And so, it was seven men who went north, beyond the Wall – Jon, Tormund, Ser Jorah, Gendry, the Hound, Thoros, and the man with the eyepatch, Lord Beric Dondarrion –, while Charleen remained at Eastwatch with Ser Davos and Queen Daenerys.
One day crept by, then another. Without the routine of menial tasks into which Gilly had guided her at Castle Black, Charleen felt every moment lengthening, torturously drawing itself out over the uncertain fate of Jon and his companions.
From time to time, however, exhaustion overwhelmed her fraying nerves. Her growing belly remained concealed beneath several layers of thick clothing, but she felt the strain in her body, in the leaden heaviness of her limbs and the occasional spinning of her head. Sleep was a mercy, a welcome relief from physical and mental discomfort. On the second day, Charleen went to bed at dusk, when the shadows began to gather in the corners of her little chamber and the torches of the guards flickered to life in the courtyard outside the window.
In spite of her tiredness, she slept but lightly, starting up every so often out of wild, vivid dreams. Once, she dreamed that Jon had returned from beyond the Wall and she was running to greet him, but something was wrong – Jon's eyes were gleaming an unnatural blue, and as he approached, his footsteps thudding heavily on the frozen ground, he raised his arms towards her and wrapped icy fingers round her throat –
Waking with a start, Charleen immediately realized that the sound of the footsteps had been real. There was someone at the door of her chamber, knocking and calling out to her urgently.
"Lady Charleen! My lady!"
The voice belonged to Ser Davos. With a jolt of fear, Charleen leapt out of bed and rushed to open the door, steadying herself on the doorframe as a wave of dizziness swept over her.
"What is it? What's happening?"
"It's Gendry," Ser Davos panted. "He ran all the way back here for help. The others – apparently, the dead were closing in. Daenerys is flying north to rescue them. You have to come with me, my lady – Gendry's completely exhausted. He fainted when we found him, and –"
"I'm coming," Charleen cut across him, picking up her cloak and throwing it around her shoulders. As she followed Ser Davos out into the corridor, the door to the chamber at the far end opened and Daenerys emerged, dressed in her white fur coat. She came towards them, hurriedly pulling a pair of gloves over her hands, and for the first time since Charleen had met her, she appeared truly queenly, with an air of authority that was rooted deeper than in the aspirations of a pretender. Looking up, Daenerys stopped, and her eyes met Charleen's.
"Your Grace," Charleen faltered. "You're going to try to save them?"
"I'm the only one who can."
In the courtyard, snow was swirling, faintly illuminated by the first grey light of dawn. High above them atop the Wall, Daenerys' dragons had perched to sleep. Daenerys started up the switchback stair towards them, and Charleen followed her with her gaze until she was lost from view. After a few long moments, however, the dragons began to stir, greeting their mother with soft keening sounds. And then, all of a sudden, the one in the middle spread its wings and dropped off from the Wall with a mighty roar. The other two followed him, disappearing from view for a moment before they soared up into the northern sky, all three of them, with powerful beatings of their wings.
At that moment, Charleen felt a fluttering low in her belly, light and fleeting as the touch of a feather.
"My lady?"
There was a hint of urgency in Ser Davos's tone, and Charleen tore her gaze away from the dragons with difficulty, her right hand involuntarily cradling her stomach as the child moved within.
She followed Ser Davos across the courtyard and into the main building of the castle. In the corridor on the second floor, torches were burning, and she could hear the sound of voices coming from the open door of one of the chambers.
Several of Tormund's men were crowded around the little room. They fell silent when Charleen and Ser Davos entered, and stepped aside to let them approach the bed in the far corner where Gendry was lying with his eyes closed, his breath coming in quick, shallow pants. He was still fully clothed, and his pale face was glazed with sweat.
"Gendry."
Charleen laid her hand on his forehead, and his eyes fluttered open at her touch.
"Your Grace…," he whispered, struggling to sit up, but Charleen gently pushed him down on the pillow.
"Shh," she shushed, "it's all right. There's no need for that."
Without taking her hand away from his forehead, she turned to the others.
"One of you, fetch me something to drink for him – spiced wine, if you have it, and sweeten it generously. Ser Davos, help me take off some of his clothes. And someone light a fire, please!"
"Is that a good idea, my lady?" Ser Davos asked skeptically, indicating Gendry's glistening face with his hand. "He's running with sweat."
"Not for long," Charleen told him. "Believe me, I know the North."
They worked together to remove the outer layer of Gendry's clothes, wet with melted snow. Gendry whimpered a little when they pulled him up to take off his fur overcoat, but he did not open his eyes again.
By the time they had stripped him down to his shirt and hose, a small fire was burning in the grate, and someone had set a jug of spiced wine and a cup on the table by the bed. Charleen heard Ser Davos quietly giving thanks to the men and then closing the door behind them while she herself pulled some furs over Gendry's prone form. Gendry was still gasping for breath as though he had never stopped running, and there were fresh beads of sweat forming on his forehead and at his temples.
"Gendry," Charleen said, raising her voice a little as she sat down on the edge of the bed, facing him, "you need to breathe. Slow and steady, all right? In… and out. In… and out." She placed her hand on his chest to pace him, and after a few moments, Gendry's breathing eased a little, and he opened his eyes.
"That's it," Charleen encouraged him, "keep breathing. In… and out. In… and out. In… and out."
Gendry blinked a few times, clearly trying to focus his gaze. All of a sudden, his breath hitched again as he caught sight of Ser Davos, who had seated himself in the chair on the far side of the table.
"It's all right," Charleen shushed her patient, guessing his train of thought. "Daenerys is already on her way north with her dragons. We've done all that we can."
At these words, Gendry heaved a shaky sigh, and Charleen smiled a little.
"Don't speak," she cautioned him. "Just breathe, slow and steady. Slow… and steady. That's it."
When Gendry's breathing had calmed, matching the rhythm that she was setting, Charleen reached over and poured some wine for him.
"Here," she said gently, "you need to drink some of this."
Supporting Gendry's head with one hand, she held the cup to his lips with the other, and he swallowed greedily.
"Slowly," Charleen admonished, tilting the cup away from Gendry's mouth, "or you'll make yourself sick. You can have some more in a minute. Just let that settle for a moment, all right?"
She waited a little until she was satisfied that the wine wouldn't come back up, and then gave Gendry the rest of it, lowering his head gently back down on the pillow when the cup was empty.
"Thank you," Gendry murmured.
"Of course," Charleen replied. She was burning to ask him about what had happened north of the Wall, about Jon and the others, but Gendry's eyes were already falling closed again, and she checked herself.
"Rest now," she said softly. "Just rest."
Pulling the furs up over Gendry's shoulders, she waited until his breathing had evened out, and then rose from the bed and sat down at the table with Ser Davos.
"He'll be all right," she told the old knight quietly. "He just needs to sleep, and to eat something, later, when he's feeling more like himself."
"I can stay with him," Ser Davos offered. "You should probably also get some more rest."
"I'm all right," Charleen replied, moving her hand unconsciously to draw her cloak over her belly.
In truth, a leaden weariness was taking hold of her, sweeping over her body in numbing waves, but she could not bear the thought of returning to her cold, empty chamber, where there was nothing to distract her from the fear gathering at the edges of her mind, the terrible fear that this time, Jon would not return.
And so, she attempted a smile for Ser Davos, sat back in her chair, and waited.
GoTGoTGoTGoTGoTGoTGoT
A drawn-out screech roused Charleen from her doze. The sound was faint and distant, but perfectly unmistakeable, and she sat up with a jolt.
The dragons had returned.
Drawing in a deep breath, Charleen turned to Ser Davos, who caught her glance and nodded. Swiftly, she rose from her chair, but instead of leaving the room immediately, she moved back towards the bed. Gendry was still sleeping soundly, his breathing deep and even, although he still looked very pale. He stirred slightly when Charleen laid her hand on his forehead to feel his temperature. Beneath her fingers, his skin felt cool and a little clammy, and she went over to the fireplace to put another log on the fire.
At that moment, another screech sounded from outside, this time much closer at hand. Charleen straightened, once again catching Ser Davos' gaze, and he wordlessly motioned for her to leave, indicating that he himself would remain with Gendry. With a grateful nod, Charleen crossed the room and slipped out of the door. She hurried along the corridor, down the stairs and out into the courtyard, squinting in the sudden brightness of the day.
It had stopped snowing. The air, cold and crystal-clear, seemed to shatter like ice as another keening shriek came from above. Raising her head, Charleen saw that one of the dragons was flying overhead, sharply outlined against the sky. As she watched, another dragon came into view above the Wall. It descended towards the castle with slow beatings of its wings, and Charleen realised that there were several figures perched upon its back.
Her knees suddenly weak beneath her, Charleen stumbled across the courtyard towards the gate. The dragon was landing on the expanse of rock and ice that lay beyond, raking the snow with its enormous claws. It reared up, wings outstretched, and gave a long, wailing screech that sent shivers down Charleen's spine. She had never heard any of the dragons make a sound like that – an unmistakeable, terrible cry of anguish.
Frozen to the spot, she watched as the dragon lowered its wings to the ground and crouched down to allow its riders to dismount. Daenerys was first, her white coat standing out starkly against the dragon's dark scales. She held out her hand to help the others – Ser Jorah came first, clambering awkwardly over the dragon's shoulder, then Tormund and Beric Dondarrion, and, finally, the Hound. But the priest with the topknot was nowhere to be seen. And neither was Jon.
Icy fingers closed around Charleen's heart as she frantically scanned the scene before her. The dragon took to the air with a shuddering cry, whipping up snow with its wings, and she started forward as if pushed by an invisible hand.
"Where's Jon?" she called out, the words catching painfully in her throat. "Where's my husband?"
Daenerys came towards her slowly, her shoulders sloped in defeat. She paused, not meeting Charleen's eyes, and when she spoke, her tone was hollow.
"We had to leave him behind."
Dazed, Charleen simply stared at her. Then, a hot surge of anger blazed up in her chest, and she found her voice.
"What do you mean, you had to leave him –!?"
"They were killing my dragons!" Daenerys suddenly yelled. "Viserion is dead!"
Her voice broke on the last word, and Charleen froze in shock, her fury turning to ice in her veins. Stunned, she struggled for a moment to comprehend what she had heard – that one of the dragons, itself nothing less than a force of nature, was gone.
She barely noticed when Tormund moved up to stand beside her. Only when his hand settled on her shoulder did she look up at him, dimly registering the blood caked on one side of his face.
"Jon was still fighting when we got off," Tormund said huskily. "Broke through the ice on the lake where we'd been trapped. We couldn't wait to see if he'd resurface, but for all I know, he might be alive."
A rushing sound filled Charleen's ears. For one giddy moment, she wanted to seize Tormund's hands and beg him, beg him to go back north with all of his men, with Daenerys and her dragons, everyone, everything –
But then, a strange, muffled screaming broke through her whirling thoughts. A few paces away, the Hound and Beric Dondarrion were kneeling on the ground, fighting to subdue what seemed at first glance to be a sack of canvas – only, it was moving.
A shiver ran down Charleen's back as she realized what she was looking at. Stepping closer gingerly, she saw that the wight was clad with tattered pelts and furs. Its arms and legs were bound with rope, and a canvas sack had been tied over its head. Nonetheless, it was writhing and squirming, fighting against the bonds, and shrieking in frustration when they proved unyielding.
The Hound straightened up and heaved the wight, still struggling, onto his back. His eyes caught Charleen's, and for a short moment, the hardened mask of his expression slipped, giving way to a look of pity.
It was done. The success of the endeavour was slung over the Hound's shoulder, wriggling and growling, proof incontrovertible of the threat beyond the Wall. No other incentive would take anyone back there, to the most dangerous place in the world, where even a dragon could be killed. If Jon was still alive, Charleen knew, he was entirely on his own, and she herself condemned, once again, to wait and hope.
