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Chapter Thirty-Three: The Wars to Come

All that was visible of Drogon was two red eyes reflecting the light of a nearby brazier. The rest of him seemed swallowed in the darkness of a night that fell swift and hard over the whole North. But when he turned his head toward Daenerys, his scales rippled as his neck twisted. Instinctively wary, Lord Manderly shifted his massive bulk a nervy backwards step. Jon could feel the apprehension oozing from him as they came to a rest, side by side. He tried to assure the old Lord that the dragons were quite tame but the words felt oddly hollow. Those beasts answered only to Daenerys and well Jon knew it.

The other two curled up and slept where they landed in the courtyard, impervious to the heavy snows that melted in the heat of their bodies. Fire made flesh. That had been clear to see when the snows hissed and steamed wherever the hot scales of the dragons made contact with it. Between them, that night, they'd consumed several whole sheep and Drogon was left gnawing on the bones of a horse that had died during the short journey from the harbour to the castle. While body warmth in extreme cold was not a problem, keeping the hulking beasts fed was going to be a logistical nightmare. Beyond the wall, food was scarce for humans and never mind dragons.

"Many of us still don't know how necessary this really is," said Manderly, eyeing the dragons from a safe distance. "None of us down here have seen this army you speak of; they've never heard the likes of it except in old hearth tales. What they do know is what happened the last time dragons were engaged in battle."

It had been clear on the faces of the people they passed. Fear, suspicion and outright hostility. Everywhere Daenerys turned, she was reminded that the North had a King and the North was loyal to its King. The first piece of news they'd been met with was that the proclaimed King's beloved Queen had safely delivered a Prince of Stark blood. While Jon and Sansa embraced and kissed, jubilant at the birth of their nephew, Daenerys had been coolly gracious in wishing Prince Cregan long life and prosperity. She said nothing of her own claim to all seven of the Kingdoms. A wise move, Jon thought, while she remained untested and unproven. But her smile was stiff and her manner was that of a stranger in a strange land. Unaccepted, unwelcome, unwanted.

"The fighting will happen beyond the wall," said Jon. "The people here, smallfolk and lord alike, won't even see the dragons. Once we're on the road to Castle Black, they and Daenerys will be out of sight."

They were out of sight now. Jon could see Dany tethering the dragons, carefully ensuring they were not chafing against the chains. And, as followers of the Faith of the Seven, the Manderly's had allowed them to use their ornamental godswood to conceal the beasts that had struck fear and resentment into the hearts of his people.

"I hope you're right, Lord Commander. No one will thank you for bringing a war of fire and dragons to our shores. And if it ends in your brother and nephew being deposed and burned, then seven save you. Because no one else will."

"Do you really think so little of me as to believe me capable?" Jon retorted, his tone low.

Manderly's small eyes narrowed. "I'll let you know what I think of you as soon as I've seen this army of the undead."

Jon stifled a laugh and said no more. Manderly was already retreating into the stone sanctuary of his castle, leaving him alone with Dany and the dragons. As he turned to her, he remembered the kiss. It was a moment of excitement, joy at returning to the home she had never known, that had driven that kiss. Jon knew that. Regardless, the moment relived itself in his head as he approached her. He tried to push it out of his mind, but the sensation was so strong he could almost still feel the pressure of her lips on his. The ghost kiss, replaying and lingering far longer than the real thing.

While Daenerys hadn't been welcomed home like a returning hero, Lord Manderly had been more than polite and open-handed. He had gifted her a full length cloak of fine fur, trimmed with rich vair and fastened with slim gold chains and buckles down her front. Bleached white, it matched her hair and skin, making her lilac eyes shine. Not for the first time, she looked like a winter princess from one of Old Nan's old fairy stories. With snowflakes swirling all about her, getting lost in the platinum white of her hair. Enchanted. That was the word, but he was loathe to use it.

"So very pretty," she said, a half-smile playing at her lips.

She was, he agreed and brushed away a snowflake that landed on her cheek. "Yes."

"Especially where it settles on the tree branches," she continued. "And on the rooftops."

Jon felt his brow wrinkle in momentary confusion. The snow. Of course, she was talking about the snow and not reading his mind, as he half-hoped. As if moving through a childhood dream, she reached out cautiously and ran her hand through a bank of snow, watching one of the flakes melting into the warmth of her skin. She looked a little sad when it vanished.

In a fit of mischievousness, Jon whirled away from her and gathered up a good handful of snow. Quickly balling it up firm, he took aim from behind a nearby pine. "No, no. This is what you do."

The snowball hit her upside of the head, exploding on impact. Daenerys' jaw dropped, her mouth forming a perfect 'O' in a silent shriek. Her shock soon passed and her face broke out in a wide grin as she stooped, scooped up a handful of snow and hurled it back. Jon dodged out of the way, then dissolved into laugher. She'd thrown loose snow, without mashing it into a proper snowball, and it merely disintegrated in mid-air. Useless and wide off it's target. She watched in dismay as her missile drifted back to the ground in a snowy mist.

"Wait! What!" she cried. "That's not fair!"

That was the problem with living in hot countries. The ways of the cold north were lost on such souls and it made Jon laugh aloud. "If you seek to rule us you must fight like us!"

His second snowball hit her on the arse as she bent over to try and scoop up a missile of her own. At the moment of impact, she leapt up like a jack in a box, yelping with one hand clamped on her skinny backside. Jon admired his aim.

"Right," she warned, advancing toward his hiding place among the pines. "That's it. Be warned. I'm coming to get you."

Making little attempt at hiding, Jon stumbled forward into the woods to evade her. Meanwhile, his chaser was quickly cottoning on to the fine art of snowball making and something quite solid smacked him in the back just before he could lunge behind an old oak. Her jubilant laughter rang out, scaring a bird in the overhead branches. But the score was still two-one to him and he got her a third time with a stealthy, underarm throw.

There was an army of the dead marching on the wall. Jon hadn't forgotten. A war was coming so great, so terrible, the world as they knew it might be changed forever. He supposed he should be in a stone hall, solemn faced and preparing for the end times. But running through the snow, dodging the trees and Dany's ill-formed snowballs seemed a much worthier pursuit, even if only for a few minutes. A time to remember that they were still young, that a fragile peace still held the land and, for now, they were alive. Together. Both of them. At the same time. 'If we die we die,' said the voice of a girl he had once known and loved, 'but first, we'll live.'

The ghost girl receded, leaving him in the present. Some small part of him wanted her to stay but she was already gone a long time ago. 'Live'. He murmured the word softly under his breath as a snowball smacked him square in the face. With the score evened, it was his turn to give chase. Weaving expertly through the trees as he was, she still managed to slip his grasp. His fingertips brushed the fur of her new cloak, but she laughed and darted lithely from his grasp. She was just a flash of silver, ducking in and out of the cover of the woods. Elusive, but not for long. He second guessed her next move, lying in wait before jumping out and catching her by circling his arms around her waist.

In response, she put up a struggle. But it was a feeble struggle and she turned in his arms to face him.

"I win," he said, breathless and warm from the exertions of their game.

He thought he should probably let go of her now, but he felt her body relaxing in his arms. She brought one hand to his face, neither seemed capable or willing to look away. On the contrary, barely perceptibly, she stretched herself upwards. A pause that lasted half a heartbeat came and went and neither backed away. This time, Jon was ready for the kiss he knew was coming. This was no heat of the moment show of gleeful abandon. It was a premeditated, wanted, conscious decision they made in tandem. Her lips were cold, but the kiss tasted sweet as honey.

The lit torch made a graceful arc through the night air before spiralling downwards. From the top of the wall, Robb watched its descent, the flames forming a blur as it spun and spun. Briefly, they lit up the faces of the undead as it hit one of them square on the head. Still they did not move, even as one of their number caught the flames and rapidly combusted in a human ball of flame. No stranger to the smell of burning human flesh, Robb was even more disconcerted by their lack of odour.

"You'll have to do better than that if you want to push them back, your grace."

Robb turned to where Jaime Lannister came to a halt at his side. He, too, was looking down into the sea of undead creatures stretched out under starlight. "I know. I just wanted to see what would happen."

He had recalled what Jon told him, about the time he saved Jeor Mormont from just one of those wights. Armed only with a bare flame, he'd fended off the attacker. It had been a violent scuffle, leaving Jon burned and even more badly shaken. So, he knew, that while passive now, those wights would stir into a frenzy should they catch a whiff of living human flesh. Only the wall prevented their feeding frenzy. Meanwhile, the flaming torch he had tossed over the edge of the wall had already sputtered out. One, maybe two, of the wights had been finished.

Still, he inwardly shrugged, it was a start.

"I've already written to the Queen," he added. "Even if she can do nothing personally, she still needed to be briefed on the situation."

"I've written to Cersei, for all the good it will do us."

Robb found himself closely regarding Lannister. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he went from being a barely tolerated enemy to a trusted military advisor. But it was probably roughly the same time they both clapped eyes on what was out there, beyond the wall. Whatever happened in the past, it no longer mattered. He was a general and a damn good general. They'd be needing those, in the wars to come.

"Tommen is King," Robb reminded him. "If you can bring him under your influence, Cersei's opinion will hardly matter."

"Logistically speaking, that's rather difficult," Jaime replied. "With me at Castle Black and Tommen in the Red Keep-"

"I mean you should return and make your case," Robb cut in. "Sail from Eastwatch, it should only take a couple of weeks. You can be there and back in a matter of a few turns of the moon."

Even the words stuck in his throat. He was appealing to his wife's former betrothed for assistance. From an enemy. From a foreign power the North had cut ties with. But if that army of wights passed the wall, marched south, they would not be so kind as to stop at the border. Young Tommen would be next and it was in all their interests to prevent that. As for the dragon queen, Robb didn't even know if she was on her way or not. He couldn't plan ahead with promises, he needed certainties.

If they all came, what then? Robb couldn't help but suppress a laugh at the thought of Margaery, Tommen, Cersei and Daenerys Targaryen all lodged within the halls of Winterfell. A veritable who's who of Westerosi royal claimants, a meeting of minds in an unholy alliance. Together, they would either do the job of the white walkers for them, or they might just hammer out some kind of unified plan. And Robb had always lived in hope.

"I have no wish to go, your grace," said Jaime, solemn and sombre. His gold armour looked dull in the night, its usual lustre quite removed. "But, if you command it."

"You're not my subject to command," he said. "However, I'd be eternally grateful if you spoke to your sister and, er, nephew."

Briefly, Jaime caught Robb's eye and a moment of understanding passed between them. They both knew the truth of Tommen's birth, but that no longer mattered either. For all Robb cared, they could plant an averagely communicative Barbary ape on the iron throne. Jaime and Cersei's incestuous bastard meant little and less to him. With a nod, Lannister walked away, leaving Robb all but alone atop the vast ice wall. Behind him, directly below, a thousand undead eyes seemed to scrutinise his every move.

Later, with his feet back on the ground, he made his way through Castle Black. Ever since they had arrived, the day before, the army had been set to felling trees for fires. Siege engines had been laboriously manoeuvred over the uneven ground. Now they had to figure out a way to get them to the top of the wall. The siege engines already in use by the Watch were inadequate, old and more dangerous to those using them than any potential target. The scorpions were easier and would be used to fire flaming bolts into the crowds below the wall. It felt futile, but until proper help arrived, it was all they had.

As he passed one of the fire pits, Ser Garlan Tyrell intercepted him. Red faced over his thickening beard and gimlet eyed, he took a moment to catch his breath. "Your grace, we found your brother's maps. Thorne didn't steal them, after all. Come, we have a suggestion."

Throughout the day, while organising a proper defence of the wall, they had been trying to sort through exactly what had been happening since Jon's departure. The most positive outcome of his investigations had been a reunion with Ghost. The direwolf had been protected by Lord Commander Tollett, secured below ground where the old stone baths were. Now the wolf was curled up by the fire in the Lord Commander's private solar. Even now, Dolorous Edd looked a little mystified at his exalted position within the Watch, despite the deadly split in the ranks.

A large table dominated Edd's solar. A trestle table with uneven legs and a heavily marred surface. Like everything else at Castle Black, it was beyond basic. It was barely fit for purpose. But gathered around it, save for the Lord Commander himself, was Ser Davos Seaworth, Loras Tyrell, the Blackfish and Bronze Yohn Royce. Between them, the aforementioned maps spread out, criss-crossed with multi-coloured ink; a palimpsest of routes, trails and pathways through the wilderness beyond the wall. All came to a dead end at the edge of the Lands of Always Winter. Not even the northernmost wildlings had gone that far and certainly not the Night's Watch. Looking at it now, and considering what was happening, Robb had the uncomfortable feeling they'd soon be finding out what lay at the heart of that forbidding territory.

Also in the room, a man Robb had not met before. A large and weather-beaten wildling with a thick red beard. Edd made the introduction: "Your grace, this is Tormund Giantsbane, leader of our wildling forces."

It was brief and to the point. Robb acknowledged the man with a nod, making no mention of the unhappy past between House Stark and the folk beyond the wall. He'd been raised to view them as the enemy; rapers and pillagers and the scourge of the land. He could only imagine what the wildlings had been told about the likes of himself.

"You're Snow's brother," said Tormund.

Not sure whether it was a statement or a question, Robb opted for the former. "I am."

The other man's face remained impassive. Neither impressed nor put out. He said nothing, while all eyes in the room seemed to be watching them, as if Robb was somehow being put to the test and he was yet to learn what that test really was. In the end, he extended a hand toward Tormund and ignored the flicker of cold apprehension that troubled the pit of his stomach. "Jon's told me all about you, it's good to put a face to the name."

"And what a fucking face it is," Edd said, barely glancing up from the map he was studying.

Tormund's blue eyes flashed and a bark of laughter shook the timbers of the room. The handshake was brief and crushing. "Remember this face, boy. It might just be the one that saves your arse."

Once more, Edd spared Robb the effort of a reply. "On that comforting thought, I say we get this done with. It's like planning your own funeral."

However, Robb gave the wildling a friendly clap on the back as they took their places at the Lord Commanders table. Ser Garlan was with him already, sitting at his right. The others arranged themselves.

"So, what is this suggestion?" asked Robb, when the room settled.

"We need to deal with our friends beyond the wall and I propose an attack from the rear," said Ser Garlan. He gestured to a newly inked line on the map, dotting its way up the east coast. "We dock at Hardhome and lead a force south, sweeping the land as we go. We have the men for it, we have the means to get there and controlling enemy numbers until help arrives is the best we can do."

Robb was sceptical. "But Jon has already been to Hardhome, he said it was a disaster-"

"Tormund and I were with him," Edd pointed out. "They'll have stripped the place bare and moved on by now. It's just sitting there, empty and abandoned."

"In theory, at least," said Ser Garlan, non-too reassuringly. "But if we can set up some sort of garrison in the ruins of Hardhome, we'll be launching a duel attack on those creatures. They'll be boxed in from both the north and south."

"Stannis had already carried out significant repairs to the Shadow Tower," Davos explained. "I propose you let the Knights of the Vale march over there, deal with Alliser Thorne and the rest of the deserters, then let the same Knights man not just the Shadow Tower, but the rest of the forts. Your own forces and the Vale combined would be more than equal the Watch even when it was at its height."

That was true. Even before Jon left, the Watch was a sliver of its former power. Only Castle Black was fully manned and one other that Robb couldn't recall off hand. Ever other fort was abandoned to time and decay. Right now, they had the Reach, the Vale and the North to use to bolster numbers, revive the dying fortresses and more left over to lead an attack from the north.

"But if there's a force going north to set up a garrison in Hardhome, I'm going with them," he said. He could see it on the map. Not too far away and right on the east coast. If they had to abandon the place, they could do so easily. All the same, Jon's horror story of what had happened there curbed any enthusiasm he might have felt. The presence of living people there once more might only attract the wights back. On the other hand, that might be what they needed. Draw them away from the wall and attack. Robb continued: "Tormund, I'd be grateful if you and your forces could come too. You know your land far better than I ever could."

Tormund gave a nod. "Anything's better than hiding in this damn castle."

Robb had to smile at the irony. For centuries the wildlings and the Watch had been slaughtering each other. Now the Free Folk were propping up the ancient brotherhood with what meagre forces they could smuggle out of the land of the dead. The tables had turned now. Crow, savage and lord alike. They were all threatened with the same form of extinction.

Daenerys felt her cold face burn as she stepped up to the dais in the common hall. Lord Manderly greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. Next to him, his eldest granddaughter, Wynafryd, beamed happily as she hugged Sansa Stark. Not so long ago, she had been betrothed to Rhaegar Frey who died a mysterious death that the Manderly household still loved to jest about. However, it was Jon who held her attention. As she took a seat beside Lord Wyman, she watched Jon talking to a man she did not know. Every so often, when the man was speaking, Jon glanced over to her for just a second. Each of these furtive glances, the brief second in which their eyes met across the room, made her heartbeat race.

She barely knew what had come over her. But she couldn't deny she had been watching him for months. She noticed him when he got off the ship, she noticed him more as he and Sansa wandered the streets of Meereen, looking lost and sunburnt. While she was polite and engaging, he had reminded her of a cool, still pool. Quietly enticing and more than a little enigmatic. It was that very stillness that drew the eye.

As realising he was keeping people waiting, Jon suddenly broke off the conversation he'd been having and hurried to the dais. Meanwhile, the feast that had been prepared in her honour began, naturally, with a toast to the King in the North and his gracious Queen. Daenerys hadn't expected anything different, she didn't think to walk in and take over. All the same, she felt her smile stiffen as she raised her glass and intoned their names. After that, however, the evening became easier. Jon sat at her side, neither of them able to talk about the kiss in the godswood but both of them alluding to it on more than one occasion.

Where she stood with him, she did not know. He acted like he was still Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, other people still treated him as such. But he'd been released from his vows by two separate kings and he himself had named a successor. All the while, they drew themselves toward each other, unable to stop it and, at the same time, unable to give in to it. Even now, a distance remained between them. She could sense it, even if he didn't acknowledge it.

"You look to take the iron throne, my lady," said Lord Manderly.

She recognised it as a statement of fact. "I mean to take back what my father squandered."

Picking her words carefully, she hoped it would put some distance between herself and Mad King Aerys.

"You will find, I think, certain parts of the realm more receptive than others," he said, topping up her glass.

She recognised that for what it was, too. "You mean, the North is, quite literally, a cold house for anyone bearing the name 'Targaryen'."

"The North is a cold house for any ruler not bearing the name 'Stark', is more accurate," he clarified, smiling to take some of the sting from his words.

From the tail of her eye, she noticed Jon stiffening in his seat and turning towards them. However, she smiled and touched his hand to assure him all was well. Meanwhile, her mind turned over the facts she had to hand. White Harbour was a decent town, the castle a fine one. Even now, with winter closed in all around them, the feast was worthy of a king. The Manderlys, it seemed, had always done well for themselves.

She sipped her wine and turned back to Lord Manderly. Lord Too Fat to Sit a Horse, was what Stannis Baratheon called him. She remembered Jon telling her, sniggering like a boy.

"I've noticed House Manderly is not like the other northern houses," she said. "You follow the faith of the seven and your godswood is more for decoration than worship."

Presented with this chance to educate, Manderly give a whiskery smile. "Ah, you see, we're not from the North, originally."

"The Reach, wasn't it?" she said. Already knowing it was true, she continued: "A falling out with House Gardener that led to banishment. House Stark kindly offered you sanctuary here, in White Harbour."

Over the centuries, the Manderly's had built this town themselves. They'd done well but, currently, the present day Lord Manderly was looking a little disconcerted. "Exile has not diminished your knowledge of Westerosi history, I see."

"And now you have a King in the North who was put back on his throne by an army from the Reach, in return to making a Tyrell Queen in the North," Daenerys continued, meeting the lord's gaze.

His large face flushed and his complexion had been ruddy to begin with. It was entirely possible, she considered, that had circumstances been any different, he might not have accepted Queen Margaery at all. It would have been sweet Wynafryd or brave Wylla currently occupying the Queen's seat in the halls of Winterfell. Whether that was true or not, the old man was magnanimous about it.

"Times change," he said, flatly. "The Reach is no longer our enemy."

"Of course," Dany agreed after another sip of wine. "And it pleases me to hear it. Times change, the generations turn and history recedes from conscious memory. What were once enemies become friends and, sometimes, people surprise us."

Lord Wyman met her gaze easily and she liked that. She liked that he did not baulk from her truth. He even smiled and raised his glass to toast her. "And you?" he asked.

Dany smiled. "I'm full of surprises, Lord Manderly."

Alone in her solar, Margaery unfurled the small scrap of parchment tied to the raven's leg. At first, she saw little beyond Robb's familiar handwriting. The sight of it alone, without reading a word of what he actually said, was enough to make her heart jump into her throat. Before reading the letter, she had to pause and compose herself, drawing a deep breath. Eventually, she tilted the parchment toward the light and read quickly. What the gods gave with one hand, they took away with another.

Her sheer giddy relief at Robb's continued existence gave way to deep concern that made her stomach fold. A handful of phrases jumped off the page, lodging in her mind. Wights. Numbers beyond counting. Already at the wall. Basically, should someone forget to lock the gates properly, Westeros would be facing a full scale invasion of dead people in the blink of an eye.

Even now, even in the darkest night, she hoped this would all come to nothing. That Jon, and the Night's Watch had been mistaken, that things were not as bad as they seemed. But her last hope of that had just gone up in smoke. She crossed the room and opened the door to the nursery. Cregan was asleep now, his nursemaid dozing in an old rocking chair. She had no intention of waking him, all she needed to know was that he was safe. To reassure herself that no harm could come to him. An over-protectiveness motherhood had brought. Even distant threats felt like they were on your doorstep, when a child was concerned.

She leaned against the cradle and let the pad of her index finger touch the tip of the sleeping infant's nose. Cregan's face wrinkled, but he did not stir. If someone did forget to lock the gates she thought she could send him to the Reach. After all, how far could dead men run? But even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew she was being bloody naive.

"Your Grace."

She had not heard Maester Wolkan enter the rooms. He walked softly, these days, muffling the chains around his neck so as not to disturb the sleeping Prince. Normally, she would have been grateful but this time, he startled her. He apologised, flinchingly, as if she might turn into Ramsay Bolton.

"What is it?" she asked, closing the nursery door behind her.

"A raven from White Harbour, letting us know of the safe arrival of Lord Jon Stark and Lady Daenerys Targaryen," he said. Gravely, he added: "Along with three dragons, your grace."

The Citadel had no love for dragons. Margaery knew that. However, it was of no concern as a little hope appeared back in her world, just as she thought it quite snuffed out. She smiled and picked herself up. Despair would get them nowhere. "Prepare the castle for their arrival, Maester. And send ravens to every lord not at Castle Black. There is grave news to share." She walked toward the door, stepping around the maester. Glancing over her shoulder, she added: "And send outriders to Jon and Daenerys. They need to be here, post haste."

Now she had something to focus on. A direction. Still, she did not think it would be enough to keep her sane while her husband fought legions of wights.

Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.

Again, I am truly sorry for how long this took to update. But, as ever, I never abandon stories and I thank you for being endlessly patient with me on this one. Thank you!