DAENERYS

Nearly all of Castle Black's towers and ramparts had been destroyed in the battle, but the main gate impossibly still remained, stranded by itself on the outskirts of the burnt-out castle. And so here she stood, with Lord Commander Tarly to her left, watching as the army trudged westwards for as far as the eye could see. They were Dothraki and Golden Company men for the most part, but you would not have known it; the Dothraki, for the first and only time, had donned long sleeves over their arms, and hoods over their braids, for it was better to hide your pride for a while than to die of frostbite. The men of the Golden Company had lost their golden mail and cloaks in favour of fur and leather, procured from King's Landing and Gulltown tradesmen and the Pentoshi treasure ships they had marooned off Sweetsister. For her own part Dany wore a mantle and cloak of dark wool, edged in white fur. The cold was intense and the only living thing that did not feel it was Drogon, who had made his nest some miles to the south and occasionally blasted heat around himself every now and again like a volcano on the horizon.

"How many are there again?" Samwell Tarly asked her.

"Three thousand," said Dany. "With another ten thousand at Eastwatch, and around twenty-five thousand more ranged from the Sisters down to Dragonstone." The Dothraki she had left in Volantis had finally made their crossing, though many of their ships had sunk in crossing in the Narrow Sea and those that arrived numbered less than half of what had set out. "Enough, I should think."

"We are outnumbered against the Others, still."

"They do not have dragons."

Tarly was not the sort of man to scowl, but he smiled without any pleasure in it. "No, but they have other things."

"We have defeated them once," said Dany. "We can defeat them again."

"We defeated Euron Greyjoy. He was not the Others." His smile grew even less friendly. There is something else he wants to say, Dany thought, and she reckoned she knew what it was. Though the girl Gilly had made it plain to her that Master Samwell Tarly was a kind, good man, she had seen none of that man here. He was still bitter at her late arrival at Castle Black, no matter how many times she told him she had done all she could.

Sometimes, when she was having trouble sleeping in her cold chamber, she doubted her own words. If only the wind had favoured them a little more as they sailed up the coast… if only the ice floes around Sweetsister had been easier to break through… if only she had not flown to Highgarden to have her fruitless encounter with the Tyrells. But, of course, the Tyrell treachery was not her fault. If Harry Strickland and Varys had not colluded in defiance of her will, she would not have needed to fly to the Reach. And, she thought, Master Tarly may come to thank me in the long run, when he recognises that it is due to my actions that we no longer have to deal with a southern insurrection. She had dispatched letters to the Lords Hightower and Redwyne at Highgarden, instructing them to continue north once their fleets rounded the Sea of Dorne and came up Cape Wrath, to meet Selwyn Tarth and the remainder of her fleet at Eastwatch.

She would have liked to have flown Drogon from the Bite, but the mist made it impossible to fly high and she did not want to drift into the Lands of Always Winter. So instead she had waited till they reached Eastwatch, and then she had flown Drogon low and slow over the width of the wrecked Wall till they reached Castle Black. At first she had feared she had come too late, for to her eyes the castle seemed as dark and abandoned as the others along the Wall, but then there was a great explosion of fire, and fire meant men, and so she and Drogon descended towards it. They had found Castle Black in a strange inferno that grew exponentially with every breath of Drogon's fire. And then, on the ground:

The Night's Watch, in ashes. Euron Greyjoy dead, and the wight army broken and burning. And the young man, Jon Snow, stepping forth naked from the red-hot blaze.

Dany looked down over the rampart. "Lysono Maar and Lord Celtigar will be up to see me soon, Lord Commander. I hope I can tell them that they will find hospitality here—"

"They may eat in the Shieldhall," said Samwell. "There should be more than enough room, since most of those who ate their before are dead." Of the three thousand who had started the Battle of Castle Black, only around six hundred had survived. She had watched, a week ago, as they piled all the bodies onto the great pyre in the centre of Castle Black. There were so many to burn that they had relied on Drogon to light the flame. Dany stood opposite Master Samwell Tarly on one side of the firepit. As they burned, Jon Snow had emerged on the balcony above her, and watched the blaze. His skin was pale as his name, and his eyes were seeing death.

She had listened to the stories, as was expected of a queen. She heard the names of the fallen: Tormund Giantsbane, mighty warrior and shared father of the wildlings; Morna o'the White Mask, a brave leader of her tribe; Maege Mormont, who was Ser Jorah's aunt; the Greatjon Umber and his uncle Hother Whoresbane; many others. And the remainder were haunted; Rickard Ryswell had lost a brother; Alys Karstark had lost a husband and many of her soldiers; Larence Hornwood had lost an eye, an arm, and most of his men, and had seemed horrified at his own survival. Worst of all for her, though, was a Northern woman named Jetta, who had miscarried in the aftermatch of the battle.

She had, unavoidably, felt her hand going to her own belly at that. The pregnancy was over. Marwyn was not sure there had been a true pregnancy at all. Benerro contended that there had been, but somewhere along the way the babe had been poisoned. And Ser Jorah sat over her, and shook his head, and said "Oh, Daenerys," like she was a little girl all over again.

"I hope," said Dany, wanting to distract herself from the memory, "that the arrival of this army goes some of the way towards reconciling our viewpoints, Lord Commander."

Samwell looked at her blandly. "It is not for me to decide whether reconciliation is possible. That is a matter for the Lord Commander."

It was some time before she realised that he meant Lord Commander Snow. "Might I be allowed to see Lord Commander Snow and offer my respects in person?" she asked. As she had before.

"No," he said. As he had before. "Jon needs to rest. I will not have you disturbing him." He looked away. A moment of silence past. Master Tarly nodded to her. "Your Grace," he said. Then he set off along the wallwalk, and left her there alone.

A moment later she realised the reason for his desertion of her. As he departed, Archmaester Marwyn and Ser Jorah Mormont came into sight. They bowed. "Your Grace."

Jorah had set out to meet Lysono Maar and Lord Celtigar earlier that morning. "They were unhappy," he told her, when she asked him how he found them. "But I think that is more due to the weather than anything else."

"Can you blame them?" asked Marwyn the Mage. "A man takes a walk in Oldtown, the worst that can happen is he loses his purse. A man takes a walk up here, he's likely to lose his balls to frostbite."

Dany was grateful that he had kept his good humour this far north. "As far as I am aware, Ser Jorah has kept his balls," she said.

Jorah laughed, which was a rare and welcome occurrence. "Did I tell you about my cousin Lyanna, Your Grace? When I marched into her chambers to offer my condolences, she reprimanded me so sternly it was like being before my father again. And this from a girl of fourteen."

The mood grew a little more solemn. She knew it must be awkward for Ser Jorah to be so close to Bear Island again, and to meet men he had known before he was banished, and their sons.

Marwyn said, "I saw Lord Snow."

"You did?" Dany was taken aback. "I thought Tarly had set up guards—"

"Ah, but maesters have their ways. We spoke only briefly, but I assured him that Your Grace had the best interests of him and his countrymen at heart. I said little more, though. I did not wish to presume Your Grace's intentions."

Still, it was briefly fascinating. "How did he seem? How did he look?"

"I – I do not know, Your Grace." Marwyn hesitated. "It sounds strange, but he betrayed nothing. One would think… well… that his blood scarcely flowed…"

"You speak of Lord Snow?" said a voice behind her. Dany turned, and there she saw the woman. Her name was Lady Melisandre of Asshai, and she was a red priest of R'hllor, like Benerro. She spent most of her days in consultation with Benerro, too, but right now he was not to be seen; she was alone.

"Forgive me for eavesdropping," the red woman said. "It is a habit I picked up by accident in Volantis, as a girl. The masters of the Temple there often said things they did not want you to hear, but which you needed to hear."

"Have you brought a message from Lord Snow?" Marwyn asked.

"Not a message, no. But I can make you a gift. Of a meeting with Lord Snow."

Dany frowned. "I thought Master Tarly—"

"I do not serve Samwell Tarly. I only serve the Lord of Light, and it is the Lord's wish that the pair of you meet. If that is his will, I am bound to ensure it, even if it means going behind Master Samwell's back. And it is his well. Both you and Lord Snow have a part to play in the prophecy, Your Grace. As allies, not as contenders."

"You would take me to him?"

"I would."

"Why should we believe you?" asked Ser Jorah.

"It is not a matter of we, ser," said Melisandre. "This offer is for your queen alone."

"Your Grace—" Mormont began.

"I will take your offer, Lady Melisandre," Dany said. She gave Jorah an apologetic look. "The alternative is to continue as we are. That will not do."

"Very well," said Melisandre. "Meet me after today's council, and I will take you to him." And so the offer was made. But that council had to come first.

They met in the Shieldhall, a blasted ruin of a building mostly protected from the elements by a flapping tarpaulin. Samwell Tarly and the wildlings sat on one side of the long wooden table; Dany and her advisors on the other. A map of Westeros was laid between them, weighted down with heavy iron markers. They only had the markers for the forces of the living, as it was impossible to truly know where the dead were.

A few days earlier, Dany had made consultation with Rickard Ryswell and the Lord Liddle on the next stage of their plan. They had, thankfully, been in agreement then, as now. Ser Jorah took the job of explaining. "We will march back to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea," he said, "all of us together, supported by these new forces: Night's Watch, free folk, Northmen, queen's men, all. We believe it is then in our best interests to sail to White Harbor—"

"I do not like this plan," said Mors Umber, whom they called . "It would mean leaving the entirety of the North behind. Karhold, the Last Hearth… even Winterfell."

"They are lost already," Alys Karstark told him. "It is painful, I know, but Euron's men were coming up from the South, and they will not have left anything behind for us to salvage. I agree with Ser Jorah. We should make for White Harbor. The Wall is short of supplies, anyhow."

"Down to our last sack of turnips soon, lads," said Eddison Tollett, the Lord Steward. "Then we'll truly be doomed."

"I will write to Lord Selwyn Tarth to make arrangements for our departure from Eastwatch," said Dany. "There should be more than enough room for all of us aboard my ships. We had expected—" She cut herself off, about to say more and therefore no doubt invoke Samwell Tarly's anger. She turned to him now. "If you would like to write too, Master Tarly, you are most welcome."

He nodded but said nothing, unwilling to make a commitment either way. Dany doubted her intended reconcilation would come about anytime soon, but at least he had not blocked her path here. Judging the meeting to be finished, she rose to her feet. "Thank you for your consideration," she said, and they left.

She found Melisandre in the hallway outside. Ser Jorah remained suspicious of the red woman's intentions, but Dany did not let him hold her back. Together, she and Melisandre made their way through the castle's various underground tunnels until they came to a door with two guardsmen outside.

Melisandre said, "We are here to see Lord Snow."

The guards gave her a glazed look. More than that, they did not seem to see Dany at all, nor did they realise that Melisandre had said we. As simple as that, they continued down the corridor. At the door, the red woman turned to her. "Be wary," she said. "You do not know what will incite him to anger."

"Is he… often angry?"

"He did not used to be. But he is not the man he was…" When Dany nodded, Melisandre knocked on the door. There was no response, but she seemed to expect that, and opened it anyway.

The room was bigger than she had been expecting, twice the size of her own chamber, and yet barely furnished. There was a narrow bed in the corner, and a desk on the other side of the room, but nothing else to suggest that the place had been lived in at all. A half-eaten plate of breakfast rested on a table in the middle of the room. There was a fireplace, but no fire. And there was Jon Snow.

He was sitting in one of the chairs, and he had his back to her. He did not look round as she entered. Melisandre motioned for her to cross the room. Dany did so slowly, as she might when approaching Drogon, half-afraid that he might lash out at her. As she reached the chair opposite him, he looked up sharply. For a moment she froze in place, could not move. His face was pale as… well, as snow, as Marwyn had said, and entirely bloodless. But it was the eyes that struck her. They were dark grey, she realised later, but on first glance they seemed entirely black. He looked like a ghost: the sort of ghost you heard about in a book of children's stories, entirely a contrast of black and white, with no colours in between. His face had a sort of cold handsomeness to it, as if he were carved from perfect marble. But it was so marble and statuesque that it could not possibly be real. Best not delay, she thought. She swallowed deeply, then: "Lord Snow."

"You are Queen Daenerys Targaryen." Not a question. His eyes never left her, and they never blinked.

"I am," Dany said. "It is…" A pleasure? An honour? "…right that we finally meet, I think."

"Yes, I think so too." There was something inhuman about the way he spoke. It was like he was a creature from another world, and this was his first time learning how people talked, and how they lived.

"I hope," she began, "that we may put the enmity between House Stark and House Targaryen aside. I know our two houses have had a difficult history. My brother Rhaegar—"

"—and my aunt Lyanna. Yes, I know. I see no reason to be bound by the actions of our forebears."

"I am glad you think so." Despite her best efforts, Dany could not suppress a shiver.

"You are cold," said Lord Snow. "I will have a fire made up." He rose from his chair. His movements were strange and skeletal. He had unusually pale, bony hands. Dany watched him as he knelt before the fire, stacking pieces of old wood among the coals. As he moved to take a candle from the desk, her eyes drifted to something glinting on the wall behind him – the only bright thing in the room.

"That is Longclaw," he said, so suddenly it startled her. "It was Jeor Mormont's sword."

"I… yes."

"He had a bear on the pommel but he changed it with a wolf when he gave it to me. Your Ser Jorah is welcome to take it back if he wishes. I have no use for it."

"Have you met with Ser Jorah?" She had not mentioned his name.

"No. But I have seen him from the window. And from the balcony." He sat back down, rigid in his chair. "I have seen your dragon, too. Or at least the smoke he makes."

"Yes. Drogon is…"

"Like your child," he said. "I understand. I had a wolf. Ghost. He was not my child, but he was like a brother to me." He gave her a strange look. "It hurts when they are gone."

"Yes. I lost a dragon. Rhaegal. And Viserion is… I do not know where Viserion is."

There was a long silence.

"Why did you come here?" he asked.

Dany felt a chill go through her. "I… thought we should talk. I need an ally. In the North. Someone who can help me rally against the army of the dead…" It sounded feeble coming from her lips.

"You have Sam," said Jon Snow.

"Master Tarly has been…" What to say without angering him? "…distracted."

"I understand," he said. "But you must not blame Sam. He has a tendency to take things hard on himself. He believes the deaths of the battle were his fault. When really it was you and I who came too late."

"That is not the only reason I need your help," she said. "Perhaps Lady Melisandre has mentioned—"

"Lady Melisandre mentions many things. And does not mention the ones that are important. Forgive me, but I am somewhat ill-disposed towards her. First, she neglected to tell me about my impending death. Second, she killed Ghost. Third, she kept my body in a freezing meat cellar for several weeks. Fourth, she cut my hair." He smiled, but even that disturbed her. "You may laugh."

Dany only then realised that Melisandre was long gone. She cleared her throat. "She mentioned the prophecy. The prince that was promised. She said… I think it must be because you… because you…"

"Came back from death?"

"Yes. But others say I am the prince that was promised."

"Born amidst smoke and salt," he said acerbically. It was the first time any sort of tone had come into his voice.

"Yes," she said.

"Did you see Castle Black burning, Your Grace?"

"I did."

"And do you know what might be kept in a meat cellar?"

"What?" She was lost.

"Salted meat," said Lord Snow. He made that strange smile again. "I will not trouble you in any way, Your Grace. But nor am I able to ally with you. Because this is not right, and I do not intend to allow it to continue."

"What are you talking about?"

He became very still. "I died, Your Grace. The Horn of Winter blew, the Wall was coming down, and Ramsay Bolton stabbed me in the heart. I remember that clear as day. But I do not know what came after. I remember darkness, but I could not tell you if it lasted one minute or one year. Then I was awake, and there was fire all around me. I was afraid of it. I cowered from it. I was crying. I did not want to die that way. I did not want to die again. I hoped that someone would come and find me. My father, maybe. He did not. So I stood up and I walked into the fire. I thought, it will not take long at all.

"I did not burn. I walked through the flames, and all the way out into the light. But that light was darkness too, in my eyes. This life I have now… can I die, Your Grace? Sitting in this room, I have often wondered. If I took Longclaw from the wall and cut my own throat with it, would I die? Would I even bleed? Or would I simply rise again, even colder than before? Can I feel pain? Probably not. I cannot feel anything else. Is it still cold in here? I cannot tell. When I woke up, at first, I did not remember who I was. Even now, I am not sure. Who is Jon Snow, Your Grace?"

Dany watched, cold, as he said all this. Every word in the same, drafty monotone. "Perhaps," she said, "you were meant to come back."

"Perhaps I have a destiny: is that what you are saying?"

She paused, sensing that she might need to take special care here; he sounded on-edge, doubtful. "It sounds unlikely, I know, but—"

"No less likely than a dead man returning to life," he said.

"Something like that. A dead man returning to life… it is something that is unheard of in most of the world. All of the world, even. But I have witnessed similar things."

His eyes remained decidedly bored. "Such as?"

"When my first husband, Drogo, was killed by Mirri Maz Duur," Dany said, "I stepped onto his funeral pyre as it took light. Even now I am not entirely sure what I was intending. But I do not think it was suicide. I think, somehow, I knew that I would emerge from it alive and unharmed. Unburnt, with my three dragons coiling around me. I was spared that night for a reason. I am still not entirely sure what it is, but I know there was a reason. Perhaps it is the same with you."

Lord Snow stared at her for a long time, and then shook his head. "You emerged from your pyre with three dragons, Your Grace. Those dragons are your power. They were meant to help you conquer the Seven Kingdoms. When I came forth from my pyre, I came forth with nothing."

"Nothing but yourself. Perhaps you are your own dragon, Lord Snow."

"I think not." He took his eyes away from her face and returned his attention to his hands. "Will that be all, Your Grace?"

"Yes," Dany said. "I suppose it will."