ter – check on yer mum..." He risked a few steps with every word.
Drogon remained wary, keeping one of his huge eyes fixed on Thorne but for now all he did was snarl.
The Queen lay half-naked on the ground, covered in soot and darkening bruises that took to her pale skin like wine. She had a clean break in her left arm which he immediately knelt to inspect. Thorne tore what he could from his sodden clothes before taking her slender limb between his hands and setting the bone back in place. She stirred as he wound the filthy rag around her arm. Her blood soaked through it faster than he could wrap.
"Your Grace… Your Grace?" He repeated, over and over as she found her way back to the world. "There isn't much time."
Daenerys' body ached with pain but her dreams were fearful, chasing her into consciousness. "Jorah..." She whispered, before realising that it was a Crow, not a knight by her side holding her hand. Almost immediately, she heard the cries of her dragon.
"Too fast..." Thorne pushed her back down to the ground. He waited as the Queen's eyes momentarily rolled, almost slipping back into unconsciousness. "Slower," he insisted, tying the fabric around her arm for all the good it did. This time, Thorne helped her to sit. She showed no shame for her bare chest deepening his belief that the stories of her rise were true. It was no wonder that Mormont idolised her. Bears coveted strength and the Queen was a dragon…
"Drogon..." Daenerys whimpered, gazing mournfully at her child. The creature cried back – a harrowing sound that shivered through the air.
"He'll be alright..." Thorne replied, with no idea whether it was true or not. He'd seen large flaps of skin hanging loose on the wings while the ground surrounding the dragon was littered with scales. He hated the sound that it was making. Now he understood why the ancient poets wrote about dragon song, it was both wretched and immeasurably beautiful, as though the notes of agony were twisting in his soul. For all Thorne felt, the Queen lived the pain with her bastard offspring. "Is it true that you burned yourself in a pyre to hatch 'em?" Thorne asked, if only to distract her while he checked her body for more serious injuries.
Several tears chased each other through the soot on her cheeks. "Y-yes..." Daenerys replied, suddenly feeling small and helpless. Her arm ached where the bone scratched against shattered edges. She bit her lip to hold back a cry when the Commander brushed his fingertips over another sore above her hip. The material had been shredded and burned into it leaving a mess.
"Yer just – walked inter a bonfire an' all? We 'eard the stories all the way at The Wall."
"I knew," she whispered, as he picked the pieces of her shirt from the flesh. "I knew that it was the right thing to do. Life for life. Blood for blood. There were three of us in the fire that night. My Kharl, the witch who killed him and me. Sometimes I wonder if I have cursed my children with their ghosts. Blood magic is..."
"Forbidden." Thorne finished, for her.
"It is honest." She corrected. "Three souls for three dragons. This one," Dany nodded at the beautiful pitch dragon, "he has all the wildness of the Dothraki hoard but of my children, his love is the strongest. Drogon comes when I call him. Tempers his violence when I demand it. Murders if I choose..." And for the first time she appreciated that it was her who had raised Drogon to be the blood soaked creature that he was. She had revelled in his power just as she had done when Drogo stood before his Khalasar and whipped them into a lust.
"Apologies, yer Grace..." Thorne whispered, as she bucked away from his hand. With each piece of cloth he tore from her wound, another thick spill of blood dripped onto the rock where they sat. "Are the other two like this one?"
Dany shook her head. "No..." She replied, closing her eyes for a moment. "Viserion, he is like me… Always wandering. Always off on his own adventure. He lives the dream that I could not. Sleeps in mountain caverns and explores twice as far as the others. And he's beautiful," she added, opening her eyes with a smile. "Gold like the sands of Essos."
"I would like ter see a gold dragon before I die." Thorne admitted. They were terrifying things to behold but their presence was akin to that of a deity. They drew a person in. Lured their flesh toward the row of fangs…
"I never understood Rhaegal as well as Ser Jorah. He is a quiet, emerald dragon who likes to hunt through the long grass of the plains and sleep on the coals of our camp fires. Jorah would sing to him and Rhaegal sang back. 'That dragon always has one eye on you,' Jorah used to say to me, when we were wandering the Red Waste. He protects and yet he is the most fearful. That fear burned a great city to ash."
Thorne finished with her. He rocked back off his aching knees. The Queen was crying silently.
"They are my power."
It was unclear to Thorne if she even remembered that he was sitting with her.
"Without my children, what army would follow me? What empire would submit to my rule? I sit on the Throne with the same fear as Rhaegal."
"Good."
"What?"
"I was worried, before I met yer. They said that this Dragon Queen was some sort o' Eastern deity come to reduce the world ter ashes but yer just the same as all the rest. Yer sword might come with fangs an' fire but every ruler this empire has suffered was a warlord. Fer all the bickering of spymasters an' noble houses at the end o' the day all that matters is the size of your sword.
"There was nothin' peaceful about King Robert Baratheon takin' the throne from yer father. Mind yer, he was a mad fuckin' cunt. Not always but – the end there… Putting them Northerners in cages only ter set them alight." He hesitated but Dany made no protest of his description. "Baratheons – Starks too – they turned the realm into a wasteland fer the sake of a woman an' her child. All for what? Nothin' ever came of it because a strength is the most important mandate if yer want to run seven, disjointed states."
Thorne sat back. He never imagined that he would kneel before a sovereign, certainly not after taking up the Black. The games of kings and queens had cost him too much already. "Why do yer want ter rule this shitty little island anyway?" It was a fair question. "All of Essos, yer had. Whole great big fuckin' cities a damn prettier sight than King's Landing."
Daenerys locked eyes with him. The Commander reminded her of Illyrio who had sat her down once on his balcony with the Summer air and vines shivering in the wind. The perfect blue strip of water beyond and on it, somewhere, his ships sailing toward Westeros. "It was a dream," she whispered. "A foolish, child's delight. I thought Westeros was my home because I was born here – my father was born here and his father but now..." Dany averted her eyes, levelling them at the ice and black monstrosities of rock. The scene was alien to her – clawing at her body with its hostile embrace. "I've never been further from home."
"Then why?" Thorne insisted, as he shrugged off his torn cloak. He offered the sodden thing to the Queen, who took it and, with his help, draped it around her shoulders to cover her nakedness.
"Another dream." Daenerys admitted. "This one – different. I see things that I should not. Glimpses through the fog."
"Dragon dreams..." Thorne shook his head. "There are Freefolk who swear they've seen our future through the eyes of the trees. A Stark boy came to us from beyond The Wall not long ago. He'd spent time in a cave beneath one of the old white trees listening to their whispers. The boy – Bran – he swore that a Targaryen taught him how to dream. He was afraid, like you."
Daenerys was about to ask who when a snap of ice turned their heads. The Wall continued to bleed snow in great white veils. There were boulders cleaving off as heavy, uneven overhangs of ice broke free and plummeted to their deaths. The smouldering wreck of Castle Black and the ground beneath where the tunnels had collapsed continued to boil like a furnace. Its heat was melting The Wall.
"What is that…?" Daenerys breathed, seeing shadows gather behind the thin ice.
The shadows were drawing together, forming a line. Thorne swallowed his fear. "The dead..."
There was nowhere to run and nothing to run with. They could both hear and see the ice cracking. The Wall's demise was imminent. Nothing could stop it falling. It would be like Eastwatch, smashing down without remorse.
"Drogon," said Daenerys, gripping onto Thorne's shoulder as she stood. "We have to free him."
With the Queen at his side, the dragon allowed them to approach. Thorne saw at once the damage the creature had suffered. Not only had its wings been torn open like the sails of a ship shredded in a storm but the ground beneath it was littered with black scales. They had tumbled like fallen shields, stacked atop one another or angled against stumps.
"Stop – stop..." Daenerys begged Drogon, before speaking to him in High Valyrian.
Thorne watched the dragon dip its head right down to slide its nose and cheek against the Targaryen. The sounds it made were those of an infant, frightened and calling for its mother. She placed her hands on its face and stroked the dragon until its huge eyes closed and its struggling ceased.
"Try – try and keep him quiet," Thorne said, moving in. "I can free his wing if you give me a moment."
He started by snapping the smaller branches left over from felled pines. Many of them had hooked over, snaring the delicate skin in a mess of blood and bark. Having no sword, at first Thorne worked with his hands – pushing the branches to breaking point with his bare hands until he stumbled upon an axe left by the Crows who used to collect firewood for the castle. With it, he was able to hack his way through the thicker trunks. It was difficult work and the dragon grew restless. Thorne could hear its wings dripping blood all around him like some kind of demonic rain. As he moved under the shade of its wing to sever another trunk, he found himself walking beneath a shower of it. There, in the darkness, he listened to the Winter air reverberating inside its chest. It reminded him of the wind channelling through the chasms of the sea cliffs.
Thorne had never thought of dragons as being living creatures. They were monsters – fire and flesh like their Targaryen masters but here, so close that he could smell the salt and smoke in its scales, Thorne understood that they were alive.
"Easy..." He said, as he kicked free the freshly cut tree. Eventually it was shaken loose and finally Drogon could fold his wing into its protective position on his back.
Suddenly exposed to the light, Thorne returned his gaze to The Wall. The army of the dead was still there, waiting for the last of the ice to fail. They were patient. What was another few minutes after a thousand years? The dead did not perceive time.
"Well," Thorne added, as he stumbled back to the front of the dragon where he found the Queen, "will it fly?"
She led him away from the treacherous forest and onto the exposed rock. Smoke fumed from its nostrils as it turned and licked at the bleeding flesh near its shoulder. Drogon seemed reluctant to unfurl his wings, preferring instead to paw at the ground in frustration.
"I don't know..." Daenerys admitted. "He has never been this badly injured." She tried to coax him through commands but Drogon lost patience and snapped his jaws in her direction, clearly frustrated.
"If we can't fly, we'll 'ave ter walk." Thorne spun slowly around, surveying the terrain. They could go East or West along The Wall – hope that they made it to one of the other castles or flee direction South. Everything was too far and all of it easy to track. If the ice gave out the dead would be upon them in hours. "Your Grace..."
"I know, I know..." She echoed his fears. "What did you say before? That the King or leader, whomever he is he must go to one of your castles?"
"The Nightfort – yes. It is a guess, nothing more."
"It shall have to do."
"And if I am wrong?"
"Then you are wrong, Lord Commander." Daenerys pulled the cloak around her. There was an unnatural heat in her veins that kept her warm despite the snow that had started to fall across the landscape. "Even if Drogon cannot fly, we'll be faster on his back. Up – go..."
On the Northern side of The Wall, a pair of Crows found themselves perched on the freezing steel of an enormous, swinging anchor. The weapon meant to dislodge any Freefolk idiot enough to climb the towering hell of ice now hung freely, barely moving in the gale.
The two men clung to both each other and the thick chain links. They folded themselves together like a piece of black weed caught on a fishing line. After the terror of the initial fall in which they'd been sent hurtling along The Wall as it had partially collapsed, the two now found themselves three hundred feet above the ground.
...and thank the gods for that.
Even at this height, they could clearly see the black smear of the Night King's army pouring out of the Haunted Forest. They just kept coming. Seeping from the trees.
"Gods. How many are there?"
"Shut up." Came the hoarse reply, from a throat ruined by screaming.
"They just – just keep coming..."
"Quiet."
"Why? S'not like they can hear us all the way up 'ere."
The other Crow shook his head and dipped it down, trying to protect his face from the wind. Maybe the other man was right. They were so high up that even the trees were joined together. His body shook as he watched the dead assembling below. He could not help but wonder if this was only part of the army. Even then, it was so large that its ranks must be filled by entire civilisations that had lived and died before the Age of Men.
"What we going ter do?" The first Crow asked. "I mean, we're stuck up 'ere, ain't we?"
"For the moment? Nothing." He replied. "Nothing at all. We might be stuck up 'ere but nothin' can get ter us either. None of them bastards, at least." Besides, he had a terrible feeling that getting down wasn't going to be a problem. He'd been listening to the ice wall behind them groan and crack for hours. This side looked alright but he could hear and feel pieces of it falling apart. Soon, he imagined, the whole thing would come down in a catastrophe that they'd latched themselves onto. He shook his head in dismay realising that his mother had been right all along. Sometimes life was about making it to the next breath and nothing more.
KARHOLD – THE NORTH
Petyr Baelish stared at the remaining shreds of the Karhold banner as a pitiful morning crept, cold and silver, into the world. It moved as moonlight – barely touching the thick frost that lurked under the fog. Some of it was smoke which poured out of the village. During the night, the fire had spread through many buildings with no one to stop it. Eventually the freezing temperate had been its death. Now the ash lay with the ice.
He was not entirely alone in Karhold. Several dozen orphaned children, elderly and invalid Northerns had locked themselves inside the stronger buildings, lit their hearths and prayed to whatever gods would listen. They'd be better to throw themselves onto the embers of their homes. The only thing that waited for the weak in this world was walking death.
Tempted by the false serenity of the beautiful forest with its ancient trees dipping over the edge of the Western fortifications, Baelish momentarily fantasised about fading away into the obscurity of a simple life. It was a fiction that sufficed – for a few breaths at least – but he knew very well that he couldn't stay at Karhold. Keeps, even ruined ones like this, never stayed empty for very long. There were plenty of cold, desperate people looking for strong walls. He was no match for even the least able of their number. Fighting was one skill he did not possess, nor did he believe that it was possible for him to learn it. The gods had taught him long ago that holding a sword would lead only to his blood on the dirt. No. He had to leave.
Leave to where?
His first instinct was to head to Winterfell. His illogical heart played fantasies in his mind about tearful reunions and returning to his former role as a feather in the shadow of a Wolf Queen but cold logic hissed cruel but true things into his ear. He knew very well that Lady Stark was surrounded by a pack of men who'd savage him like dogs or worse, the wolf herself would stare him down for disobeying her command to serve at The Wall. South, then – away from the death riding the heels of Winter. There were more cities than stars, or so he used to tell himself. Plenty for a man like him to start the climb.
Sansa. Those eyes of hers would follow. If he betrayed her now, that would be the end. The flicker of Cat in the fire of his heart. Who was he to fool the gods? His whole life, all his schemes and manipulations, violence and debauchery – it had been a means to a position by her side. Baelish had been born without value and so he'd set about earning it. If he ran now it was toward nothing.
His breath shook out of his rib cage. Baelish eyed the Northern skies. His heart stumbled about, sometimes thumping and at others, stopping entirely. Flashes of the cage and flame held to its bars violated his mind. He shivered at the thought of the Targaryen's mongrel army scattered on the snow.
North.
There was no escaping it.
THE WALL – THE NORTH
Dragons were faster than horses but quick to tire. The immensity of their form was better suited to gliding on currents of air than scrambling over the Northern landscape. It had only taken a few minutes for them to leave the exposed bedrock and start out across the snow that laid in front of the rest of The Wall. The world went on and on in front of them. A white hell. Drogon moved like a lizard, always shifting from side to side.
Thorne kept his eyes East, backwards to the shrinking ruin of Castle Black. Snow fell. Soft, spiralling in lazy eddy currents as if it were kicked off the top of The Wall. The forest thickened quickly as they moved beyond the reach of the old castle. Here, it had not been culled back by successive generations of Crows looking for warmth. There was even an abundance of thick brush, easily six feet high. Impenetrable. They could not change their mind now even if they wanted to.
"How long will it take us to reach this Nightfort of yours?" Daenerys asked, sitting beside Thorne on Drogon's back. She held on tightly with her uninjured arm. The ride was difficult with the poor creature lumbering with a trial of blood left behind him on the ice.
"Days, at least, Your Grace. There is Queensgate and Deep Lake to pass through though. Neither will be much good to us. Your dragon must fly, and soon."
Daenerys had a better look at his wings which were folded around where they were sitting. She thought about touching them but every time she'd tried so far, Drogon would buck and cry, terrifying the Lord Commander. Dragons took a while to get used too... "See for yourself, Lord Commander. His wings are ruined. I am sure that, given time he will fly again but there is nothing mythical about their healing abilities. Dragons are like any other beast."
"Then we should pray that The Wall behind Castle Black holds. Your army is split in three and none of its head can reach the break point in time. There will be ravens at the Queensgate."
"I must send one to Jorah Mormont. He is the only one who can bring my dragons to us. No matter what happens – he must get that message."
"And where is he? Where do I send the raven?"
"I'm not sure..." She admitted. "We send them everywhere – as many as we can. Start with Winterfell. Bears and wolves hide together – or so a wise man once told me. What's that?"
A white cloud was rising from The Wall in the distance. At first it looked like smoke but it didn't plume up into the sky but rather died, falling toward the ground as gravity sank its fangs in.
"Oh fuck..." Thorne shifted between Drogon's scales. It took a few minutes for the sound to catch up with the vision. There was a low, shuffling rumble – like thunder crossing the mountains or a storm deep in the ocean. "It's collapsing. We're – we're only a few mile' away..."
Daenerys immediately climbed up along Drogon's neck so that she could get closer to the hole in the dragon's scales that functioned as his ear. Thorne ducked as the creature tried to unfurl its wings. It spread them right out with a wail of pain – snapping its jaws from side to side as the wing-tips scraped in the snow leaving bloody marks. The dragon tried several times to drag its body off the ground but the holes in its wings were too big and it simply could not generate enough lift. Eventually, it gave up with freshly open wounds glistening in the light. The creature kept its increased pace, galloping along with such wild motion that Thorne laid flat on his stomach holding onto a protrusion of bone.
"Maybe they won't see us!" Daenerys shouted over the sound of her dragon racing across the ice. Drogon was moving with such force that the powder covering the ice kicked up onto his back. Between that and the gentle snowfall, Drogon's black scales were dulled off to a grey.
"Your Grace, I know what I saw beneath the castle. The dead can feel your magic. They are drawn to it. No matter what happens, you must make it to Queensgate and send your ravens. Your knight will come for you but you cannot allow these creatures – whatever they are – to take possession of your magic. Do you understand? You said that you had visions, dreams… They may have drawn you here as a trap."
Daenerys felt ice run down her spine. Her visions… She thought back to them. What had been their muddled purpose? Gifts from her ancestors – random fragments of nothing – or were they as the Commander said, a trap…? "If I can't get to the castle and I..." She could not bring herself to say it. "Their king is a powerful necromancer. He will only bring me back."
"Bastard things." Thorne was diverted by the sight of a black stain leaking out onto the ice in the distance. The dead were through The Wall. Both of them watched in silence, trying to make out minute differences in the blur until they realised with certainty that the dead were getting closer. "All these centuries. The brotherhood of our order sitting on their arses policing them Wildling cunts an' now the fuckin' war has started an' there's only a dragon and a single fuckin' Crow."
The Wall had collapsed in several places around the ruin of Castle Black. Two Crows had seen it, swinging from a war anchor as the white sheets cracked into several large slithers and smashed together like a pile of knives sharpening each other's blades. The whole mess fell slowly. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. Impossibly beautiful features were gouged out of the ancient façade only to be destroyed moments later. There was no care for anything but the chaos of violence.
This, thought one of the Crows, as their anchor fell another twenty feet – is how the gods forged the world. With fury and deafening noise.
It was certain that they would die.
The fall was too far and with each shudder of the chain or sudden drop as it tore through another swing, they closed their eyes and prayed. Ten minutes passed and they had run out of prayers. If their souls were not safe from eternal torment they never would be and so they entered a bizarre euphoria of simply living the violence.
With each moan of agony The Wall gave out. They inched closer to the ground where the dead army were already pouring into the South through every available crack. As they got closer to the ground, the Crows were able to watch as their dead friends were raised to their feet and sent off as new recruits in the Night King's army.
That was the fate awaiting them… Unless their demise with The Wall buried them too deep for the Night King to notice.
It came as a great shock when their steel anchor hit the ground with a sift thud and gently rolled over onto its side, depositing the Crows in a deep pile of powder. Nine feet down – they were instantly buried in white prisons. One Crow looked up through the hole above his head to see part of the anchor's chain smash to the ground. He felt the impact through the snow. Ultimately harmless.
Falling into a snow drift was ordinarily cause for alarm but instinct froze both men. They remained safe in their tombs, listening as The Wall continued to collapse around them in fits of chaos. They weren't sure what they expected – to be dragged up by bony arms and slaughtered? Crushed by a block of ice? Frozen where they were and forgotten for some future creature to find? Dug up by wolves and pulled apart, sinew to bone?
The possibilities for slaughter continued to come and go as nothing more than fantasies.
Eventually, the world fell quiet.
Hours or days, the Crows lost track of time but eventually The Wall settled into its new state of ruin.
Then came the sound of dead as they scratched across the ice like the rasp of waves during low tide.
Even that faded until there was nothing left except the howl of the wind.
