Thank you, as always, to my readers and reviewers for sticking with the story and leaving feedback. I really appreciate it.

Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Flame of Life

The night fires burned bright. Melisandre stepped closer to the brazier, her red eyes narrowed to keep the visions in focus as they flickered in the flames. Always the visions in the fires, images that led her to Westeros all the way from darkest Asshai. Never had she doubted. Not through all the dangers she faced, which had been dangers beyond counting. From her darkest days of slavery to the first time she set foot on Dragonstone, R'hllor had showed her the way and seen her through. After that, she had never had cause to doubt. Even Stannis' defeat at the Blackwater felt like a minor setback. A test, even. But there could be no mistaking the reason for Stannis' loss at the battle for Winterfell. It wasn't a test, it wasn't a minor setback. It was R'hllor telling her she had been wrong.

Ever since that day, she had been doubting. Stannis wasn't the Prince that was Promised, his sword wasn't Lightbringer and she would never get back the time she had wasted on him. As she scrutinised the flames, she tried to pinpoint the moment in time it had all gone wrong for her. She had been led to Dragonstone, that was solid in her mind. And Stannis was whom she had found in Dragonstone. As the rightful Lord of Storm's End, he wasn't supposed to have been there. When she heard the story of how he had been set aside in favour of his younger brother, she had concluded that this aberration in the laws of inheritance could only have come about through R'hllor's influencing King Robert without his even knowing it. After all, he had been in the company of Thoros of Myr – a fellow servant of the Lord of Light. She wasn't to know the drunken sot had lost his faith.

The Stark king had been spared by R'hllor after she put a curse on him. That had been wrong too, she realised. But could someone with cold, Stark blood in their veins really be the Prince that was Promised? He was of the North. The fires of R'hllor would be as anathema to him as the moon to the sun. When she looked into the flames, she could see him clearly. He was surrounded by death and the cold white faces of the trees. He could hear their voices whispering in the night.

When she did beseech her god to show her the prince, all she saw was snow. Snow and the girl, the dragons bursting from stone, the salt and the smoke that shrouded Dragonstone. Daenerys was born on Dragonstone, she knew. Born amidst a great storm. She had hatched dragons from stone and she didn't need to look into the flames to prove that. She could see one now, flying over Castle Black, spewing a river of fire over the keep.

A river of fire. Over the keep. Suddenly startled, she leapt back from her own night fire and stumbled toward the fortress. An alarm bell began tolling frantically as shouts and cries filled the air. Still the dragon roared and lashed his tail at assailants she could not see. Already, the brothers of the watch were fleeing. She felt them pushing past her before she saw them, their black clothes hiding them from her view.

She put out a hand to stop the next man she saw running toward her. "What's happening?"

"I don't know, the beast's gone out of control."

The man threw her off and continued his flight. Rather than waste time remonstrating with him, she pushed her way toward the heart of the flames now consuming the castle. A few brothers of the watch had stayed to try and calm the dragon down, without much success. Meanwhile, great chunks of the wall were crashing down as it melted in the heat of the dragon fire. The dark shape of a spear arced gracefully through the air, hitting the raging dragon in the flank. It screamed with pain, unleashing another blast of fire directly at the wall, from where the missile had been thrown.

Finally spurred into action, Melisandre surged forwards, almost tripping on the hems of her robes in her haste. "Stop! Stop, you're making it worse."

Untroubled by fear of either the dragon or its flames, she strode purposefully into the melee that had broken out. Only when the dragon's tail lashed in her direction did she lurch aside, falling to the ground. More spears were being thrown, most of them missing. Others had resorted to stones and rocks, one of them hitting the side of her head as she appealed for calm. Ignoring the pain, she climbed to her feet. It was as she straightened herself out that she saw the Lord Commander's body lying prone on the ground.

She assumed he had been killed in the attack, but he was not burned. Nor was his direwolf, Ghost. She saw him with his jaws wrapped around Jon's leg as he tried to drag his slain master's body out of the way of the fires. She made to follow, stepping around a man kneeling on the ground and looking up at the towering column of fire. He was wailing helplessly: "The Wall! The fucking Wall!"

Melisandre looked up, to where the great wall of ice was fracturing in the intense heat of the fires. Fire that could melt stone would make short work of ice. If the dragon wasn't brought under control soon, a vast section of it would be gone completely.

"My Lady, is there nothing you can do?"

"Ser Davos!" she spun around at the sound of his voice, finding him running towards her. Behind him, the timbers of Castle Black caved inwards, sending up a thick plume of sparks. "The Lord Commander. Get the Lord Commander."

Whatever had happened, the Lord of Light was not finished with Jon Stark. But it hit her that the dragon was not moving from his body. It hovered over him, or stood guard without stepping on him, almost careful to avoid breathing his lethal fires over the body of the fallen man. Following as the direwolf tried to drag the body to safety. Only when Davos got too close did the giant beast lash its tail in Jon's direction, and only to swat Davos away like a pestilential fly. Undeterred, the Onion Knight tried again and Melisandre ran to his aid.

As she approached, she sent up a silent prayer to R'hllor to distract the dragon while they retrieved Jon's body. Her lips formed the High Valerian, but the sound of the words was drowned out by the undulating roar of the fires. Nearby, the dragon took flight, heedless of the three spears that had embedded in his flanks.

Ghost retreated as she and Ser Davos arrived, slinking into the shadows out of sight. Jon was left flat on his back, eyes closed and chest open.

"Ser Davos!" she said. "Leave him."

"My Lady, we cannot leave him here."

But she knew what she was doing. She knelt by Jon's body, running her hands over the gaping wounds in his chest. He had been murdered.

All doubts had been burned away, her conviction cauterised by the blazing fires that now surrounded them. The heat was intense, but it did not trouble her as it chased the men away. The sounds of their panicking faded from her mind and she lifted her face to the flames. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the flames and the smoke and the sparks flying through the night air. She sucked in the heat, drawing it down into her heart and lungs. Life is heat; heat is fire. She breathed it in again, drawing the fires deep into her soul. Behind her, the dragon screamed and filled the air with fire. But she was not afraid. Fire is life.

The prayers formed on her lips, the incantations arranging themselves automatically as the fires filled her and took her. She knelt at Jon's side and softly brushed the hair back from his brow. His skin was icy cold to the touch but soon warmed to her touch and she knew the time was nigh. Leaning down, she pressed her lips to his and exhaled hard. She breathed life's fires deep into Jon Snow's heart and lungs, doing it again and again until the fires of R'hllor passed from her to him.

Beneath the palm of her hand, pressed flat against Jon's bare chest, she felt his ribs shudder. She felt his heartbeat hammer into life. She heard his first gasping breaths and saw the great columns of fire reflected in his dark grey irises as his eyelids flickered and opened.

All Daenerys could see was snow. Stretched out below her, beyond the range of vision, was a rugged and undulating snowscape. She could make out the mountain peaks and the green dots of tree-tops, the occasional frozen lake. The White Waste, she named it to herself, thinking of that other wasted land she crossed several years ago. This was its opposite, the fierce sun replaced by the cold. Both were equally hostile to human life. Yet, she knew people lived in the White Waste. She had seen them, she had seen the ruins of their settlements and villages. And, despite the tranquillity all around her, she knew it wasn't the cold that had driven them away.

Veering north east, she sought the place where the land clawed its way into the Shivering Sea – a place they called Hardhome. Deep in her heart of hearts, she knew Robb wouldn't be there. But it was worth a try. Besides, even if he wasn't there, some of the men who had made it there might know what direction the King in the North went. They may even have search parties of their own out searching for him.

Eventually, she found them by the light of their fires. From above, they were tiny pin-pricks of flickering flame. As she descended, they grew larger and larger until she realised they were burning off the edges of the woods. Probably to keep the wights at bay. Leaving Viserion to circle the skies above, she brought Drogon to the ground just outside the settlement. If it could be called a settlement.

A number of huts had been erected, other older and more ramshackle dwellings had been fixed up hastily. Once more, she worried that the men holding the town would try to attack. But her worries were unfounded. Large groups of them gathered in a clearing, craning their necks to the skies as Drogon glided downwards and landed with a hard bump that jolted her from her seat.

"I am Daenerys, of House Targaryen. I've come to help," she called down from above. To spare her voice, she slid down from Drogon's back as elegantly as she could. When her feet hit the snow, a tall man with a frozen beard rushed to help.

"Be welcome, your grace. I am Ser Loras of House Tyrell," he introduced himself. "We have been expecting you."

While talking to her, he was looking at the dragon. Something she was used to, but he soon remembered where she was.

"Queen Margaery's brother?"

"Indeed," he confirmed. "Is the Lord Commander with you? We assumed you would arrive together."

She explained the situation, once more feeling the unease of having left Jon in uncertain circumstances. There was more to it than he was telling her, she was sure of it. Something was happening and she didn't know what. All that had soothed her worries for him was leaving Rhaegal behind as protection. For the two were bonding, she could feel it. A pang of bittersweet separation as Rhaegal passed from her to his new master. And once Jon was bonded to his dragon, Drogon would no longer tolerate him – their cosy joint rides like the one from Winterfell to the Wall would be a thing of the past. One day, someone would claim Viserion too. But, for now, he circled the skies over Hardhome, illuminating the darkness with irregular bursts of flame.

Loras looked up at the skies, the fires reflected in his large brown eyes. "Have you seen anything? Have you seen them?"

She knew he meant the wights and the Others. "Yes. At the wall and some on the way here. What about yourselves? Have you come under attack?"

"Twice on our way here and once since we arrived," he said. "We've built that fire and I have men gathering wood to keep it going. Since then, they have not troubled us."

She could smell the smoke even in the old town square, where they were slowly walking as they talked. "I can help you with the fire, I'll have Drogon add his flames before we leave."

"Leave, your grace? Where are you going?"

"To find the King in the North and your brother," she said. "Unless they're found. Have you heard anything?"

"Nothing, your grace…" he trailed off, averting his gaze. "You know nothing can survive out there. Not even the people who have been here all their lives, not since the dead started returning. All the same, I have search parties out looking for them. Just on the off-chance."

"Well, I'm still looking and I cover more ground than your men on foot. Show me where you last saw them."

Loras led her to a large common hall that had been given a new roof. In the middle, a large brazier burned and a table with uneven legs dominated the space inside. As they approached, she could see a large map had been left weighted down at the corners. A heavy black line marked the Wall itself, with blue winding rivers and pine-green cones for trees.

"Here," he said, pointing to one of the western castles. "We followed The Gorge and the river to a place called Craster's Keep. The keep itself is gone, only the name lives on. East of there, at the edge of the Haunted Forest we were attacked by White Walkers. It was there that we became separated from King Robb and my brother."

"Did you see which way they went?" she asked. "Anything to get a starting point in my search."

"North, I think," he said. "It could be they headed toward the Antler River, a water source to keep them going until help arrived."

"Wouldn't they try to get out of the woods?"

"Not if they have any sense. There's food in the woods, only empty land in the open."

That settled it for her. She would fly north as far as the river, but if Robb and Ser Garlan were hidden amongst the dense forest, the chances of seeing them from the air were minimal. It was a lost cause, but she had promised Jon.

Back outside, Ser Loras took the time to show her the fortifications that were being built along the coast and facing inland. Watch towers were already set up and fully manned, while the harbour was already in use with supplies now arriving from White Harbour. Soon, she hoped, Tyrion and Ser Jaime would convince Cersei to let them mine the obsidian from Dragonstone. If not, she would fly Drogon down there and give the Queen no choice in the matter.

Once she returned to Drogon, Ser Loras stopped her. "Good luck, your grace."

She raised a pained smile. "You too, Ser."

As she took off, she remembered a dream she once had, back in Meereen. She was flying on the back of Drogon to join her brother at the battle of the Trident, only the Usurper's forces were armoured all in ice. And when her dragon breathed his fire, they melted away causing a torrent of floodwaters to wash over the land. She remembered how the dream made her feel: exultant. Now the prophetic nature of that dream made her shiver as a ghost wolf howled from deep within the woods.

Airborne, Viserion jolted violently and rapidly lost altitude. Daenerys' heart was suddenly in her throat as she screamed his name. But as fast as it had happened, he righted himself again. He beat his wings and veered away from her, gaining speed as he took off into the night. What that was all about, she couldn't even guess.

A lone wolf's howl carried on the wind, jolting Robb out of the shallow sleep he had fallen into. His heartbeat raced and he stared wide-eyed into the darkened woods that surrounded him. With nothing to be seen, he began to wonder if it wasn't just the wind whistling down through the trees. But past experience had long since taught him it was never 'nothing'. It was wights springing up from nowhere, white walkers mounted on giant ice spiders or some unknown terror lurking at the periphery of his vision.

Only exhaustion stopped him now, until his blood was up and he was able to move on again. Trudging forwards, following the river in hope of an escape from the interminable woods. He leaned back against the weirwood he had come to a rest against and closed his eyes. As soon as he did so, Bran's voice burst into his head. "Dragon!"

Startled, he stumbled forwards. But it wasn't the first time it had happened. As he dozed, he heard Bran all the time. Sometimes, if he was close to the weirwood, he could see his face. "Leave," he called to Robb. "Go!"

He remembered the wolf dreams he had when Grey Wind was alive and the dreams he'd had of the dog he'd formed an attachment to at Riverrun. But Bran was his brother and he knew Bran was probably dead. All the same, he moved. He forced himself forwards with every ounce of his flagging strength. He pushed himself onwards and get out of the woods, heedless of the lurking dangers all around him. If he stayed, he would die for a certainty and the gamble was worth it.

Following the river, he finally reached open land, but also knew they were already on to him. They materialised in the corner of his eye, like shadow taking substance as they gave chase to something unknown. Wights, or so he thought. A stone bridge forded the river ahead and he threw himself into the water, finding it so cold it burned. Still he kept going, until he reached the bridge and could take cover, sending up a silent prayer they had not seen him. They were approaching from the north, heading south. Dark shapes on the other side of the river, he could barely make them out. But he could hear them, their lead-footed gait and the guttural voices sounding wordlessly in the silence of the endless night.

Pressed flat against the riverbank, Robb remained still. His legs were numb from the water, his sodden cloak already beginning to freeze. He could see the ice forming, turning blue and spreading outwards. He held his breath, realising what was happening for only one thing could cause an instant freeze. Overhead, the wights thundered across the bridge with such force old mortar that had turned to dust fell from the gaps between the stones. He was breathing it in, where it irritated his nose. And when he turned his gaze to the opposite bank, he could finally see them.

One of the white walkers was mounted on a dead horse, its entrails hanging from its swollen belly. Their spears and blades of ice glinted ominously in the night as they rode in silence. It would have been serene, had it not been so dangerous. Had Robb not realised they already knew he was there. He knew it as soon as they came to a halt on the bridge, he could hear them sniffing at the air, scenting warm, living flesh nearby. He could only watch as the river-water began to solidify into a thick layer of ice. To avoid getting trapped in it, he had to pull himself up on to the embankment, grateful that it was already frozen solid.

When he came too again, he held his breath as the long, angular front legs of a spider began probing beneath the arch of the bridge. Slowly feeling its way down the wall, its pincers clicked audibly as the white walkers continued to sniff the air. Robb swallowed hard, finding his mouth and throat had run dry. He didn't die unarmed at a wedding feast and he resolved himself to the fact that nor would not die cowering beneath a bridge with his sword still in its scabbard.

He drew his sword and, with a strength that shocked him, he surged forwards and hacked at the spider's legs where they hung over the side of the bridge. The grotesque creature hit the surface of the now frozen river, it's body bursting blood and entrails on impact. Ignoring it, Robb readied his sword again as the wights began descending from the bridge in their hundreds and from both sides, cutting off any escape he might make. His cause was lost, he knew that. All the same, he prepared to hack and slash at them, taking down as many as he could before they tore his spine out.

He renewed his grip on the sword and closed his eyes for just half a heartbeat, to see her face one final time. "For Margaery," he murmured.

He opened his eyes as the air around him exploded into flames. The heat was instant, melting the ice and turning the river to great, billowing clouds of steam. He spun on his heels to make his way out at the other side only for a second explosion of fire to rain down from the skies as something roared so loud it shook the ground he stood on. He dove out from under the bridge a heartbeat before it came crashing down and there, above him, two vast dragons roared through the skies, turning the wights to ash and dust.

A white walker poised nearby, spear in hand. Robb could see its lethal edge glinting in the light of the fires. Ice was already drawn and he stumbled forwards, sinking his Valyrian steel blade between its shoulders before it could attack the dragon. Just like the other, it shattered on impact, rupturing into shards of glass.

As he dealt with that one, another had sneaked up on him and threw him to the ground. He landed on his back, knocking the air out of his lungs while the dragons continued their assault from above. On the back of a huge black beast, he caught a glimpse of a silver-haired girl. With no time to lie there and marvel, he pulled himself to his feet with his sword back in his hands. The White Walker that threw him was heading his way again, but Robb was ready this time. He tightened his grip on the sword and slashed at the walker's chest. The walker exploding and a dragon roared as it crash-landed to the ground.

He looked up at the silver-haired girl who looked back at him. "Robb Stark? Quick, take my hand!"

Dazed and bewildered, Jon looked up at the burning castle. The last thing he remembered was the knives, the assassins in the dark. Now this. Melisandre and Ser Davos were kneeling beside him, their mouths moving and sound coming out. But it barely made sense. The others were running pell-mell, their shouts and cries drowned out by the roar of the fire and the screaming of the dragon as Rhaegal's rampage continued apace. Numb with disbelief and incomprehension, Jon rose stiffly to his feet.

"We need to get out of here, it's killing everyone," said Ser Davos.

"They killed me," he tried to say.

Davos was ever the pragmatist. "We can worry about that later."

Dragon fire and the burning castle was melting a huge hole in the wall, but the meaning was still lost on Jon as he took his first steps toward the inferno.

"What are you doing?"

Jon shrugged Ser Davos off and continued walking toward the dragon. There were spears piercing his scales, desperate men had resorted to throwing rocks but most had fled. Charred remains of men unlucky enough to be slow on their feet crunched under foot. But he couldn't worry about that now. Breathless and head-spinning, he reached Rhaegal and called his name. He roared one last time, screaming a deluge of fire across the yard and hitting the wall of ice. A scream that stuttered into silence as Rhaegal landed at Jon's feet.

Shaking, Jon reached out and touched his burning hot scales and felt the beast's anger draining away. The roars were reduced to a rumble, to a purring noise like the dragon was just a monstrous cat. His neck twisted until he found Jon, lowering his head to his level.

"Rhaegal," he said again, soothing the dragon's face and scratching at his jaw. "Rhaegal, what have you done?"

Saving the fires still burning out of control, the yard fell silent. Peace broke out but, all the while, Jon could sense all eyes on him from those who had sought shelter in the shadows. The silence rent by the sound of cracking, as loud as thunder. Jon ignored it as he ran his hands down the scales of Rhaegal's neck. The dragon lay down, whining and wheezing, blinking his large bronze eyes. Jon found one of the spears and wrenched it out, causing Rhaegal to scream again. Those brave enough to approach scattered once more, flinching like whipped dogs. But Jon stood fast, pulling out a second barb. The hooked ends of the spears would have hurt more coming out than going on, snagging on the beast's flesh. But it had to be done.

The third and final was stuck just above the wing and he had to climb to reach it. Still unsteady on his feet, he made his way gingerly up the wing joint, trying to imitate the way Dany scaled Drogon. As he went to pull out the spear, the cracking sound rent the silence once more, followed by the dragon screaming as the barbed spear was wrenched from his flesh. He lashed his tail, smashing it into the burning castle, causing Jon to fall flat on his arse on the beast's back. Dazed again, he let the spear fall from his hands as another deafening crack sounded from the wall.

With Jon still on his back, Rhaegal jolted and spread his wings. Jon tried to cry out, to stop him, but it was too late. A few heavy running footsteps and he lurched upwards, beating his vast wings as they took to the air.

"Rhaegal, no!" he cried out, gripping the ridges of his back. "No, back down, Rhaegal. Down!"

Words unheeded, the dragon took flight just as the vast wall of ice came crashing down. They flew through the ice-fall, narrowly avoiding huge chunks that had become dislodged. Stunned by what was happening, Jon almost slipped off Rhaegal's back and only held on by grasping a sharp, spiny ridge on his back. With every ounce of his ebbing strength, he hauled himself upwards and looked down, far below, where the wall continued to tumble down.

Robb didn't dare move. Face down, arse up he was slumped across the back of the vast black dragon she had called Drogon. After all that had happened, dignity was the last thing he cared about. Besides, one false move and he was sure he'd be sliding down those slippery scales and off into oblivion.

"Are you all right like that?" asked Daenerys.

"Mm," said Robb, nodding his head.

"It's safe to sit, you know. Look, let me help you."

He lifted his head to where Daenerys sat in front of him, navigating her monstrous companions. She turned in her seat and steadied him with her hands. "It's a lot safer to sit properly than just lie there, hanging over his side like that."

He apologised and gathered the courage to move. At the point of his rescue, she had hauled him up and slung him over the dragon's back like that. He hadn't since dared to move. Now he did, and his world was the right way up again.

"Thank you."

She smiled, laughing gently, not in a mocking way. "You get used to it."

"How did you find me?" he asked.

"I didn't. Viserion did."

Robb frowned. "And he told you?"

Dany laughed again. "Of course not. It was strange. He just flew off of his own will and wouldn't return when I called him. So, Drogon and I had to follow. He brought us straight to you."

He looked over at the second dragon, still leading the way. To Robb's relief, he was gliding downwards into a clearing in the Haunted Forest.

"And now he's landing in the trees," Daenerys sighed. "It's probably for the best, you need to rest a while. That's as good a place as any."

Robb braced himself for the moment of impact. But it wasn't as bad as he was expecting. Viserion landed first and curled himself up at the foot of a vast weirwood tree, the largest Robb had ever seen. Its ancient face dominating the clearing, the ruby boughs shining bright against the virgin snow.

"We really need to talk about Jon," said Daenerys, once they bumped back to ground level. "He found your letter."

Robb suppressed a curse as Dany nudged him down the dragon's back. He landed in the snow, where his knees buckled and he swore again. "I told Arya not to give it to him-"

"He found it himself," she corrected him.

Must more practised in the art of mounting and dismounting dragons, her descent was altogether more graceful. She landed lightly on her feet, inches away from him.

"I couldn't risk dying and not leaving some record of the truth."

"He knows, it is all well. We understand."

"Oh, you're his aunt…"

The rest of Robb's sentence was cut off by the nearby sound of movement. At first, he passed it off as the dragons. But Viserion was asleep now, and Drogon was curling up at the foot of the weirwood. Daenerys heard it too and she got behind him as he stepped away from the tree trunk. A deep voice chuckled. "Hodor," it said. "Hodor!"

Daenerys frowned, her jaw falling slack. But Robb was smiling from ear to ear, relief washing over him as he stumbled toward the source of the noise. He found the old giant standing at the opposite side of the tree's vast trunk, a young girl at his side. Laid out on the floor, covered with a blanket was a young man.

"Bran," said Robb.

Bran looked at him and smiled. "Robb," he said. "Come inside. Jon will be here soon."

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

Apologies for the slight delay in getting this updated. Sequencing events in this chapter proved problematic.