DD

by Renato1235

gwegweg

3. Chapter 3

They tried to pull him back, but Euron just stepped out, half-naked, into the fray.

Up close, it was huge. It stood nine-foot tall; it had the body of a man, but such a thing couldn't be called human. The steel sword raised high, like an executioner strike above Euron's head. The God-King just opened his arms wide, and laughed.

The golem froze like a statue, mid-lunge. The whole courtyard turned still.

Eleven bodies and a shattered gate littered the approach. There had been no warning, no alert - nothing but a beast of man suddenly stepping out of the plaza and breaking through the gate. Euron could hear the ramble from outside - of the crowds of smallfolk staring at the bloody path the golem had carved. The mob was stirring at the broken gates and the God-King was exposed, but Euron wasn't concerned.

"Well?" Euron shouted beyond the frozen golem. "You have my attention. Come on out now."

"Your Worship… !" a guard intervened, but Euron waved him back. The golem wasn't here to kill him, rather somebody was trying to make a sales pitch. 'Look at how poor your current men are', Euron mused, ' look at easily my man pushes through them'.

There were a few heartbeats of uncertain silence, and then finally a single, unremarkable figure stepped forth from the crowd; a balding old man with slumped shoulders in a cheap brown cloak. A man that had been waiting in the Starry Plaza; he likely snuck in while his golem provided the distraction.

He looked like a scholar or a septon, perhaps; a grandfatherly figure with kind, aged eyes. He walked carefully, stepping through the splinters of the gate, brushing over the broken shafts of arrows. The golem lowered its sword.

Lord Qyburn paused, looking between the armed men and the bloody stairs. He lifted up the hem of his robes, and he bowed his head deeply before Euron. The golem waited, still and silent as a grave.

"Your Grace," he said smoothly. "Forgive the intrusion, but I feel like an audience is deserved. I wished to make myself known, and I hoped that you might respect an entrance of strength." He took another step. His voice was cautious, careful. "I hoped we might come to terms with each other. Perhaps we each have abilities and resources that the other might benefit from?" The old man took another step. "Perhaps a partnership between us might prove… fruitful?"

Nobody spoke, all eyes were fixed on the mountainous golem. The answer to so many problems. Lord Qyburn the Necromancer had finally arrived in the city. Euron smiled, still feeling delirious from the shade of the evening.

"I knew you would be coming to me," Euron giggled. "I dreamt it."

Sarella

This city is going mad, she thought. Sarella ran through the ragged cobbled streets, hearing the clatter of iron boots behind her.

"Stop!" a voice cried. "Halt!"

Sarella didn't stop. She darted through the maze of alleys, jumping over the debris and flotsam littering the path. Wrecked houses and shops were smeared across the streets; many of the stones walls had survived, but the roofs had been torn off by the water. It left the streets and alleyways feeling haunted, surrounded by the broken husks of buildings. She could scarcely even recognise the city anymore.

Ahead of her, a wall had been half-collapsed in the flood, and Sarella jumped over it so smoothly her cloak barely touched the stone. Behind her, bells were ringing.

"Halt!" the watchmen cried. "Stop in the name of the God-King!"

The voices bore Reachmen accents. The men wore the uniforms of the City Watch of Oldtown, but the rose on their breastplates had been scratched off. It wasn't ironborn chasing her; these men had likely fought against the ironborn. Two months ago, these men would have arrested anybody who proclaimed loyalty to the Crow's Eye.

But that was two months ago. Two months. It felt like a lifetime.

Heavy boots scattered through grimy puddles. The stones were slick with rain, a light drizzle filling the air. Sarella was panting deeply, but she didn't stop. Two months ago, she had been an acolyte at the Citadel. Now, she was being hunted. They were all being hunted.

Euron Greyjoy had given every man woman and child in Oldtown only a single choice; concede or suffer.

The bells were ringing. She was light and lean, she was a good sprinter. Not even Nym had been able to outrace Sarella over the red sands when they were young, and Obara had joked that she was half a horse. Her fondest memories were running over the beaches with her father and her sisters, roaming through caves in search of lost treasure. Sarella could outrun any guard in the City Watch, but the difficulty was if they surrounded her. The guards were ringing heavy bells, were calling for more support. Sarella would not be able to run forever.

But what choice do I have? she cursed. Find a place to hide? Take shelter in some winesink? It all depended on whether they had recognised her as a girl, or if they thought they were chasing a boy.

Her heart was racing, feet pounding. She didn't understand why they were chasing her, not really, but these men seemed desperate to

catch her. It was as though all of the guardsmen had just turned fanatic, nearly overnight, amidst the ironborn occupation. The whole city was crazed under the kraken's shadow.

Maester Yandel named Euron Greyjoy as the Bloodstone Emperor come again, she recalled. She hadn't understood what that meant at the time. But then she saw men carving krakens into their own flesh.

Boots clattered, bells chiming mad. This whole city is mad .

Sarella didn't stop running.

She had seen Pate again. Pate the pig boy. She had taken refuge with the resistance, a ragtag group secluding themselves in a rundown tavern in the slums of the broken city - as they waited for news. Sarella had heard whispers that Brightwater Keep had surrendered to the ironborn, but they were truly waiting on word from Highgarden. Waiting for help from their lord paramount. Sarella was with the resistance of Oldtown; she had been keeping her head down and disguised as just another homeless wench - a thieving Summer Isles beggar - when she saw Pate the pig boy step through the door.

Pate hadn't changed. She didn't know how he was still alive. He was pale, soft and pasty, with a spotted face and wide, droopy eyes. Sarella was on the search to gather more support, and Pate was hardly the fighter that the resistance needed. Still, she had known Pate from their time as novices. Pate was sweet, gormless and innocent. She remembered a scared boy from her first days at the Citadel, and Sarella wanted to help him.

She didn't understand what happened. The memory flashed before her.

Pate had walked into the tavern, and he had paid twenty golden coins for the last remaining horse. Twenty . That should have been Sarella's first clue, but she assumed he must have stolen the money from somewhere. The horse was a ragged old mare, but the barkeep

was still scared to give it up. Pate hadn't recognised her at first, not until she stepped out of the crowd and grabbed his wrist. Her dark hand was shaded like teak against his pasty skin.

"Forget the horse," Sarella whispered into his ear. The boy stiffened. "It's useless, the gates are sealed."

He hadn't replied. Sarella tried to pull him into a corner, but he held steady. "Pate," she hissed. "It's me, Alleras-"

Pate hadn't even hesitated. He had moved so fast her eyes could barely follow. She had seen the flash of a blade.

And then everything went mad.

He tried to stab me, Sarella realised only later. She felt the cut on her shoulder where his knife had nearly cut open her jugular. She had never imagined that Pate could move that fast. If not for the stranger suddenly tackling him to the ground, she knew that she would likely be dead.

The tavern had been crammed and overfilled with restless refuges, it had been a mob. Sarella had seen the cloaked figure hacking at Pate with a short sword but Pate - Pate! - moved too fast. Pate parried the blade, stopping the larger man with only a knife. Two of the patrons had tried to intervene, but then Pate's blade flashed and two bodies were falling downwards. Sweet, innocent Pate had killed two men with such ease it was unreal.

It had been a scuffle. Sarella fell to the rotten floorboards and scampered away, but she had seen Pate screaming after her. Pate had his mouth open, but it wasn't Pate's voice.

Thieves! " Pate had shrieked, but it was a high-pitched, scared female voice. A distressed, helpless voice, even as Pate slit open a man's throat. If she hadn't have seen him, Sarella would never have believed that such a voice could come from him. " Sneakthieves! Treason! It's the resistance! Guards! Guards! "

Sarella had sprinted out of the door, and Pate gave chase. Pate's legs were short and his stomach podgy, but he ran faster than she could have ever expected. Not quite as fast as her, but almost.

The guards had arrived quickly from all the screaming. Suddenly Sarella was running for her life, and she didn't even understand why.

She had lost sight of Pate in two streets back - he had disappeared into the shadows somewhere - but the guards were still chasing her. She was still running.

She was running towards a city square. Sarella saw the seaweed-coated statue of Leo Longthorn standing stiffly at the edge of an abandoned bakery and a ransacked forge. Once, this was a plaza filled with trader's stalls, but now it may as well have been a mausoleum. The ironborn had hacked off the head of Leo Longthorn, and hung the corpses of dissenters from his arms instead. The windows were all shuttered, the shops were dead.

She knew where she was; Thorn Square. The guards were running after her, but Sarella couldn't keep running. There was no choice.

She slid across the slick stones and into the brambles, her hands snatching up the bow and quiver. A weapon was too dangerous to carry on her person, but she had hidden the goldenheart longbow here weeks ago. As soon as her hands gripped the smooth, sleek wood, it felt like she was whole.

Her father had taught her how to shoot, but her mother had gifted her the goldenheart bow on her very first visit to Oldtown. It felt like the bow was as part of her. Sarella moved so fluidly it was like water; an arrow notched onto her bow, the string quivering…

The bowstring snapped.

And suddenly one of the guards fell, with a wooden shaft straight through his eye. Like coring an apple . It was pure muscle memory.

The other guard didn't stop running. Sarella fired again, but in the moment her aim was off. The bowstring was damp and her fingers slipped. The second arrow pierced into his shoulder, but his other hand was swinging a sword upwards. He didn't stop running. She saw wild, fanatical eyes screaming at her.

"The God-King!" the man screamed. "For the God-Kin-!"

Then, the guard's body shuddered as a slender blade slipped straight through his neck. Blood gushed, flesh ripped.

It was a bravo's blade. The guard thumped to the cobblestones, rain drizzling around him.

Sarella took a deep breath, body shuddering. Her hands were shaking, but her fingers notched another arrow without hesitation.

"At ease," a voice drawled from across the square. "Easy, Sphinx ."

She might have sagged. She knew that voice. "Leo." She took a deep breath, staring at the two dead bodies. "Lazy Leo."

The young man's eyes gleamed in the dark. He moved swiftly, stepping out of the shadows and walking to pick up his blade. The former acolyte of Marwyn the Mage looked like he always did; handsome and pale, with ash-blond hair across his brow. Leo was dressed in satin that might have once been green and gold, but it was hard to see any colours though the layers of mud and grime.

"You're a woman now," he noted, nodding at the cheap and worn dress she wore.

"I was always a woman."

"I always knew."

"Is that why you kept staring at my breasts?" she retorted.

"Don't flatter yourself," Leo scoffed, as he pulled his blade out of the guard's neck. "There's hardly anything there to stare at."

She scowled, holding her bow close. "Move. We need to run."

She turned and ran, a light jog down the wharfside. Leo frowned in irritation, but then scattered after her. Already, Sarella was missing wearing breeches. At the Citadel, she had worn doeskin breeches and a snug brigandine, but she had been forced to wear a dress again when she needed to disappear. The dress just made everything so cumbersome.

They left the bodies of the watchmen where they fell, in the middle of the square. She turned to stare backwards, looking at the man with a wooden shaft protruding from his skull. "Was he the first you ever killed?" Leo asked as they ran.

"Aye." Sarella took a deep breath. She had killed a man with barely a second thought.

"Don't worry. It gets easier."

"Apparently true." Her eyes lingered on him. "That was damn good throw with your blade."

"Truthfully, I was aiming at his knee," Leo admitted. Sarella turned, trying to gauge whether or not he was japing. She couldn't tell. "I knew that man. Morren - his name was. Or Mullen or Morrey or something like. I did not want to kill him."

"He was a guardsman?"

"He once arrested me for drunken nudity," said Leo, winking, but she ignored the jibe.

"And he betrayed his city." She didn't stop running. There were still bells ringing behind her, but the sound was moving in the other direction. "What is the City Watch doing?"

"The best that they can." A rare crease of unease lined Leo's features. "They are forced into servitude. The ironborn have been moving hostages - women and children - to the ruins of the Tower. They all have families that will be the first to suffer if they disobey."

"So they surrender instead?" Her eyes narrowed.

"They do what they must." Leo shook his head. "If there is any unruliness in the city, any riots, any protests to his rule - the Crow's Eye has threatened to bring his monster back. They must keep the peace or else."

She didn't reply for a while. The gates were sealed, she considered, the people trapped in the city. Too many ironborn had survived the disaster that night, while that monster had devastated the Reach army and the city.

Sarella had seen the battle herself. She had nearly drowned in the waves as the mountainous black mass rose from the bay. She couldn't explain what it was, she had scarcely even been able to process it at the time. It had been a monster of the sea - a beast of such scale that it beggared mythology. And it was still out there. Somewhere.

Any fleet that comes to save us is doomed for defeat . There wasn't a ship on earth that could challenge something that big. No city could hold against it. It had devastated the army of the Reach, massacring the tens of thousands who'd been manning the walls, the beaches, the ships. Sarella couldn't even say how many had survived, but she doubted if any near the front lines stood a chance.

In the aftermath, the city was left splintered. The bridges collapsed and one half of the city was left isolated from the other. The chain of command had been annihilated, and the city had fallen into bedlam instead. Oldtown had been so shaken that the ironborn seized what remained with ease. They stormed the Starry Sept, and it had been a bloodbath.

The resistance had formed in the days after, from the remnants of the Reach's army and the city's highborn - but then it was promptly shattered the very first night it met, and then the second, and then the third. Any attempt to plan a coup, no matter how hidden, was met with merciless brutality until the people of Oldtown dared not to even speak his name, terrified it might draw his wroth.

The message had been made clear; no assembly of defiance could happen in the city without the Crow's Eye somehow knowing of it. The smallfolk whispered of demons, while the highborn muttered of turncloaks, but Sarella knew. He must be able to use glass candles. The resistance scarcely stood a chance if that were true, but some few still tried. The rest had caved to an unholy fear of the Crow's Eye.

Originally, it had been Baelor Hightower, the Brightsmile, that led the Oldtown resistance, but then he conceded and surrendered in despair. A knight of Redwyne had taken up the banner of defiance for a week, but then he had ended up swinging from the spires of the sept, alive and screaming as hungry crows pecked him to death. Then a fisherman on the wharves had tried to lead a mass escape, but the Crow's Eye had been waiting for him. Sarella heard now that Garlan Tyrell was still alive and still fighting, but whether that was fact or fantasy she could not say.

Sarella and Leo kept on running, until they finally stopped for breath in a grimy alleyway. Her eyes narrowed on Leo, a hint of suspicion in her eyes. Can he be trusted? They had grown somewhat close under the tutelage of Archmaester Marwyn, but the Leo she knew had been arrogant and malicious.

Sarella took care to keep several paces away from him, with her goldenheart bow held tightly and her eyes peeled on the bravo's blade on his belt. Too many friends had betrayed her today.

"Your father," she said after a time. "Morwyn Tyrell. He commands the guard."

"My father does," he replied, his voice chilly. "My father is more trapped than anyone."

"Disputable." She cocked her head. "The City Watch has gone mad."

"They're scared."

"Then they've gone mad from fear."

Leo did not object the point. "My mother, my sisters," he said grimly, "are all locked in the ruins of the tower. And my father was forced to brand his flesh."

"And yourself?" There was a lingering suspicion in her voice. "You are not trapped."

"You think this is the first time I've run away from home?" he scoffed. Moryn Tyrell was the uncle of Lord Mace Tyrell, an old and influential figure in Oldtown. Leo was his youngest and unruly son. Leo and his father had oft been at odds with each other; Lord Morwyn had banished Leo to the Citadel years ago, but even then Leo hadn't stopped whoring, drinking and gambling.

"I looked for you that night," Sarella said stiffly, keeping her bow close. "You vanished before the battle."

"Aye," Leo nodded, taking a step forward. She took a step back. "And be thankful that I did. Else I wouldn't have been able to save your life."

She scoffed, forcing all weakness from her voice. "I had that man handled." Morren or Mullen or Morrey or whatever his name was .

"I do not doubt it." Lazy Leo took another step towards her. "But I was not speaking of him. I was speaking of before. In the tavern."

She paused. Her eyes flickered to his cloak, a black cloak. It had been so fast she hadn't seen the face of the man in the tavern. She

had only seen the black cloak as a figure tackled Pate to the ground. "That was you?"

"It was."

Her father had always warned her not to believe in coincidences. She stiffened. "Were you following me?"

"No. I was following him, the pig boy."

"Pate." He used to hate being called the pig boy. "Explain yourself, Leo. Why did Pate try to stab me?"

"That wasn't Pate."

"It looked like him." Leo nodded, and Sarella bit her lip. "Then who was he?"

"I don't know, but it was wearing Pate's face," Leo retorted. "Not a him. I thought there was something different about the pig boy, I had my suspicions that night."

"Why?"

"Because Pate the pig boy was always scared," Leo said foully. "The pig boy was a trembling craven, but then - months ago - he stopped trembling. Stopped being scared at all. Oh, Pate acted the same, but he would smile a bit longer and his eyes were a bit sharper. That was what got my attention."

Sarella didn't reply, but her dark gaze flickered. "And then, on that night," Leo continued, "Pate disappeared as well. I tried to scry him, but he vanished from the glass candle's sight. So I followed him the old-fashioned way, and I saw the pig boy sneaking around the lower levels - it was going to the vaults."

Sarella was quiet, digesting it in. The snideness in Leo's tongue had faded from what she had once known. He was less aggressive, less cruel in his barbs. "You call Pate an 'it'," she noted slowly. "Why?"

Leo pointed to his bravo's blade. "Because it doesn't feel. I stabbed it straight through the chest, twice, and it didn't even seem to feel a thing. Two clean cuts to the gut, and yet there is no blood on my blade. It was stronger, faster, and the way it moved… you saw it too."

She had. It hadn't moved like a human. "And I've been following it," Leo continued. "It didn't eat, didn't drink, didn't sleep. It has been hiding out in a slum for a while, waiting for a chance to leave the city. I followed it, waiting for it to get out in the open. Thanks to you, I saw my chance in the tavern. I took it."

That was a lot of work just for a suspicion. The city was in chaos, yet Leo had fixated on Pate above everything else. "Why?"

"Because I could only assume that the vanishing pig boy must be related to the Crow's Eye," Leo explained dourly. "And I wanted to find out what it was after. I wanted the chance to cut that satchel off its shoulder."

He swept his cloak to one side. Beneath his arm, there was a hefty leather satchel rest under his shoulder. The straps had been cut clean off - that was an old purse-snatcher's technique. Cut the straps, grab and run.

Suddenly, a bit more of that moment made sense. Pate had screamed 'thief' as she ran away.

Sarella raised an eyebrow. "You stole this?"

"It was already stolen. Why else would one creep into the vaults, and emerge carrying this bag?" Leo shook his head. "No, our stranger had been waiting for the right moment to steal it. It disguised itself as Pate, lingered around the Citadel, and waited until everyone else had evacuated. It used the battle as a distraction."

Sarella frowned. "If that's true… it implies that this 'stranger' knew the Crow's Eye was coming."

"Yes," Leo agreed. "Now isn't that curious?"

The only sound was the rain dribbling into the flooded streets. After a moment's pause, Sarella lowered her bow, and extended her hand for the satchel. Leo handed it over, and unfastened the clasps.

The bag had a hefty weight to it. As soon it opened, she a dark brown cover; a ragged and aged surface, and pages of brownish parchment. "It is a book."

"Aye. Stolen from the Citadel's vaults."

Her head spun. "The guards are looking for books," she said slowly. "The Crow's Eye ordered the militia to find one for him."

He nodded. ' The Drowned God commands you to action', the so-called High Priest had proclaimed less than a week before. 'Prove your devotion; return the lost book to the temple, and His Worship shall extend His benevolence' . With only few words, they had setthe city to chaos.

Leo pulled his cloak over the satchel, protecting the dusty pages from the light rain. The tome had once been sealed with an iron clasp, but someone must have broken the lock. Sarella gingerly pulled it out, inspecting at the unmarked leather cover. "Do you know what it is?" she asked.

"Not the foggiest. But if they want it, I'm inclined to keep it from them." Leo's gaze was dark. "The Crow's Eye destroyed half the city for this book."

The light was faint, so she roamed her fingers over the cover. There was a symbol etched onto the leather, Sarella noticed. At one time, it might have been painted, but the cover was faded and the paint flecked away. Still, she could feel the seal of House Targaryen imprinted on the cover, she could feel the dragon within its circle.

It took her a while to realise what was different on the sigil, but this three-headed dragon was headless. There were only three stumps on the dragon's necks. A headless Targaryen dragon .

"I looked at it myself, and I could make no sense of it," Leo noted. "But riddles are your specialty, aren't they, Sphinx ?"

She ignored the jibe. Sarella opened the tome gingerly, noticing the brownish stain that lined the edge of the parchment. The faded ink had been written in a careful hand, pages filled with characters that were still legible. There were no pictures that she could see, each page was filled with a solid wall of text. Sarella stared blankly.

Sarella could read High Valyrian, Old Ghiscari and Dothraki. She knew the bastard forms of Valyrian, was vaguely familiar with Lhazareen, and she could recognise several of the variants of the Asshai spelltongues. She had studied the runes of the First Men, though there wasn't a person alive who could properly translate those. Sarella even knew something of the Summer Tongue that her mother taught her. Still, she couldn't even make sense of the runes that filled the book. Some of the characters looked vaguely similar to High Valyrian, but it was more like gibberish.

"I cannot read it," she said finally. "This is either a language that I do not know, or it has been coded in a cypher." Or maybe both, she suspected.

"Can it be translated?"

"Perhaps." With great difficulty. "But it would take time and I do not know where to begin. I do not know what this is, or why it is of interest."

Leo's lips curled. "Do you want to go back and ask the pig boy?" he sneered. "Or would you rather see if the Crow's Eye cares to explain it to us?"

"I think not." Sarella's eyes were still fixed on the book, her brows frowning. "Do you have any glass candles left?" she asked after a pause.

"If only. I lost the last of them when the Citadel fell."

Then what other options are available to us? She could run to her uncle, perhaps, but how would Doran even be able to help? How could anybody help against the powers Euron held? Half of the major cities in the world would be nothing more than fodder for Euron's monster. Perhaps refugees could flee inland, but how could anybody truly threaten him when a beast like that roamed the seas?

I came to the Citadel in search of knowledge, she thought slowly. My father always told me to know my foe . You cannot beat something unless you know it. Perhaps this mysterious tome was the only chance she had to get ahead of Euron Greyjoy's power.

Leo was right. This was a riddle.

"You said that the stranger stole this from the vaults, yes?" Sarella said eventually.

"Aye."

There were vaults littered beneath the Citadel's grounds; it was often said that it was a labyrinth of libraries built into old quarry shafts webbing beneath the earth. Many areas were restricted, and every acolyte had been heavily regulated. Each archmaester carried a unique key that granted them access to private vaults, and the key of the seneschal had been passed down over eons. Maesters were keepers of knowledge; Sarella could easily believe that they might have locked something away.

"Then logically someone must have put it in the vaults. The maesters must have catalogued it at some point - someone in the Conclave must know its significance."

"Perhaps. Perhaps none but the archmaesters do." His voice was doubtful. "And any surviving archmaesters will now be under Euron's care."

She shook her head. "Not all of them." Sarella pulled her gaze up from the pages, to the shadow of the fallen tower in the distance. "We must get this book to Marwyn."

Sam

Dead! " the crow cawed, as it fluttered down the tunnels to match his pace. " Dead, dead, dead! "

Sam grimaced, then let out a sigh as he hoisted the kettle of water down the steps. The crow had overheard him breaking the news to a distraught mother, and now the damnable bird kept on chanting that word. Mormont's crow, Sam considered. Lord Commander Mormont was long dead in the wilderness somewhere, but his crow still lingered. Uneasy refugees flinched as the black wings fluttered passed in the wormwalks, screeching death.

"Tend to the bloody wounds first, Dalla," Sam said. "And keep the hearth burning, these people need their strength."

"As you say, Lord Steward," Dalla replied with a soft hand on his shoulder. Her touch still caused Sam's heart to flutter, but the thought of the task ahead quickly dampened it.

The infirmary was overfilled; the weak, the frail and wounded flooding out into the lower tunnels. Castle Black felt crowded fit to burst, and everywhere the Lord Steward looked, he saw suspicious eyes, gaunt and guarded faces. Last week, two giants had brawled over a bushel of onions. Three days ago, a woman had killed a man fighting for the last loaf of bread. The food in the ice tunnels was running low, and for weeks Mance had them all on half-rations. The snows had cut them off from supplies from Eastwatch, just as it had prevented the refugees from moving southwards.

Sam passed Red Jack Crabb, Rusty Flowers and Garse standing guard, as Brown Bernarr helped him carry the poultices and medicinal supplies and Small Paul carried the pots and pans, while four washerwomen carried bundles of blankets.

Thousands of people were left trapped in the castle, but it still felt eerily quiet as Sam traipsed through the wards. It was like people were afraid to speak.

Dead, dead, dead! " Mormont's crow echoed, and for a moment Sam wished he could strangle the bird.

The only sound breaking the gloom was the wailing of babes, or the haggard, throaty breaths of dying men. The very last of the free folk refugees, and they were a sorry and haunted lot.

Sam, Dalla and the others were only just starting their daily rounds, but it was all grim. Sam knew that two of the wildling chiefs, Two-Toed Dirk and Marv the Red Hand, were running a betting pool on who would die next.

From above, Sam could feel the ground throbbing with the storms, and the hissing of wind through the twisting tunnels.

Castle Black was well and truly snowed under. The snows above were so high they reached halfway up the maester's keep. Over fifteen foot of snow, the last Sam checked. More than enough to bury a man, and to make travel impossible for all but the hardiest. Any exposed would be dead in minutes, not even the castle's courtyard was safe to walk across.

Instead, all of the sworn brothers and all the refugees had to scuttle about beneath the wormwalks, like snow rabbits hiding below ground. Some days, the tunnels felt like crypts.

Sam clattered through with a pile of blankets on his back, a kettle full of lukewarm water sloshing in his hands. He trekked through the

wards like a rag-and-bone man going about his duty. Sam went along the right, Dalla took the left.

It was the Lord Steward's duty to see to these people, but Dalla… nobody expected her to be here, yet she here she was. Sam bore so much respect for her, the Lady of Castle Black, for helping him with these tasks. Dalla was a new mother herself, but she still found time to change bandages and empty bedpans.

"Dress the wound twice a day," Sam told a free folk woman, as she cradled a hand with three fingers sheared off by frostbite. Her eyes were haggard, her cheeks sunken and grim. "Here, use this poultice, rub the ointment in to the joints. It's ginger and honeyleaf, it'll ease the sting."

Sam forced a smile, but the woman didn't react. "Three of the fingers are gone, but we might still save the rest of the hand," Sam said, trying to be reassuring.

She didn't thank him, but she took the medicine. She was an older woman with a face like leather, likely a spearwife in her youth. Sam didn't know her name, he didn't know anyone's name.

He moved on, to inspect the splint on a man's broken leg. Sam was no maester, but Castle Black didn't have anyone else.

More and more, his eyes drifted towards Dalla, as she sponged down an ugly wound. Dalla is far too pretty to belong in a place like this, Sam decided. They said that her sister Val was the morebeautiful one, but Dalla's hair was soft brown instead of gold, and Dalla was sweet and tender where Val had been cold.

The air was quiet as rewrapped the wildling's leg. Thankfully, Mormont's crow flew off to screech elsewhere. The man grimaced in pain, but Sam pulled the bandages tight. The bone felt knobbly, and he could see where the flesh had congealed.

"I have your bandages for you, m'lord," a washwoman said dutifully, approaching with a basket of grimy sheets. She was a mousy woman, with a bright white stone on grimy furs.

"Thank you, Gilly," Sam sighed. "Here, take these bandages too and give them a wash. We'll need to reuse them."

"Yes, m'lord." Gilly bowed clumsily, grabbing the rags and turning to walk away.

Sam gave the wildling a nervous smile that the man didn't return. "The leg is healing well," Sam lied. "Do you have a blanket, something to keep it off the ground?"

"Got one for my back," the wildling croaked. "Only got one."

Blankets were in short supply. Everything was in short supply. Sam had been forced to set a limit, one blanket per person. "Well, I'll see about requisitioning you another," Sam offered. "Just keep the leg rested."

The man was clearly in pain. Sam could have offered milk of the poppy, but he didn't. Medicine had become more valuable than gold.

Sam made a note on a parchment, breathing deeply as he waddled on to the next. There were hundreds, thousands, with some injury or another, and Sam doubted if there were enough bandages in the north for them all. He had to prioritise.

Of all the people he tried to help in a day, he doubted if one in ten of them would survive the year. For the rest, Sam was just attending to the dead.

"Lord Steward," another woman begged of him, a scrawny woman missing her front teeth. "It's my boy… the coughing hasn't stopped. Do you have more of that ointment?"

The boy was four years old, but the mother looked younger than Sam was. The child's face was white, each breath like a frog's croak, and the mother looked on the brink of tears.

Sam hesitated. An infection of the lungs. He had hoped the illness would clear, but it had become obvious that it wouldn't. "I…" I can't afford to give you any more, he almost said, there's too little medicine left, and he is passed the point of recovery . "Of course Ican. Honey, chamomile and thyme, to ease the swelling," Sam lied.

Instead, he gave the woman a pouch of mushed nettles mixed with water. That 'medicine' was as good as useless, but the boy would be dead before the mother realised the difference. Sam didn't want to admit that he had to ration supplies, and that her son was a lost cause.

The boy wheezed and croaked, cradled in his mother's arms. She sung to him softly, but Sam forced himself to walk away. Dalla hugged the woman tightly and whispered comforts, but Sam turned away so they wouldn't see the lie on his face.

There were times when this job felt like it was tearing away his soul.

Maybe Dalla noticed. "You gave that boy the best chance that anyone could have," she whispered later. Sam didn't reply.

Later, one starved spearwife offered to have sex with Sam in return for a turnip. He didn't know what was more depressing; that the spearwife was desperate enough to make such an offer, or that other sworn brothers had apparently been taking her up on it. Sam told Dalla of it, who promised to take the matter up with Mance.

"I have the broth," Owen announced, stepping down the steps, struggling to carry a hefty iron cauldron. It banged against every step, weak gravy spluttering against the wood. "They said I should bring the broth."

Sam sighed. A rumour had spread that there were people sick with greyscale in the tunnels, and now all of the stewards passed on the job of feeding them to Owen the Oaf alone. "I'll help you with that, Owen," Sam offered, rushing to grab the other end of the cauldron. Owen only grinned dimly.

"Food is here, folk," Dalla called, banging a pan. "Grab your dish and line up."

They were already stirring. Every day there were more hungry stomachs and not enough broth. It was already more water than meat. "Praise to the Dragon," a free folk croaked, and the cry was echoed around others wearing white stones. "Praise the Dragon."

"Praise the Dragon," Owen the Oaf repeated, just because he likely thought it a grand thing to say. Sam grimaced as he saw northmen glare at those words.

There were more than just free folk taking shelter in Castle Black now. Sam saw northerners from villages in the Gift that had been forced into Castle Black because they had nowhere else to go.

Greybeards and children, free folk and northmen were all huddled into the wormwalks because there was no choice.

The cold winds were blowing, and the snows were the common enemy.

"I'd like to the see the dragon again," Owen the Oaf said idly, a goofy grin on his lips as they spooned out broth. "Do you think I could touch it this time?"

"I expect Jon would not object," Sam replied. "But I don't know when it'll be back."

"I dreamt it coming back," Owen noted. "I dreamt it coming over the Wall."

"That's the wrong direction, I'm afraid. The dragon is already over."

"No," Owen wailed. "They were coming over."

Sam was about to reply when he saw Dalla striding towards with four dishes in her arms. "Those at the back can't walk too well," she motioned with her head. "Grab a few plates, will you?"

Sam quickly filled a few extra dishes, balancing them on his arms. "I'm on it."

As he trekked through the infirmary handing out dishes, he came upon a small and wounded boy - about thirteen years old - who was shivering uncontrollably and running a fever. Sam stopped, pausing to dab a damp cloth over his forehead and dribbling stew down his throat. The child sputtered awake, stirring, and shaking on the edge of delirium.

Sam recognised the boy; the patrols had found him in the woods weeks ago, with half a speartip embedded in his torso. The wound hadn't killed him, but the fever threatened to finish the job.

The boy was trembling, so frail and weak.

"Easy," Sam soothed, holding the child's hand. "Do you have any family? Is there anyone I can find for you?"

It seemed like the boy was trying to speak; his eyes twitching unfocused, lips mumbling nonsensically. "What's your name, child?" Sam asked. "Do you have a name?"

"… I… It's…" the boy whispered. Sam leaned in, straining to hear. Even in the cold, the child was sweating and burning. "… fall… going to fall…"

Delirious, Sam thought sadly. He saw the child's eyes; bright green pupils dilated. He was muttered incoherently. "It's going to fall… fall…"

Sam straightened, and sighed. If the boy had any parents, they were likely dead. Just another lost orphan of this war - there were a thousand more just like him.

Still, Sam hesitated, looking solemnly at the delirious child with the bright green eyes.

Behind him, Sam heard the first of the angry shouts as the stew ran out.

"Lord Steward!" a voice boomed suddenly, causing Sam to jump. "The Mance wants you!"

He heard the howl of wind as the latches swung open, footsteps thundering down the steps. A few of refugees jumped as the flurry of snow swept through the tunnels. Sam flinched, floundering to his feet and wheezing.

He pushed the pile of bandages into Gilly's hands. "See to the rest, please?" Sam begged of her. "Keep them warm, make sure the sickly have plenty of water."

The washwoman nodded. Heavy boots were striding quickly through the wormwalks, moving with urgent purpose. He tried to run for Dalla, but the woman just nodded.

"Go to my husband," she said with a nod. "I'll finish up here."

Husband. Sam knew it was naught but a foolish crush, but he couldn't help feel a surge of emotions when he thought of Mance and Dalla. She is sweet lady, that's all. She reminds me of my sister .

Sam was pulling his cloak on, and tightening his belt. There was a steel dagger on his waist - not that Sam was any good at using it, but there were so many unfamiliar faces around that he felt more comfortable with it. On his other side, he had an old horn fastened by his buckle, and his small book of notes kept safe in a pouch. At Mance's bequest, Sam had even taken to wearing a necklace of

boar tusks wrapped around his neck, because apparently the free folk respected men who clad themselves in totems of their rank. Sam felt so silly wearing such a thing, but he did so anyways.

The man that met him was a tall and broad figure, with wolf's teeth pierced through his ears and trophies of a hundred hunts on his person. A fearsome figure with tattoos across his cheeks and forehead, wearing a black cloak. "Lord Steward," Wulf said gruffly. "The watchtowers lit a beacon, there's movement in the woods. It might be more refugees."

He approached along with Garth Greenspear, as well as two wildling men; Jax and Two-Toed Dirk. They were all wearing black cloaks crusted in snow.

Sam was already moving. He had to waddle quickly to keep pace with Wulf's long legs. "Do we know how many?"

"Not yet." They twisted down the corridor, stomping up towards the main buildings. All around him, there were wildlings wearing black cloaks.

Mance had found three thousand men who took the oaths and wore the black - three thousand free folk. There were only four hundred of the old guard remaining, and it seemed like that number was getting smaller every day.

As they stomped up through the barracks, Sam noticed Edd rushing around with pans of boiled water, while Grenn was instructing some of the new recruits on how to sharpen iron blades. Ser Endrew Tarth had been appointed as master-at-arms, and Duncan Liddle had been named as castellan, but all the other positions were being filled by wildlings with names like Marv the Red Hand, Andrik Bonestew, Brogg Big-Chin, Thundering Mammoth, or Marthe of the Antlers. Former chieftains that had chosen the black instead.

The rest were all unfamiliar faces.

Varamyr! " Wulf boomed into the barracks. "Orders from The Mance. Get your bloody eagle in the skies, we need it over the wall!"

A bearded, skinny man in a ragged shadowskin cloak sneered at him. Varamyr Sixskins - or Varamyr Sevenskins as he now tried to insist - was a gaunt figure with a sunken face, hunched over in his furs and pelts.

"Do you think any eagle can fly in this weather?" Varamyr retorted, motioning at the howling winds outside.

"Then where are your wolves, dammit? Mance wants eyes in the forest."

It looked like Varamyr muttered something scathing about what Mance wants, but Sam couldn't make out the words.

There were twenty-two wargs in Castle Black, with Varamyr named as the unofficial leader of them - although Sam had quickly learnt that skinchangers squabbled worse than cats. Varamyr had one eagle, four wolves, a hunting dog, and a horse as his skins, but there was also a giant boar, a shadowcat, a snow rabbit, an owl, an auroch, and more wolves scattered around. At Eastwatch, more wargs were stationed, led by a woman who could skinchange into the body of an ice shark.

The wargs are useful, Sam considered. Troublesome in their own way, but none could deny their use. King Snow had named Varamyr and two dozen other free folk as Wardens of the Exodus, and they had succeeded in bringing many refugees south even in the most difficult conditions.

Still, the flow of refugees through the gates was now barely a trickle. Any remaining settlements north of the Wall had either been evacuated already, or they were beyond the reach of the Wardens and had gone silent. The last refugees they recovered had been brought through the gates three days ago, when two wounded raiders limped through the tunnel. Before that, the last had been a

week ago when crazed men from the Valley of Thenn staggered through, raving of fathers eating sons and endless skirmishes with the dead. Before that, it had been a clan of cave dwellers muttering of even worse down in the Gorne's Way, jabbering of monsters rising in the depths.

Mance persisted in the search, but hope was running low. Are there still people out there?

"Have Erik Bearclaw ready the gates," Sam ordered. Keep your voice firm, he tried to tell himself. "And have Bedwyck prepare thehorses in case we need to ride out to them through."

"Aye," Wulf nodded, stepping forward and bellowing commands. Sam saw Marthe of the Antlers - a tall and grim man with sunken eyes - stand stiffly to attention as they swept past.

"Is it man?" a voice demanded of him, and Sam turned to see Henrik the Hog, a shout and stout man with a broken nose and dark eyes. Sam could barely make out the words through the wildling's guttural accent. "Or worse?"

"We don't know yet," Sam replied meekly.

Sam tried to walk past, but Henrik grabbed a hold of his collar. Sam nearly squealed. "I know what I saw out there!" Henrik snapped. "I felt the ground rumbling out there, it was shaking… there was something… !"

"Get back, Henrik," Wulf growled, with a hard shove. "Mance is calling us."

"I know what I saw! I heard it!" Henrik wailed, his shoulders trembling. "There was something under the ground, they were digging something up! "

Sam grimaced, but did not reply as he walked away. A fortnight ago, Henrik the Hog had been the only survivor of a search party tasked

to scout out the Frostfangs. It had not gone well. Henrik had returned to Castle Black raving and half-crazed. His jabbering report that the Others might be digging had caused Mance to send parties out across the entire length of the Wall, but they had found no sign of a tunnel. Mance had wanted to investigate further, but then the snows had cut off all efforts.

We know that the Others are at the Frostfangs, Sam thought, but little else . Reports from the Thenns at the Shadow Tower said that the white walkers were scouring the mountain - especially around the old free folk camp. The place where the Others had ambushed Mance's army. None could get close enough to learn more, but it was a safe bet that the Others were resurrecting whatever corpses were left behind.

The winds caused the door to rattle. Sam buried his head under his hood and braced himself. The stepped outside of the building, and he was blinded by the flurry. The wood had been freezing over, so cold that even oak could snap. The steps had become treacherous, and Sam had no choice but to grab a hold Wulf's shoulder to keep himself steady.

In the courtyard, a towering figure roared - a creature of shaggy fur pushing easily through the snow. The giant gripped a huge makeshift snow plough, shoving through the snow drifts with goliath force.

"Keep the tunnel clear, Wun Wun!" Wulf ordered. Sam's throat froze every time with the sight of such a monster. "We might have men coming though!"

Wun Wun; the very first giant to take the black and join the Night's Watch. Wun Wun was fifteen-foot-tall, so powerful he could singlehandedly man the lift's winch. Sam was told the giant was friendly, yet truthfully Sam had always kept his distance. Wun Wun roared over the wind, shoving the snow plough forward - wooden stokes clattering over stones. A great gush of snow geysered into the air behind him.

All around him, Castle Black was stirring. The alert had gone up, the sworn brothers were on the move.

Mance's command had reformed the castle. The gates had not been shut for months, but they were still patrolled while sworn brothers escorted every last refugee through. Mance had ordered fortifications to be built on the other side of the Wall, with watchtowers monitoring the northern forest. A line of sentries was established to relay alerts, with every vulnerability patched. The wildlings proved very good at identifying the Watch's weaknesses.

Every castle on the Wall was manned and garrisoned again, with the exception of the Nightfort which was still under reconstruction. Mance had even ordered ships to be built at Westwatch-by-the-Bridge again, and then he had introduced new siege defences and garrisons of men that were stationed upon the Wall itself.

It had been long and bloody, but it felt like the Night's Watch was being rebuilt. It felt like it was helping people again.

The courtyard was rustling, figures in black staggering through the snows. Sam heard the creaking as the lift was levered downwards, and billows of snow swept over the cornices atop the Wall, howling over the towers of the castle below.

Wun Wun was still manning the winch. Everything in the yards was flooded white, but black cloaks were powering through. Sam drew his cloak in tighter, readying himself for the frigid ascent up the lift. "Prepare the winch!" Fulk the Flea yelled. "Get ready to-"

UUUUUoooooooooooooooooooooooooooo . Suddenly, the boom of a warhorn split through the air, long and slow and echoing across the Wall. That was Rory's horn, Sam knew, the signal relayed from the other side of the Wall. The whole courtyard stopped, every man tensing to listen. Waiting to see if there would be another one. There are two parties of rangers out there - both Tom Barleycorn and Harle the Handsome are in the field, Sam thought, are they returning, or are there more refugees?

UUUUUoooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. The second blast blared. Sam sighed. It was a symbol of the times that wildlings approaching was no longer something to be feared. "We have more coming, prepare blankets and hearths!" Sam announced. "They'll likely be weak and col-"

UUUUUUUooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo . The horn boomed again, long and terrible, splitting through the snows.

The world froze.

At once, Varamyr was running. Sam heard wolves howling. Wulf's eyes widened, and instantly they were all rushing. "Seal the gates!" Wulf boomed. "Seal them! Seal the gates!"

"Get the people to the lower levels!" a wildling, Leathers, shouted. "Ain't a practice, get them to the vaults!"

Three horns. They had tried to make sure the men would be prepared; Sam and Mance had devised a drill routine together. They had given every man their emergency stations, they had assigned duties, and there had been regular practice runs. Sam heard the bell tower clattering, he saw sworn brothers calling for fire.

This was no practice run. Best case, one of their scouts had overreacted, but in the worst case…

They all knew their duties. Sam saw Grenn rushing to meet with Mo and Haldur Two-Notch, grabbing the banner of the King's Dragonguard stationed at Castle Black. When the alert went up, the first priority was for the Dragonguard to signal Jon Snow, so they could call upon Sonagon to help them.

Everyone else was assigned either to the Wall, or to the gates. They had practiced it a hundred times; all bowmen kept bows close to hand, spears and lances at the front lines, and the rest were needed to run supplies and fortify buildings. The stewards, Sam's command, were assigned as rearguard to protect the refugees. We have

prepared for this, Sam tried to tell himself above the pounding of his heart, we prepared for this .

Sam's breath was short in his throat. He was running, shoving his way through the snow. "Where's Mance?" Sam called, and his voice turned to a squeak as the eyes of a score of wildlings fell on him. "Where's Mance?"

One of the men - Tim Stone - pointed upwards to the vast heights the Wall. There was so much snow that Sam couldn't even see the top.

"Wargs on me!" Varamyr shouted. "Get your beasts in position, get on the Wall!"

He heard one of the wildlings - Leathers - shouting in the Old Tongue as hulking shapes rose from the snow. Most of the giants had left with Jon's and the Weeper's armies, but there were eight forest giants, including Wun Wun, that had lingered at Castle Black. All eight were best employed on the rear lines, Mance had commanded, to reinforce the gates and carry supplies. Wun Wun was by far the biggest of the bunch.

"Bowmen!" Wulf roared. "Bowmen on me! Dragonglass and fire, get your arrows!"

They had assigned every archer to either shafts doused in oil or flames, or obsidian arrows. One dragonglass bowman to every ten burning ones, with strict regiments in place. We prepared for this. We're prepared .

Still, his skin was crawling with fear. All it took was three horn blasts, and everyone was rushing.

Two dozen men with bows were running into the platform. Sam saw Garth Greyfather, Ulmer, Mathar, Dornish Dilly, Hairy Hal and Bearded Ben - the best archers in the Watch - pushing for their positions, but Wulf shoved the others out of the way as he herded

Varamyr and Sam through. The Lord Steward belonged with the command atop the Wall, and Varamyr would be critical for relaying information that his many eyes and ears saw. The rest were all bowmen, but the lift wasn't big enough for them all; any who couldn't fit would have to run up the steps.

"Get them up there!" Fulk the Flea barked. "Wun Wun!"

Wun Wun roared as he winched the lift upwards. Sam heard frozen ropes straining, and icicles clattering around the frame. The great platform shuddered upwards, groaning and cracking with every movement. The lift was heavy and overloaded, but Wun Wun tightened the pulley hard and relentlessly. The journey up didn't take long, but his heart was beating so fast it felt like a lifetime.

To the south, everything was blanketed white. Sam could barely even see the trees under all that snow.

"I feel them," Varamyr gasped as the wind howled, his eyes glazed over as he walked in separate skins. "I feel them, they're out there…"

Nobody spoke. Looking down, Castle Black seemed so small and frail.

"How many are we looking at?" Sam whispered with a gulp. "Got many could there be?"

"Not a clue," Wulf replied. "But we've been overdue an attack for a long time now."

Yes, the white walkers had been staying away from the Wall. Sam had heard of clashes with raiding parties, but there had been few signs of the Others moving in strength. But we're prepared for it, Sam told himself, we're prepared.

And finally the lift cracked into place, shuddering as the counterweight hit the ground. The platform was swaying in the wind, but the men were already rushing off onto the top of the Wall.

"What happens?" Sam called. "What's happening?"

Atop the Wall, everything was heaving. Half-constructed wooden structures littered the ice, and skeletal towers were protruding outwards atop supports. It had been another of Mance's strategies; to fortify the Wall itself with siege platforms stretching out over the northern edge. Bowmen would have a better position, dropping oil and barrels would become easier. For months, they had put the refugees to work chopping trees and cutting timber.

Still, the snows had delayed all those efforts. The new defences were only half-made, and now there were men trying to scramble over patchy platforms buried in snow and makeshift catapult perches.

Voices were lost amidst the howling wind, while men sprinted back and forth. Seven hundred foot off the ground, the winds were so fierce they could have swept a man straight off the wall. It was howling deafeningly through the wooden palisades, scouring over the ice.

"What happens?" Sam called again, but there was no reply. Instead, Wulf had to grab him by the arm and drag him across treacherous ice. The Wall was lined by trenches dug through the snow, forming makeshift barriers against the wind.

Sam saw Mance himself at the far end of the battlements, perched on a lookout point at the edge of the Wall. Flurries of shouting were all around him, desperate voices trying to make themselves heard over each other.

"To the west!" a man bellowed. "We got three watchtowers lighting flares now."

"They're coming fast, Mance," a wildling warned. "From north and west."

Mance's eyes were grim. Sam saw his jaw tighten as he stared out over the wasteland of snow. "Get our people back," he ordered. "Signal the retreat! Get them through the gates and close the damn doors."

They wouldn't make it, Sam knew. Maybe a few would get lucky, but the far lookouts never stood a chance. The watchtowers were temporary positions; a crucial measure to give the Wall warning, but those positions had always been undefendable. Mance had chosen to appoint sacrificial sentries to secure the refugee path.

"The dragon will be coming," a wildling muttered, staring downwards as his hand moved over his white stone. "Salvation will arrive."

"He will," Sam whispered, but without the same conviction. One of their skinchangers could warg into a bat - as soon as the three horns blasted, the bat would be flying to alert the dragon. All the defenders had to do was hold until the flying reinforcement arrived.

Still, Sam couldn't shake the doubt. The castle had heard that Winterfell had fallen, but little else. The silence was worrying.

To the north, across the snowy wastelands, Sam saw the dark tendrils of smoke fading in the forest. Perhaps the view was just being obscured by the flurry, but it looked like the forest was rippling.

"Varamyr!" Mance ordered. "Give me numbers. How many, where?"

Varamyr nodded, clenching his eyes shut to focus. The air was tense, all eyes fixed to the north.

"We all know the battle plan!" Mance boomed, his voice like iron. "We all knew they would be coming again. We will not fall!"

The sworn brothers roared, stomping feet. "Prepare the torches, and oil," Mance ordered, pointing to the barrels hanging off edge of the Wall. "We will burn whatever wights they throw at us, but wait for my

command! We will not show our hand too quickly, wait for maximum effect."

He glared around the platform, sharp eyes looking for weakness. "But the wights are distractions. The true threat is the white walkers. Varamyr and his wargs will pick our targets for us, and then we will strike with dragonglass and flame." Mance strolled between the files of men, of the archers preparing bows. "What do we fight for?!"

" The living! " the men chanted.

"Damn straight," Mance growled. "And we must endure. For now and for a hundred years. They have all the patience in the world, and we will meet them in kind! Every arrow, every flame, every man must be rationed - not a single one wasted, not a single advantage lost." He took a deep breath. " When will the Wall fall? "

Not today! " they stomped. Sam tried to shout as well, but it seemed like he was always too slow to join the chant.

Mance nodded, a thin smile on his lips. He was a tall and gaunt figure, the only man on the Wall without a weapon. The Lord of Castle Black wore a red cloak, even when all of his men wore black. Mance had not taken his vows, but he was still in command of the sworn brothers. Sam couldn't imagine a better leader.

Sam stuck close to Mance's side, keeping his head low to hide the fear. "And if any of our brothers are trapped down there," Mance ordered quietly to Wulf, "if any sworn brothers have been taken captive - shoot them first."

The raider nodded. Sam grimaced, but he understood the order. They had discovered that watchmen could allow the white walkers through, and that was something they couldn't allow. Not again. Nobody else can repeat my mistake .

It was sobering thought. I wish that somebody had put an arrow through my own skull, Sam thought quietly, before I allowed Malvern

to pass .

"Tarly." Mance nodded at Sam. "You keep close to me throughout. You must be my hands."

"Yes, my lord."

His hands. Mance's own hands were wrapped in wool gloves, but his fingers had never recovered from his torture and captivity. Nobody could doubt Mance's strength, but his hands were crippled and the Lord of Castle Black could not hold a sword, or even open a door. On a few nights, Sam heard had Mance fumbling clumsily with a harp, cursing and groaning. Apparently the Lord of Castle Black had once been a master of it. I must be his hands, his steward . Sam had no qualms about such a task.

The weak noon sun shone behind them, and to the north the shadow of the Wall loomed across the world.

Below, they saw figures running to the tunnel, abandoning their posts north of the Wall. There was a long, tense hush, but then they heard a wolf's howl split the through the wind.

"There!" One-Eyed Wulf screamed. "I see them!"

I can't, Sam almost replied, but then he saw the shadows through the tree line. First it was one body, and then another, and then…

He recognised them from the way they moved. No living army could be so disciplined, could keep such tight ranks. There was a solid line of shadows emerging from the trees, bodies pushing over the snow.

The dead walked in perfect formation.

"By the gods…" Sam whispered.

"Sonagon save us," a wildling muttered. Marthe of the Antlers was gaping downwards with horror.

The line of bodies did not stop. It was single rank that seemed to stretch for leagues - thousands of corpses emerging to face off against the Wall.

Sam gasped. They stretched for as far as the eye could see. An army that stretched to the horizon. Sam couldn't even count them. A thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand?

"Do not be daunted," Mance shouted stiffly. "This Wall was built to stand against their numbers. The dead might stack a million high, but they will not get over."

They're finally here . The white walkers were done picking off refugees, they were moving in strength. The Watch had been preparing for this. And yet the solid tide of bodies moving through the no-man's land still caused a ripple of fear.

"Ready!" Wulf bellowed, and the bowmen jerked into motion. " Hold! "

"Do not fire!" Mance boomed into the wind. "Arrows themselves are useless, and there's too much snow for flames to survive that distance. We will fight them when they get closer, be ready for a charge."

A charge. But why would they charge? The wights were fearsome, but they still couldn't cross the Wall. Sam frowned. Surely the white walkers would just be wasting bodies if they tried?

His heart was racing, but slowly, rational thought started to push in through the fog of fear. In fact, he thought suspiciously, eyes roaming over the army of the dead, their whole approach doesn't make sense

The number of wights was terrifying, yes, but what sort of army used only a single rank? Were the white walkers intending on assaulting the entire length of the Wall simultaneously? Surely a better means would be to concentrate their soldiers against the actual castles?

"Something's wrong," Sam whispered.

"Aye," Mance agreed quietly, his brow furrowing. "I see it too. Keep your eyes peeled, Tarly."

All around them, men rushed into position. Suddenly, a sharp scream spilt the platform, and they all flinched. Varamyr gasped suddenly, clutching at his chest.

"My wolves," the skinchanger wheezed, a sweat on his brow. "They caught two of my wolves."

"How many are there?" Mance demanded.

Varamyr shook his head. "Lots. That's only the first rank, there's more dead in the trees. Not only men either; there's dead animals there too - everything from wolves to mammoths to worse."

Worse? Sam thought foggily. What could be worse? "What else?" Mance insisted.

Varamyr grimaced. "I don't know. But I can smell them. You can't smell that? It's like… like…"

His voice trailed off, his face pale. "What are we dealing with?"

Ronnel Harclay pressed, his voice breaking. "A hundred thousand?

Two hundred? "

"Where are the white walkers?" Mance demanded, and Varamyr only shook his head again. He was pawing at his chest. The skinchanger looked as though he were struggling to breathe. "Find them, Varamyr. They must be with their army somewhere, locate them. It doesn't end until we kill the Others themselves."

Sam had no idea how Mance could stay so focused. The skinchanger looked pained, but he closed his eyes and entered his remaining bodies. Varamyr's body slumped once more.

To the north, the line of wights came to a halt.

The wait was agonising. The rank of wights moved with purpose, but only at a snail's pace, Sam watched the wights stepping closer. The distance, the height, the wind, the snow all obscured the details, but the black line was shuffling forward. Coming closer and closer…

If this was an attack, it was a slow one.

"What are they doing?" Sam whispered.

"They're testing us," Mance replied. "They're scouting out to see what distance we fire at them, and searching for where our arrows are the most sparse. They're keeping a long rank so that we can't sneak out and flank them."

That… that made a disturbing amount of sense. "So this isn't an attack?" Sam whispered.

Mance hesitated. "This is a first wave. They've got no reason to hurry."

To the north, all eyes were on the line of the wights moving slowly. More and more sworn brothers were rushing in to the Wall, trying to fill up the empty positions.

"They're within bowrange now," Wulf suggested. "We could fire."

Mance shook his head. "Not reliable enough range, and the wind is too strong. We'd hit less than one in a hundred. Hold your arrows."

Kettles of oil were being propped atop the fires and empty barrels were being unloaded. The perches were being readied, and archers were wrapping rags around shafts in preparation for lighting their arrows. Mance huddled with his officers, discussing how to proceed.

"At three hundred feet," Mance decided. "Do not let them any closer than that. We light arrows and fire down at three hundred feet."

They weren't that far off already. The whole air was tense, counting down every step. A thousand bowstrings were taut, watching and

waiting.

Not then, the wights stopped at four hundred paces. Every bowstring was taut, but not a single shaft was loosed. The wights stood still like statues.

Slowly, agonisingly, hours passed.

This was not how Sam expected the invasion to happen. Do they mean to torture us? Sam wondered. To kill us with anticipation?

The wights were just standing there, at the edge of their range, taunting them. "When will the dragon arrive," Sam heard a man whisper. "The dragon is coming, yes?"

After a while, Mance gave the order for the kitchens to bring some broth and stew up the lifts. "Nobody leaves their stations," Mance ordered, "but let's get these men warmed up. They must keep their strength."

We could be here a while . The wind was still howling, drifts of snow blowing over the plains, but the dead didn't move.

Sam stared north, eyes slowly roaming over the army of the dead, trying to understand. Around him, men were passing out metal dishes and readying campfires, but Sam scarcely paid attention.

"What would you do?" Sam eventually asked, looking to Mance. The man raised an eyebrow. "Let's say that you were in the white walker's position. You need to get across the Wall, how would you do it?"

Mance laughed humourlessly. "That depends what sort of timeframe I had. I could send climbers over the Wall, or I could build barges and cross at the coasts."

"Let's say the Wall was more than just physical. What if it was an actual barrier stopping you from crossing?" Sam argued. "You can't

go over, you can't go around. You could only go through if invited."

"Aye, that would have made it more troublesome for any raider." Mance scratched his whiskers. "If it's a spell, I'd need to find a counterspell. If it's a barrier I'd search for a way to break it."

"Like the Horn of Joramun?"

"Aye. Like the Horn of Joramun." Mance's eyes were grim. "Or a dragon."

If the white walkers have either, we are already doomed . Sam shook his head, trying to dispel such grim thoughts. "What if you didn't have a such a means?"

"In that case, I would have to bluff. I'd need to threaten my way through, to force the other side to surrender." Mance's eyes looked thoughtful. "Do you think this is an intimidation tactic, Tarly?"

No, I don't actually . That was how Mance thought, but it wouldn't be how a white walker thinks. Sam suspected that the white walkers didn't even know the meaning of intimidation. Fear was alien to them. Still, Sam hesitated. "Perhaps it is." His voice was doubtful. "Perhaps they are just-"

"White walkers!" a voice squealed. Varamyr lurched up suddenly, his eyes wide and crazed. "I see them, I see them!"

"Where?" Mance demanded, at the exact same time that Sam asked, "How many of them?"

"In the woods, coming south!" The skinchanger was spasming, wheezing with every breath. " Seven! Seven of them!"

The air buzzed. Metal dishes dropped to the ice as men eased raced to grab their bows again. All eyes were peered downwards, every man standing on the edge of a great icy gulf.

Varamyr was shaking, his eyes glazed over. "They're… They're…"

the skinchanger spasmed. "… Oh by the gods… The gods… ! "

"Varamyr!" Mance snapped, while two men grabbed a hold of the skinchanger. Varamyr looked so gaunt and small, screaming and shaking. " Varamyr! What do you see?"

He gave no reply. He was too busy sputtering and screaming with agony, shuddering with every pained gasp.

From the haunted forest, a wolf's howl broke through the wind, but then it was abruptly silenced. Far below, the last of Varamyr's skins had just died.

The skinchanger looked crazed, screaming incoherently. The men tried to shake sense into him, but he could only twitch and howl. His eyes are still glazed over, Sam noticed. Maybe one of his wolves is not quite dead . Mance tried to shake answers from the man, butthere were none to be had. Mance cursed.

"Get him out of here!" Mance ordered, before turning back to the north. "Stay sharp! Find them!"

Three men had to carry the writhing skinchanger away. All eyes were pinned on the snowy wasteland, every arrow drawn and itching to be fired…

In the distance, across the horizon and the blanketed forest, a flurry of snow writhed and twisted above the trees. Great geysers of white plumed upwards, snaking their way south. Sam saw the frosted forest shaking. He could feel footsteps marching through the forest.

His eyes were fixed on the tree line, at the edge of the no-man's land…

A faint mist was blowing from in the north, bringing with it the scent of cold and rot.

Sam couldn't see anything, it was all too foggy. The white walkers are nearly invisible in the snow, he recalled. Something about their armour, something about their very forms let them almost become one with the world, indistinguishable from a distance.

But then he saw the trees shift. He saw the shadows of another line of dead, and then there were white shapes moving across the snow.

All around him, he felt the men squirm. Sam couldn't see their bodies, but he made out the movements. Spiders, Sam thought with horror. There were ice spiders scuttling across the snows, unnatural insects of every size. The largest ones looked as big as aurochs, but Sam couldn't even see the smallest. They blanketed the snow like a layer of cotton, uncountable and nearly indistinguishable. And then he saw the snowdrifts moving .

They are beneath the snow, Sam realised. They were more of them scuttling beneath the snowdrifts, so that all that could be seen was the wake of their movements. It left streaks of mounds across the snow, burrows slithering like snakes.

"The dead ones are weak to fire and the walkers are weak to dragonglass," Garth Greyfeather muttered, his greybeard lined with hoarfrost. He pulled back on his longbow, fingers twitching. "But what are the spiders weak to?"

"Fucked if know," Wulf growled. "Just shoot them. Just shoot them enough times until they stop moving."

"The spiders are ice," Mance said grimly, so quietly that Sam could barely hear. "Living ice. The spiders don't leave corpses - their bodies melt after they die."

Melt into water . Maesters had searched for evidence of ice spiders for decades, but they found none but tales and folklore. Even the farthest rangings had only found whispers of them. Sam thought of the stories he once heard as a child of ice dragons - great elemental

monsters with blue eyes and translucent wings, that would melt into entire lakes when slain…

"Ice," muttered Garth Greyfeather. "Then would dragonglass…?"

Sam breaths were hoarse, the air freezing in his lungs like a dagger in his chest. It was so, so cold.

Then he saw bigger shapes. Black figures on white. The bodies of giants rustling in the trees, taking formation…

"Fetch the spyglass!" Mance ordered. "The spyglass!"

Sam took a deep breath, trying to focus. The spyglass - Lord Mormont's old spyglass, the one with the Myrish lens. It was a rarity on the Wall.

A runner fetched the gilded wood cylinder from the command tent and handed it to Mance, but the lord's face creased in irritation. Mance's fingers couldn't hold it. "Tarly," Mance ordered, and Sam hurried to grab it.

Sam unfolded the telescopic tube, and Mance motioned at him to have a look. Other men were using chunks of amber, or even just squinting through their hands to try to see.

Everything was white. It took a while to make out anything, the scope brushing over blurry shapes.

But eventually he made out the figure of a white shadow, gliding across the snows. It walked with impossible softness, like the wind given flesh. Its body rippled near invisibly, blurring into the world. Sam could only make it out by the outline it left in the falling snows.

"I see it," Sam gasped. "There! Through the trees!"

The other men clamoured to look. Sam's breath was hushed as he made out its shape, and then there was a second white shadow, and then a third…

His breath froze as he saw the seven beings striding through the snow. Sam stammered, his head going blank with fear.

He remembered their shapes, he remembered the Other snapping Dareon's neck like a twig…

"Dragonglass!" voices boomed. "Ready your dragonglass!"

The Others were coming closer, seven exposed figures stepping across the snows, closer towards the forward line of wights. The dead stood in a wall before them, but the Others were standing, exposed in the no-man's land. "What are they doing?" Sam gasped. "Why…?"

The spyglass was snatched from him, but the white walkers were coming so close that the keenest eyes were starting to make them out. They were not quite in conventional bowrange, but the best archer might just be able to make that distance. It was borderline.

"Mance?" Marv the Red Hand shouted, pulling back on an obsidian arrow.

Mance hesitated, biting his lip. "Hold fire!" he shouted after a long moment of indecision. "We do not have enough dragonglass to waste. If your arrows miss here, we'd have nothing else to shoot them with."

Unwillingly, the bows were lowered. "Is that the plan?" Aki the Wroth growled. He was a short and mean man, almost a dwarf, but Sam was told there was none finer with a spear. "Wait until they are at our gates?"

"If that's what it takes, Aki."

The winds were too strong, the snow flurried. They were all uneasy with the sight.

"What are they doing?" Sam muttered dumbly. Seven white walkers. "Why risk exposing themselves?"

"They're taunting us," Mance said surely. "Trying to make us waste ourselves."

"We could charge them," Wulf suggested. "Charge out the gates and rout them."

"We'd be fools if we tried," Mance shook his head. "No let's see what their game is. In the meantime, ready the scorpions and the stonethrowers, I want them all loaded and primed."

In the fields below, the lines of wights started to ripple. Bodies trekked out of the trees, and the confusion spread across the Wall. The Other were standing still, while wights started to move around them.

Suddenly a dead giant stomped out of the trees, carrying a huge wooden log over its head. The sworn brothers could only stare. A battering ram? Sam thought dumbly. Or a siege tortoise?

Yet it was neither. The giant wight dropped the log in the middle of the dead man's land, and it crunched into the snow. Other wights were shambling, dragging more chunks of wood from the trees.

"What's going on?" a voice demanded. "What are they doing?"

They are building something? Sam thought. A siege tower, maybe?

But that didn't make sense, why built it there?

Sam could only guess, staring in dumb shock as he made out the shapes. Wights were propping the log upwards, while other chunks of stone and wood were crudely placed into shape. Seven shapes. Slowly, the Others stepped across the snow, and they each took a seat.

It is a table, Sam realised startled. Dumbfounded, a man handed the spyglass back to Sam.

"What do you see, Tarly?" Mance asked quietly, like he was hesitant to break the hush.

Sam didn't know how to reply. The seven white walkers were all sitting around a crudely fashioned table, propped up by wights acting as table legs.

Is this a parley? Are the Others inviting us to treat?

And then there were more wights surging forward, trekking across the snow. They all came to the table, placing objects - twigs and stones, it looked like - before each white walker. And then Sam made out the shape of a rotten boar, a dead animal with its skull exposed and its flesh peeling off. He saw it stagger forth from the trees; the boar walked straight to the table, where it was dropped on atop of it, and then walked to the very centre and lay dead.

Other creatures followed suit, filling up the table. Dead dogs and goats, even blurry shapes that looked like rabbits and squirrels. The boar lay at the very centre, unmoving with its mouth agape.

The pig at a centre of a feast, Sam realised. The white walkers all raised stones as if they were goblets, like they were having a toast.

Sam's mouth gaped, dumbfounded. Without a word, he held the spyglass out for Mance to see.

The Lord of Castle Black didn't say anything, but his lips curled.

"What are they doing ?" a confused sworn brother asked.

"They're… they're having a tea party," Sam said dumbly.

For a long moment, the only sound was the shrill scream of the wind.

The Others were sitting around a makeshift table in the middle of the dead man's land, feasting on imaginary meals, raising stones like

glasses, all the while the wights shuffled around them like stewards. A great noble feast, where every guest was tended to by a flock of servants. The wights were walking in circles, carrying gunk like it was food.

The Others weren't eating it, Sam noticed, but they would lift each one up and wave it through the air like they were admiring it, before placing it back down for the wights to bring the next course. A pantomime, a mockery.

And several hundred feet away, a top the Wall, the sworn brothers could only gape and stare.

"They're taunting us," Mance said finally. "They mean to mock us."

The murmurs filled the air. "Let's shoot them already," Marv the Red Hand muttered, "chase them off already."

"I do not want to shoot to miss." Mance hesitated, biting his lip. "It is better for us if they feel overconfident. Let them taunt, let them get comfortable."

"Mance… !"

"If they want this to be a standoff, let them," he said firmly. "It gives us more time for the dragon to arrive."

That caused a few bodies to stir. Sam bit his lip, trying to size them. Why would the white walkers sit down before the enemy? They weren't stupid, so what were they…?

"Look at them!" Wulf hissed. "There's seven of them, and you say that each one controls thousands of wights? We might end this battle with only seven obsidian arrows."

"Only if those arrows hit their mark," Sam spoke up suddenly. "Mance is right, it's still too far. We only have ninety-seven

dragonglass shards. Ninety-seven - that's only enough for a single decent volley."

The words were met by mutters. Wulf looked back across the no man's land, measuring the distance. "They are sitting down," Ulmer said suddenly. "They're overconfident. Could we sneak an assassin closer?"

"Stonethrowers, we need stonethrowers…"

Behind him, there was urgent talk about how to respond, but Sam was left staring at the Others, struggling to understand. Mockery, Mance had said.

On their table, the white walkers continued to make a scene. All eyes were on them, and Sam stared, entranced. The Others were raising plates, pretending to eat, and making constant motions. Toasting, nodding, even rubbing their bellies. It was a parody; a man who had never stepped foot in a noble castle might think that highborn ate their meals like such. Why are they mocking us? Why bother?

No, it wasn't mocking, Sam thought slowly. It felt more… humorous, even. Through the spyglass, all of their movements were exaggerated, every motion emphasised to the extreme. The scene reminded Sam of when his sisters had been young, and they had hosted imaginary feasts with their dolls…

A shiver ran down his spine. It was a game to them. An entertainment.

All across the Wall, men were growing uneasy. Mance was talking about sneaking up on them, but Sam was still staring through the spyglass, trying to glimpse the white walker's expressions.

Laughter. From their body language, Sam could imagine them laughing.

"What are they doing there?" a bowman muttered uneasily. "They're just… sitting there."

"Maybe they're stupid," Matthar said. It might have jest, but there was no humour. "Or might just be bored."

Bored . "Waiting," Sam muttered suddenly, and then the realisation clicked him. "They're waiting."

Sam's eyes widened in shock and horror. If they're waiting, then that implies… "Mance!" Sam screamed. "They're waiting !"

Mance frowned. "Tarly, what are you-?"

All eyes were on the white walkers to the north. Sam felt like a fool watching the pantomime. Every sworn brother was alert, but only focused on a single direction. "They're waiting!" Sam gasped. "It's a distraction, they're distracting us-"

Suddenly the wind shrieked. We were all looking north, Sam cursed.

Nobody was staring south.

Beyond the Wall, the seven white walkers raised their stones in a merry toast. Sam was already sprinting, darting into the trenches and pushing through the wind. He was running south, to the other side of the Wall.

And, to the south, he saw a black cloud burst growing against the endless white. It looked wispy, like smoke through the snow. He had never seen a cloud quite like it. There was no time to think, no time to understand, there was only…

Sworn brothers were stirring, but it was too late, not enough… "Run!" Sam screamed, as the world exploded into chaos.

Pecking, angry bodies. They fell from the sky like arrows. Sam dropped in the snow and curled into himself. He threw his hands up to protect his face, but he still felt sharp claws tear into his scalp. His

mind was going blank, the world was drowning out around him into chaos…

All around him, the Wall was screaming and squawking.

Sam heard Garth Greyfeather scream a curse as a black shade lunged at his eyes. They were struggling, blood spurting, and then black bodies were falling off the edge of the Wall…

"Get to shelter!" Mance boomed somewhere amidst the chaos. "Get to shelter, get to-"

The air hissed as a shape lobbed at Mance's head. Sam saw white wings pitched black, and blue eyes. An owl, Sam realised. A dead rotten owl with blue eyes.

Malvern.

Ravens and crows cawed at him, rotten beaks pecking through furs.

Sam saw Ulmer swat a dove from the air, its bones crunching, but even its mangled body was still trying to move. Then, a hawk whooshed down, clawing at the bowman's eyes.

An attack of undead birds. There were hundreds and thousands of dead ravens, crows, owls, falcons, hawks, robins, sparrows, magpies, pigeons and gulls - even bats and eagles. Most of the creatures were frail and poor fliers with patchy wings; all it took was a single good swat and they went down, but there were just so many of them. They were all pecking, clawing and scratching with fury of the dead.

I knew that the white walkers could raise and control any animal. Why did I never worry about birds as well? How did the Other even manage to kill so many birds?

"Fire!" Wulf howled. "Fire! Grab fire!"

Men were diving under their cloaks, trying to protect themselves from the onslaught of beaks and talons. It was all screaming, howling…

Some were trying to fight, but they were just slashing swords uselessly at a cloud of bodies. There were too many, they were everywhere. Sam didn't fight, he just ran straight for the outbuilding, diving until the shelter even as he tried to pull a rotten raven off his scalp. Blood oozed down his forehead. His heart was like a panicked drumming in his ears. Sam felt a cry well up in a throat that didn't even feel like his. The evil thing crunched in his hand and he threw it, where it collided against the wood, still squawking.

"Shelter!" Sam heard himself screaming. "Take shelter!"

It was useless. His voice wasn't loud enough to break through the clamour.

He heard the shriek as the flock of crows caused a man to stagger. Sam could only stare as the black brother stumbled straight off the edge of the Wall. A murder, Sam thought suddenly, a murder of crows .

Fluttering shapes dived at him, and Sam had to slam the door of the outhouse shut. He heard rotten birds trying to peck through the wood, he could hear the scratching of dead talons.

Through the gaps in the wood, he saw fragments of the chaos outside. Flailing figures were writhing in the snow and ice trenches. Some men had grabbed burning sticks and torches, whirling with them and sending smoking bodies dropping. Others had abandoned swords and were swatting at the air with planks of wood. The birds were falling by the hundreds, but there were thousands.

"Hold the line!" Mance screamed, even as he wrestled with an owl. "Protect the refugees, hold the-"

The birds shifted as one. Sam's eyes widened in horror, but black shapes had already converged.

"No!" Sam shrieked. "No, don't-!"

It was too late. There was a white walker controlling these birds. The Other recognised the man who held command purely by voice, and suddenly all of the birds focused their efforts. Mance barely managed to gasp as hundreds of shapes targeted him, their bodies buffeting against him, grabbing hold of his furs with sharp talons and flapping wings.

Sam saw his eyes widen in terror, he tried to run, tried to do something, but he…

That heartbeat lasted for a lifetime. "Dalla!" Mance gasped. "Dal-!" And suddenly all of those wings swept him straight off his feet.

"Mance!" Wulf roared, lunging to catch the former King-Beyond-the-Wall.

Dalla . It was useless. There were too many, and then the wind howled and Mance was sent flying…

Wulf managed to grab Mance's wrist, but the snow swept around them and suddenly both men were falling off the edge of the Wall.

Crash. Mance landed on to the stokes of the lift, a fifteen-foot drop onto solid timber. Sam didn't see the fall, but he could hear something crack even across the distance. He crashed with such an oomph that Sam knew Mance wasn't moving.

All around him, the birds hissed and screeched, but the flock was thinning. The wight birds were too fragile, their wings too weak. They were terrifying and there were swarms of them, but they were easily knocked out of sky. One solid hit was enough to cripple them. All across the ice, grounded blue-eyed shapes still squawking and squirming.

Sam's heart was racing as he darted out of the outbuilding. Sam found himself staring down at where Mance had fallen. Mance was left strewn over the timbers of a lower battlement of the Wall, where the lift supports joined the ice. Mance's skin and clothes were left shredded by a hundred talons. He may not have hit the bottom, but even from this height Sam could see the blood seeping from his skull and dripping down seven hundred feet.

Wulf had been even unluckier. Wulf had bounced off the lift's frame, and tumbled all the way down to the Broken Tower below.

Mance. Mance! Sam might have screamed, but his throat jammed.

And then Sam's eyes turned upwards, staring south. He could see the dark shadow over the horizon, he could see bodies pushing through the snows. They were already passed the ruins of Mole's Town. A shadow of an army in the distance, rapidly getting closer. If this was the first wave…

Malvern. Malvern was coming.

The birds had fallen, but all around him he could hear shrieking and wailing.

"Where's Mance?" Aki the Wroth demanded. " Where's Mance? "

"We got bodies to the north!" another howled. "They're moving, they're climbing… !"

"By the dragon!" a bleeding man wailed. Marthe of the Antlers was bleeding from the eyes, but still clutching his white stone. "By the dragon… !"

All around him, the sworn brothers were shocked and scattered. Perhaps not many had died, but many, many more were left clutching ugly wounds across the skull, or blind men with gouged out eyes. The panic was the worst; the sudden aftermath where all you could see was blood and terror.

We were not prepared for this, Sam thought suddenly. We were not prepared .

"Who's in command?" a man cried. "Who has the Wall?"

Command. The command. Without Mance, they needed a leader. They needed someone to rally the defence. Normally that would be the First Ranger, but Harle the Handsome was leading a scouting party and they had yet to refill the positions beneath him. The most senior brother was technically Ser Wynton Stout, but he was infirm and witless. Perhaps Soren Shieldbreaker, the Lord of Oakenshield, or Morna White Mask of Queensgate could take command, but they were too far away. Mance had been acting Lord Commander, the one who brought them together.

The Lord Commander has fallen, Sam thought numbly, who is second in command?

Sam stared at the shadow of the undead army, and he remembered.

Oh fuck, Sam realised. It's me .

There was a hiss of steam from the ice beneath him, as the piss streamed out from between his legs.

Author Notes:

I'm replying to a common review from last chapter here because it's annoying me slightly now; the idea that Winterfell has magical wards the same as Storm's End does, that's fanon. There is absolutely no evidence to support it, and direct evidence to the contrary.

In canon, it was specified that the oldest building in Winterfell, the First Keep, was built after the Andal Invasion, so Winterfell as a whole was most certainly not built by Bran the Builder. If there was a structure built at that time, 8000 - 6000 years ago, it

has crumbled. Which makes more sense; most castles do not last several thousand years, so you can safely say that whatever hypothetical wards that could have been there at the Age of Heroes are gone.

Meanwhile, the idea that Winterfell and Storm's End were both built by Bran the Builder comes from an old, unsupported legend - it's basically hearsay about a mythical and dubious figure. GRRM has made it quite clear that rumours and the things 'smallfolk say' are not to be trusted.

And I've got no doubt that people will still try to argue the point (maesters can't be trusted, seems to be a common one) but you are arguing fanon. You are making up your own version of the story with no leg to stand on. Which would be fine in your story, but I'm the only one who gets to decide which fanon goes in my story.

So yes, there are no wards in Winterfell, shadow assassins can waltz right in - the same way they can in near every other place.

Chapter 46

Chapter 46

Sansa

Her feet tapped across the stones, heels clattering as she tried to run. It is this cursed dress, Sansa thought with a grimace. She lifted the hem and bundled it up in her hands, but somehow the fabric still caught against her legs. Arya used to hate wearing dresses, but Sansa had never been able to understand why.

Now, she was awkwardly running towards the sound of screaming, trying to shove her way through crowded corridors, and Sansa understood why.

Wailing. Shouts. Screams. As she burst into the Great Hall all she heard was the panic, all she saw was frantic movement. She pushed through the screaming and the distraught sobs. Then, she saw red and black.

Her breath froze, eyes widening in horror. Corpses smeared in ash littered the dais of the throne, and blood was trickling down the steps. Scattered black bodies were lying twisted across the steps, like some brutal mural across ash-coated stone.

There was crying, sharp yells of anguish. "No!" a girl's voice wailed, "No, get off me, no… !"

She saw Wylla Manderly, thrashing against her sister's arms. Wynafryd was embracing her, hugging her sister tight as she wept, but the younger girl was squirming red-faced and howling. "Don't look…" Wynafryd gasped between the sobs, trying to pull her sister away. "Don't look, don't…"

Their mother . The thought sent all sorts of emotions writhing through Sansa. All around her, men were running. She heard guards

shouting for weapons - but it was the panicked shouts of men that didn't know what was happening. More chaos than sense.

Sansa couldn't see Leona Manderly, not at first. But then she made out a woman's corpse collapsed at the throne, a body with its head half decapitated through the cheek. Sansa could see gore and blood, skull and brains…

The sight caused puke to rise in her throat. She could have gagged, but she swallowed it down.

Sansa had been with the other highborn women and children as they prepared to take shelter for possible battle. Sansa hadn't stayed long, but even by the time she reached the Great Hall the massacre was over. A bloodbath.

The world was spinning. Sansa was speechless, trying to understand. How could this happen? How could it happen so quickly ?

Corpses. Thirteen corpses. What sort of assassin could kill so many, right in the middle of Winterfell's Great Hall? Sansa could feel thetingling in the air - it was like the world was crackling with unnatural power, distorting the air and twisting it all…

"The white walkers," Sansa gasped. "Did they do this? Where are they, where…?"

She didn't even know who she was speaking to. Everyone around her was too busy rushing, or carrying bodies away. Wounded men were screaming. A great wordless roar filled the hall - a broad-chested, white-haired man was gripping his wounded shoulder, while he knelt over an unmoving body. A father crying over his son, screaming with anguish and rage.

The wound. Sansa stared at the wound on the white-haired man's shoulder, but it looked like no wound Sansa had ever seen. It was a sword's slash, but it was wrong; like he had been burnt rather than

cut. The edges of his furs were scorched, the skin and flesh underneath blackened.

She saw a man staggering, clutching his arm. In his hands, he held a wooden shield that had been snapped in two. "What happened?" Sansa snapped at the lord. "What happened?"

The lord faltered. He was a tall and grim man with a scar across his cheek and an emblem of a rose on his chest. He looked stunned, and scared. "It was…" he gulped. "It was a shadow. It was smoke and ash."

What?

"Maester!" a voice screamed. "Maester, we need a maester over here… !"

Bodies were stirring, footsteps rippling. Sansa turned and rushed, but she had to shove her way through the front to see. The Greatjon

Sansa saw him still moving, still roiling even as he held in his own stomach. The great lord was gagging, red-faced, while they tried to lift him up to the infirmary. It took four men just to hoist the Greatjon up off the floor.

Sansa didn't even know how he was still alive. There were a few that were left alive with ugly wounds, but most seemed to have been killed instantly. Galbart Glover had his torso ripped open, Ser Mardrick Manderly looked dissected from behind, through plate armour and all. Maege Mormont was decapitated, Eric Burley mutilated, the Greatjon's chest was sliced wide open…

A shadow. A shadow killed them?

The room was spinning. Focus, Sansa ordered herself. I can't help them, but where do I need to be?

"Bran," Sansa whispered after a single frantic heartbeat. "Bran… !"

She turned and ran without a second thought. If there was an assassin about, it was targeting lords. If there was a second assassin, then the King in the North could well be the next target…

But others clearly had the same thought. By the time Sansa reached Bran, he was locked in his chambers with fifty alert and nervous guards standing uneasily outside. Sansa was nearly not allowed through - they drew weapons at her approach - but thankfully a few of the men recognised her.

The door to Bran's chambers was barred, but inside the room there were twenty more men standing guard around the little figure on the bed. All of them were holding crude white spears, Sansa noticed, or clutching white wooden stakes with uncertain expressions on their faces.

Sansa saw the girl, Meera Reed, standing over Bran with a half a broken wooden stick in her hands. It was a makeshift weapon, but Meera was holding it like a spear. Weirwood, Sansa realised. Sansa would have asked why, but then her heart pounded as she saw the frail little boy lying still as the grave atop the mattress.

" Bran! " Sansa shouted, rushing to her brother's side.

The boy wasn't moving. For a heartbeat, so many fears surged through her… " Bran! What happe…"

Her voice trailed off as she noticed the pink in his cheeks. He was still breathing, she realised, but she had never seen a sleeping figure so still. Sansa blinked. How is he asleep like this?

"He's fine," Meera said stiffly. "He is out of his skin at the moment."

Out of his skin? What does that even mean? Sansa felt so lost, her head spinning. So many questions whirled, but the one that came to the forefront… "You're wielding weirwood," she noticed, nodding at the crude spear.

The guards around her shifted. All of their weapons were crude; it was like they had hacked off branches of the heart tree as quickly as possible. Armed guards holding sticks.

"It kills them." Meera composed herself well, but her hands were twitching. "Steel couldn't hurt it, but then weirwood… that killed it."

"What was it?" Sansa insisted. "Was that… was that a white walker?"

The girl shook her head. "I don't… I don't know."

The girl. Meera was a couple of years older than Sansa, she was told, but Meera looked the younger due to her slight build and height. But she had the same thought that I did, Sansa realised, she thought that Bran might be in danger, she ran to protect him .

"Is there more of them?" Sansa pressed. "How did it get in, how…?"

Meera just shook her head, clutching her stake tightly. None of the guards knew what was happening. They were all just as lost as she was.

Everything felt crazed and confused. Is this what the Others are capable of? She had no idea why Jon had seemed so unnervedwhile talking about the Others - she hadn't pressed him on it, but a part of her hadn't truly believed it. Sansa had thought it fantasy, one of Old Nan's tales. But this? This wasn't the work of humans and it felt like the whole castle was left shaking.

It was dead. Whatever 'it' was, they said that Meera killed it. But if there was one, a voice whispered, surely there has to be more?

Her hands were trembling. She looked down at Bran, and the thought of that red and black floor…

Focus, Sansa ordered herself. There was no time to break down, not now. Perhaps come nightfall she would break down into tears and

wail in fear and grief, but for now she had to focus. What needs to be done?

"Jon," Sansa said after a pause. "Where's Jon?"

"To the dragon," Meera explained. "He ordered guards with weirwood and dragonglass to protect Bran, and then he ran to the dragon."

If Jon didn't linger, he couldn't afford to, Sansa thought. Did he fear the dragon was in danger, or was he running for the heart tree for more weirwood? Sansa looked around the room, her eyes lingering on the guards. All of them were wildlings with white stones on their chest. All of the guards were holding weirwood, and some were clutching rough shards of black glass as daggers. Obsidian, she thought. The smartest among them had fastened obsidian shards to weirwood sticks, to form crude spears.

The sight made her think back to the tales that Maester Luwin had told. The children of the forest had supposedly hunted using both obsidian and weirwood as weapons, she recalled.

Sansa looked around the chambers, and she hesitated. Bran had several dozen guards surrounding him, and Sansa was useless waiting by his side. She refused to be another weeping woman. Jon hadn't been able to linger, and neither could she. I must go to where I can be useful .

She gave one last look at Bran, before striding out of the room. Even despite herself, she twitched at every flickering shadow, every crackle of flame, every rustle of footsteps.

First comes panic, then fear, Sansa thought, but soon it will become anger, and then blame . Suspicion and accusations would not be far behind. How many would claim that this was murder, that the wildlings massacred a dozen northern lords? She needed to get out ahead of it, to stop it reaching that stage.

How much have we lost, how can we recover…?

Testimonies, Sansa decided. I need testimonies from the witnesses, I need to piece together what happened. I need men who can swear to what they saw . Bias worked best when it came quickly; the first explanation that was offered was the most well-established. She needed to paint the narrative, Sansa needed to be the first to pen letters to White Harbour, Deepwood Motte, Last Hearth and Bear Island.

The white walkers did this. How did they do it, what did they do…? The Greatjon, she thought suddenly. He is still alive .

Sansa broke out into an uneven sprint, her heels clapping across the stones.

She heard the bustle from the infirmary, the sound of strangled screams breaking the clamour. Sansa pushed her way through, staring in shock. The Greatjon was on a stone slab, with blood swelling from his stomach. Two men tried to hold in his guts, but the blood was oozing out between their fingers.

"Maester!" a voice snapped. Sansa recognised Lord Norvel Mollen, an Umber bannerman, standing frantically by his liege lord's side. They had to hold him down with leather belts to stop him thrashing, screaming in agony. " Maester! Do something!"

The young maester was fumbling, pale-faced. He was a young, clean-shaven man, with only half the number of rings on his chain that Luwin had. He looked lost. "I never…" the maester gasped. "I've never…"

He stared down at all the blood, and looked fit to faint. "Cauterise the cut!" a man shouted. "We need to cauterise the bleeding - heat a sword's edge, quickly… !"

The maester stammered. "No, no, that'll kill him, it's too deep it's…"

His was a weak voice amidst so much screaming. The lord lunged, grabbing the maester by the collar. " Do something! "

"I… !" the young maester wailed. "I'm an apprentice, I've never… !"

Lord Norvel looked ready to burst. Sansa had to step in. "Anger does naught to help your liege lord," Sansa said sharply, striding into the room. She glared at Lord Norvel, pushing the lord away. " Leave the room, if you cannot keep a cool head."

Lord Norvel floundered. Sansa was as lost as anyone, but the secret to command was to not let that show. The illusion was everything.

"You two, keep pressure on the wound. Keep his blood in," Sansa ordered to the two men. "And you two, hold him down tightly, do not let him tear the wound." After that, she was at a loss for what to do next, but she blinked and recovered quickly. She turned to the maester. "And for his mouth… the…" Curses, I can't remember what it's called . "… the wooden stick that goes between his teeth?"

"The bit." The maester nodded dumbly. "Stop him biting his tongue."

"Get something for his mouth," Sansa ordered, "and fetch rags, and boiling water." She didn't know why, they just seemed like a reasonable thing to have. The maester blinked in shock, but men were already running. "Take a deep breath, maester. Deep breath. What must be done?"

"Cauterise it," a man-at-arms insisted. "A burning poker would stop-"

"That will not help!" the maester wailed. "It's too deep! We… we must stitch it, give the flesh a chance to heal."

"Needle and thread!" Sansa shouted, and a memory returned to her. She remembered when little Arya had sliced her hand open playing with a crossbow. "Maester Luwin kept a sewing bag - on top that vanity!"

They found it quickly, all the while the Greatjon thrashed on the top. There was a small leather bag of maester's supplies for stitching flesh; wool bandages, a spool of fine cotton thread, and an iron needle slimmer than what Sansa used to work with, and a vial of rubbing alcohol.

Outside the room, Sansa heard endless stomping, men readying for war. The maester twitched. His hands were shaking so badly he could not even thread the needle.

The maester fumbled, and the Greatjon howled in pain. Sansa could have screamed in frustration.

"Give it here!" she snapped. She licked the end and threaded the string through the needle, just as Septa Mordane had taught her a thousand times. "Just… just tell me what needs to be done."

The maester breathed in relief as she took over, sagging slightly. "Clamp the skin. We must bleed the wound, keep it clean…"

She couldn't even see the cut under the men's hands, and the bloody furs. Lord Norvel shredded the Greajon's clothes with a sharp knife, and Sansa saw the cut. The edge had sliced open the man's stomach from thigh to hip, like gutting a pig. She could see throbbing veins, she could see his guts pulsing in grotesque colours. Her resolve nearly failed with the sight of it.

"Wine," the maester ordered. "Bitter wine."

Sansa wasn't sure if that was for him or the wound. The blood spurted over her dress, and the Greatjon didn't stop thrashing.

It's just like stitching cloth, she ordered to herself.

"The peritoneum," the maester instructed. "The inner stomach layer, you must stitch that first. It is under the outer tissue, you can see…"

She could see it. The flesh was different shades, layers of skin going inwards. Raw meat. Gods, she could see his guts, she could make out the coils of intestines. The skin was tender, torn muscles. Men were holding rags to squeeze up the blood, while Sansa's hands pushed through the flesh and gore…

The Greatjon howled. He thrashed so hard the leather belts they held him with could have snapped.

The men had to heave the skin together, and Sansa was left with her hands inside someone's stomach. "Do you have something for the pain?" she demanded, her voice nearly breaking. "Milk of the poppy?"

The maester looked lost. "The stores… there's naught left."

Curses . The Greatjon was thrashing so much, muffled screams whistling through his bit, and Sansa didn't even know how to push the needle through. "The needle," Sansa said finally. "I cannot get a clean stitch, it's all ripped…"

"You may have to cut it open further," the maester admitted. "Peel back the outer flesh, and pull the flesh together. Give the inner organs a chance to heal."

Sansa stared in shock. Lord Norvel hesitated, and then passed his hunting knife to her. Too many people were crowded around the Greatjon's stomach, nobody else could get their hands in. Sansa would have to slice his skin herself.

Just like stitching cloth, she insisted. Just like cloth. Living, breathing, bleeding cloth .

"The cut… it's into his intestines, maester," she reported. Blood everywhere, chunks of flesh… "I cannot… I cannot stitch it all…"

"It will clot, my lady. And we will have to cut him open again to remove the threads." The maester shook his head. "But for now the

internal bleeding will kill him faster than anything. We can only stitch what we can, bandage the rest, and give him a chance."

The doubt was thick in his voice. The maesters claimed to be able to reattach limbs and stitch internal wounds, but Sansa doubted if such things had high success rates. He does not expect the Greatjon to survive, Sansa realised, and he is scared of what might happen if the lord doesn't .

Lord Umber is strong, she told herself. He is strong, he is strong .

Sansa squeezed the needle through red, tender meat. Bile and blood bubbled out around her fingers. The Greatjon's movements spasmed, like a dying fish.

"Stitch outwards. Cross-stitch," the maester added, and Sansa could have slapped him.

The first knot of cotton tightened, blood swelling up through the rip. She couldn't even see what she was stitching through all the gore, she had to do it blind. Septa Mordane always said my needlework was the finest she had ever seen.

The Greatjon's skin was so pale, the flesh was squelchy. How much blood did he even have left? Even for a big man, he had bled a lot.

We are all just bags of water. Cut the sack and the water dribbles out until there's none left . Sansa didn't know where that thought came from.

The lord was gasping, wheezing to breathe. The wooden bit fell out of his mouth, and nobody thought to replace it.

"Lad… Lady Stark," the Greatjon wheezed, his eyes bulging like he had seen a ghost.

"Easy. Grit your teeth, my lord. You cannot die yet." Her hands slipped on the bloody thread, and the Greatjon spasmed.

His eyes were rolling backwards in his skull, his throat jamming. Like a fish flopping and choking…

"Awake, Lord Umber!" she shouted. Faster, stitch faster . She didn't know why, but if he closed his eyes she didn't think he'd open them again… "You do not have permission to die!"

He was trembling, his motions growing jerky. Sansa was hands deep in a pile of guts, and she just didn't…

"Think of your sons!" Sansa ordered suddenly. "Your boys, your daughters. Think of them ."

He didn't respond, but Sansa could only hope he was listening. Could only… "You have family. You have children . Think of them."

It sounded like he tried to say something but the words choked in his throat. A man that big shouldn't have sounded so small.

He had children, Sansa remembered suddenly. Lord Umber's two daughters by his first wife had been lost to wildlings. His eldest son, the Smalljon, had died at the Red Wedding. His youngest son had been butchered at Last Hearth, and his two middle boys were missing. Once, House Umber had been a large family.

"Would they want you to die like this?" Sansa pressed hard, twisting in the needle as far as it could go. The needle was slender, but it still felt like pressing a four-inch knife through his guts. "We keep fighting for them, my lord; the ones that we've lost and the ones that still remain.

"Think of them, remember them ."

"My boys…" Lord Umber gasped. "Jon, Steffon, Kol, Mikael…" There were tears in the Greatjon's eyes. "… Rebekah… Valerie…"

The maester was dabbing at the wound with a wine-soaked rag. "Pull the flesh together, Lady Stark," the maester whispered. "Must

be forceful, pull…"

Sansa pulled. Flesh clenched, the muscles throbbing in her hands. She could feel him trembling. The Greatjon was still mumbling his children's names through pained breaths.

The maester grabbed another clay pot of wine, splattering dark ale over a new rag to wipe down the wound. "Bring that bloody wine over here, you dolt," the lord growled through the pain.

The maester floundered, but the Greatjon's arms were still bound. Lord Mollen grabbed the pot off him, and then poured it straight down the Greatjon's throat. Sansa tightened another knot on the thread, and it finally seemed like the flow of blood was stemming. "A second stitch, my lady," the maester instructed. "Stitch the inner flesh and outer flesh separately."

I might have well just stitched up a corpse . His stomach was thick and hairy, but it was all sorts of colours - black and red blood smeared over his chest, and his skin was swollen and jagged. It was as ugly a wound as any Sansa had ever seen.

The Greatjon is strong, Sansa told herself. If anyone could survive a blade to the guts, it was him.

"We must restore his fluids," the maester ordered. "Water and salt. Keep him lying down, keep him still… he will not survive a rupture." His face twisted. "Curses, if only we had leeches to drain the humours…"

The Greatjon was ghostly pale, wheezing with every breath. "He cannot breathe!" Lord Mollen protested.

"Blood in the lung." The man raised his hands helplessly. "I cannot… his stomach…"

"La… dy Stark," the Greatjon was gasping, straining with every word. "Lady Stark…"

Sansa's head was spinning in delirium. Her hands were coated in blood, like butcher's hands. It was so hard to think, the sight of all that blood…

"Will he survive?" Sansa demanded. "Will he survive? How can we help him?"

The maester just raised his shoulders and shook his head cluelessly. Sansa cradled her head in her hands to her forehead, blood smearing across her hair. He looked like a man on his deathbed - a bone white husk struggling with every tremor. Lord Umber was still staring at her with bulging eyes, struggling to speak. "… La…" he wheezed. "Star…"

Behind her, she heard footsteps approaching. There was a figure in dark furs - a wildling - lifting a burning torch from the brazier and working towards them.

"He said no cauterising," Sansa snapped at him.

"I'm not." The wildling shook his head grimly. "I'm waiting until he dies." The man raised the torch, standing vigil. "We're going to have to burn that body straight away. You don't want him coming back."

It was met by silence. Sansa blinked, unable to respond. The wildling stood stiffly, holding his torch patiently before the infirmary slab. The maester tried to shuffle backwards. " Burn him? " Lord Mollen gaped.

"Lad…" Lord Umber croaked suddenly. "… Catelyn Stark…"

Sansa tensed, and froze. Mother? The Greatjon was looking at her, wheezing, as he tried to speak. What…?

She knelt downwards, straining to hear through his haggard breaths. Lord Umber was conscious, trying to force the words out with his dying breaths.

"Catelyn… told us…" he groaned, whimpering softly. "… told us… Stannis…" His bearded jaw clench, trying to squeeze the words out of hoarse half-breaths. "Told us Stannis killed Renly… A shadow… She said a shadow…"

"My lord?" Sansa whispered, struggling to understand. Lord Umber seemed desperate to force the words out. Maybe his dying words.

"Stannis… Stannis' shadow… Lady Stark told us so she said…" he wheezed, and his body convulsed in pain. Lord Mollen had to press to hold him down, but Sansa leaned in closer to hear the words… "A shadow with Stannis' face, she said it was him… !"

"Stannis," Sansa repeated blankly. "Stannis Baratheon ?"

"… We didn't… not even Robb believed her, but…" Lord Umber groaned, red eyes fit to bulge from his skull. "Same shadow… assassin…"

His whole body was twitching, but his hands clenched. Blood was swelling in his mouth, splattering from his lips as he coughed out the words. " Stannis !" he screamed. "Stannis did this!"

Stannis?

Sansa didn't even know how to reply. The Greatjon seemed to sag, still sputtering blood with every breath. "Do not let him fall unconscious," the maester warned. "Poke him, scratch him, slap him if you need to. Do not let him fall asleep."

He groaned in wordless agony. Sansa pulled herself up from the floor, blinking with confusion. Stannis?

Outside, Sansa could still hear women wailing. The Manderly daughters were broken down in tears as their mother's body was dragged away. The wildling stood with the torch, staring at the Greatjon with suspicious eyes. They were fighting, but the wound

was too deep. Nobody expected that the lord would live. Not even her, truth be told.

The killer targeted the most prominent highborn in the hall, Sansa thought. Mormont, Manderly, Umber and Glover - they were strategic targets, Jon's strongest allies. A shadow assassin .

"He has lost much blood, my lady," the maester said to her. "His words were likely delirium."

No, Sansa thought, I don't think they were .

Stannis Baratheon. Sansa had heard that Stannis had fought and lost against Jon beyond the Wall months ago, but she knew no more details than that. Sansa's most vivid memories of Stannis were of being locked in the Red Keep during the Battle of the Blackwater, watching the gushing green flames over the water. At the time, she had been both sure that Stannis would save her, and convinced that he would kill them all.

They said that Stannis had a Red Witch under his command. They said that he consorted with demons, and sacrificed men to the flames. A tremor ran down her spine as she looked towards the great hall. Smoke and ash, the man had named it.

Stannis did this.

Sansa felt numb. She could still hear the boots stomping and roiling, men preparing for battle.

Is Stannis aligned with the white walkers? she thought quietly. Is that why he had attacked Jon beyond the Wall?

A flush of anger rushed through her. If Stannis did this, then I will… Sansa thought with a gasp, unable to finish the thought.

He will rue it, I will make sure that he will .

Sansa was pale like a ghost as she staggered out of the infirmary. The thought of all those blackened corpses haunted her gaze… the two daughters wailing for their mother… the Greatjon's blood as she uselessly tried to stitch up the wound…

It was all roiling around her. She wanted to collapse to the ground in a bloody mess. Instead, Sansa screamed - thrashing against the wall and leaving bloody handprints upon it. She screamed with such frustration, trying to force it all out…

"What the bloody hell is happening?" a voice croaked. She turned to see a short and wild-haired man staggering out of the infirmary on crutches. He was a haggard and beaten figure, with raw bruised face and bloody tears dripping down his cheeks.

The Weeper was glaring at her with beady eyes, but Sansa didn't even know where to begin answering that question.

Instead, Sansa just recomposed herself, wiped the blood off her face, and walked away.

As she passed, she saw the other infirmary bed - where a greying blonde-haired figure lay. Lady Val of Whitetree had pale blue eyes, heavily shadowed, with a gaunt and haunted look to her. Her hair might have once been golden, but it was withering grey. Val's right arm was left cauterised; nothing more than a stump at the shoulder. The scar that ran across her upper torso and through her breast was hidden by a snow bear's fur cloak.

She and Sansa locked eyes with each other as she walked past, but Sansa couldn't even tell what the wildling woman was thinking.

Sansa strode towards the main door, where the howl of the snows was deafening. The gates were propped up, and a bitter cold wind shrieked through the castle. She shouldn't be out here, it wasn't safe to move without an escort, but she needed to see.

It was past dusk already, the hour of the eel. Darkness was falling over Winterfell and the only light was the blurred torches writhing against the snow.

All across Winterfell, their army was stirring. All the while Sansa had been stitching flesh, Jon had been mustering for battle. Thousands of men were assembling in the snow-locked courtyard, all the while the snows howled around them like ice giants screaming in the sky.

She didn't know what was happening, but she saw men armed with obsidian and weirwood running out towards the gates. Jon has called his warriors, she realised. Sansa stood and watched fromacross the snowbound castle.

"What happens?" a voice behind her called. She saw Lord Forrester standing there dumbly, looking lost. His eyes widened at the sight of the blood on her dress. "What…?"

A shriek of wind hissed, bringing with it the distant stomping of men and the gruff roar of giants. Lord Forrester looked so shaken he jumped with the noise. "Where is the king going?" the lord asked finally. "Where has he…?"

From the distance, she felt thunder shake the ground - a long, forlorn roar echoing out from the godswood. The dragon was roaring.

Sansa stared and then looked up to the writhing heavens above. "He has gone to slay a demon."

Jon

The mammoth boomed beneath him, its great snout trumpeting as it charged forward. Every snowdrift, every great lope sent Jon's bones rattling. For their size, the mammoths had short and stumpy legs, but the snowdrifts were no obstacle. It powered through wave after wave of snow without even seeming to notice, and it was all Jon could do just to hold on.

It was Jon's first time riding upon such a creature. There was no saddle to hold, no harness. He could only grip tightly onto shaggy fur like rope, feeling the mammoth's shoulderblades ripple beneath him. There was nothing but fifteen feet of solid fur and muscle under him, stampeding through the snow.

He heard the long cry of a wolf echoing through the snow. "Forward!" Jon shouted, struggling to be heard. "Follow the howl! Follow the howl!"

"Yun Yar is falling behind!" a voice behind him cried. "Yun Yar and his clan!"

"Keep together!" Jon yelled, signalling at Lun Leg Dar. The huge figures rumbled all around him. "Keep them together!"

All around, giants boomed as they bellowed orders, but they sounded more like animalistic grunts than any commands Jon could understand. The giants ran alongside their mammoths, struggling to keep pace with long, loping gaits. They moved through the snow using the mammoths to clear the way forward, each clan huddled together.

The snows could be over ten-foot-deep, but the giants would still be able to push through them. Lun Leg Dar - an immense, broad-chested giant clutching a maul - stormed besides them, occasionally grabbing the mammoth's ears to steer it.

They had mustered in the black of night and set off before first light. It was past noon the next day now, but it was hard to see the sun at all through the thick, grey clouds.

They had to move fast. They had to stick to the tops of ridgelines and high places, where the snows were thinnest. As often as not they followed the tracks of the army of the dead. They stopped only when absolutely necessary, keeping a hard pace. They were heading north, but Jon couldn't even recognise where the kingsroad lay. There was nothing but never-ending fields of white ahead of him.

Yet the wights have over a day's headstart, and the snows are slowing us down, Jon thought with a grimace. They couldn't keep this pace up for long. The Wall might have already fallen by the time they arrived. Across on the next mammoth, Jon heard Rattleshirt howling in the Old Tongue, smacking his spear across the mammoth's hide to urge it forward.

Men on foot could never keep pace with the mammoths, but a few of them still tried. Free folk warbands and northern scouts were following in the giants' wake, but the distance between the two groups was growing larger and larger.

At the front of the raiding party, Jon had ordered nothing but their best - armed with fire, dragonglass and weirwood. They had four hundred and fifty giants from two dozen different clans, with near three hundred mammoths. There were soldiers sitting seven abreast on each mammoth readying spears and bows.

There were perhaps a thousand plus more men trailing behind that could maybe catch up to them when the battle began. If we make it in time .

There was a structure to it, even despite the chaos. The male giant warriors led from the front, while the matriarchs trailed behind and kept the herd together.

The mountain giants were the only ones with experience herding mammoths, while the smaller forest giants huddled together more cautiously. Still, most of the mountain giants clutched crude clubs or giant spears, but the forest giants held immense bows of oak, like scorpions in their huge hand. The mountain giants were clad in strips of furs or leathers, but the forest giants had been more accepting of patchwork chainmail and modified iron helmets. It wasn't the plate armour he had asked Lord Manderly to commission, but it would do.

The forest giants were the better equipped, more organised, with a harder mindset to battle. They were ready for war - great beasts stomping around the ground.

A few of the giants even dropped to four legs - loping forward on their long arms as they ran.

The men all kept dragonglass primed and ready, but Jon had ordered them to hastily ready weirwood too. Weirwood arrows and weirwood spears. Jon kept Dark Sister in his grip, but there was a burning torch in his other hand and a weirwood stake on his belt.

Malvern had likely summoned that shadow. That could have been the one of the Other's powers. Nobody knew what the walkers were really capable of, but Jon refused to be unprepared. If weirwood gave them an advantage, then he needed as much weirwood as possible. They had hacked off near all of the heart tree's branches in a matter of hours.

A shadow. Perhaps there were more shadows still stalking in Winterfell, maybe targeting his family. Maybe one had assaulted Bran as soon as he left. But Jon refused to cower and falling back was not an option - he would find the source of them and he would slay it.

Perhaps Malvern had wished to disrupt the pursuit, but Jon refused to allow the Others to win. He had been forced to set off from Winterfell's gates even while the bodies in the Great Hall were still warm.

But we've lost time, Jon cursed. They've already gained ground, and now we must play catch up .

Rattleshirt had the right of it; they needed a raid - a fast and strong force to break through the enemy lines. They needed to slay Malvern itself as quickly as possible, and then hurry to reinforce the Night's Watch. The mammoths could push through the snows, giants had the might to break the wights, and there were archers mounted upon mammoths prepared to pump Malvern full of dragonglass.

In the distance, Jon saw the grey wolf bounding through the snow. Summer had gone ahead of them, but the direwolf was leading the

way.

Bran, Jon knew. He could see his brother in the wolf's eyes. The direwolf was leading them straight to Malvern.

"Follow the direwolf!" Rattleshirt shrieked, and hollering a war cry that Jon couldn't recognise. "Eyes peeled, stay sharp!"

Jon would have much, much preferred to have Tormund by his side, or Val, or even the Weeper. But Tormund was senseless in grief over Toregg's death, Val was in no shape to move, the Weeper could hardly walk, and it seemed like Rattleshirt would have to do.

Snow flurried into his face; even in the bright of day, it was still dark. Jon could see shimmer of light through the haze, but it was hard for any flame to survive. "Protect the flames!" Jon shouted. "Conserve your torches!"

Every man had a torch in their hand and a sealed lantern on their belts, but the fires were still struggling to survive.

A giant's cry split the air. Leg Lun Dar was staggering, the giant's great nostrils sniffing the air. Beneath Jon, the mammoth shivered. They were close; the giants could smell them.

Through the flurry of snow, they finally saw the black shapes shuffling through the fields. Summer howled, but Jon could recognise them by the way they walked. Wights - not many, but more and more were taking shape through the billows of white.

"Push through!" Jon boomed. "Push through!" The lines crashed, and the mammoths didn't stop.

Mammoths trumpeted, the giants roared. Malvern's rearguard, Jon thought as he led the way through, wights left behind to watch for pursuers .

The bulk of Malvern's forces must still be ahead, and now the white walker must surely know they were coming. The giants roared with some war cry in the Old Tongue, but the wights were silent as the grave as they collided.

Jon felt the mammoth stagger as a corpse was stampeded under trampling feet. There was nothing Jon could do but hold on.

Boom . With a single immense swing of a giant's club, a wight was sent flying. Another tried to charge at the mammoth, but with a single lash of scything tusks it went underneath. The mammoth's thickly-matted hide was almost armour against the wight's awkward blows. A wight managed to jump onto the side of another mammoth, but then a wildling's spear knocked it backwards.

Ahead of them, more and more dark shapes littered the horizon, contrasting against white. We're getting closer . "Forward!" Jon screamed, to the boom of a hundred war cries. "Form up! Form up!"

"We push through hard and fast!" Rattleshirt howled, to the chanting of war cries. "You see the white walker, you kill it. Don't hold back, just kill it!"

"Lordship and riches to the man who slays Malvern!" Jon shouted. "Whatever reward, whatever boon you wish, earn it by putting a dragonglass arrow through the white walker!"

The men were hollering. Giants were bellowing orders, pulling their mammoths into line. The mammoths were strong and they had immense stamina, but even they could not last forever. Already, Jon felt the beast below breathing deeply, its snout trumpeting. They had left with all the supplies they could grab, but they had been pushing their mounts and their men as hard as possible for hours.

It was a fearsome pace. Men had already died trying to keep it.

Giants and mammoths, free folk and northmen pushing through the snow. Already, Jon could see the shadow of the Wall looming in the

distance.

Ahead of them, another howl filled the air - but it had shifted direction. The mammoths turned slightly, and Jon made out the shadows in the distance.

A solid wall of fir trees lay ahead, their branches blanketed in white. Summer was ahead, darting into the forest. The white walker was there, Summer was tracking it.

It is taking shelter in the trees . Jon could have cursed - Malvern had taken a detour. The Other was a crafty bastard; it knew that the large mammoths would be at a disadvantage in the forest, and the white walker preferred to fight in the woods. It wants to limit our options, wants to set the battlefield .

But what choice is there except to follow? Jon thought. We have Malvern trapped, and his wights are scattered. The only way to win was to break through.

Forward! " Jon boomed, raising Dark Sister high. Men were screaming and chanting in half a dozen different tongues.

There were bodies in the trees, more wights spilling forward to meet the charge.

All around him, he heard more and more giants clashing with the dead. They collided with booming roars that drowned out the wind. The first of their bowmen were setting arrows alight, flaming arrows spewing from the backs of charging mammoths.

It was all Jon could do to hold on, let alone fire a bow.

"Keep together!" Jon screamed. Do not let them scatter us. "Keep together!"

The trees were getting closer. The mammoth trumpeted, yet Jon could feel its uncertainty. It didn't want to charge into such tight-

ranked fir trees.

Push through, Jon willed. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and extended himself into the mammoth.

The world blurred. The mammoth's mind was like none he had known before. It was vaguely similar to a goat, but so much bigger. Its skin felt blunt, heavy and long. Its senses were numb and focused; a half-domesticated animal well used to following orders. Its huge heart was drumming, its focus fixed on the herd. Jon pressed deeper into the beast's skin, but it was just so thick that Jon wasn't sure if it even noticed. Its presence wrapped around Jon like a cloak that was far, far too big.

He pressed into the mammoth's body. He could feel the snow beneath him, could feel the rumbling in his trunk…

Forward, Jon willed. Forward .

The mammoth increased its pace, causing the whole herd to trumpet. They were herd animals, they followed the one at the front. They were stampeding in a fury, each one so powerful the earth rumbled…

Crash . They broke through the trees, charging forward.

Sharp branches and twigs scraped against thick hide, causing every man to cover themselves with cloaks. Snow from the treetops splattered down on them, but the giants and mammoths pushed through.

He heard the groan of trees toppling, bark crunching in the tide. Jon had never felt, never imagined, a cavalry charge so chaotic…

The line of wights didn't stand a chance.

A giant roared. There were more and more dead bodies in the woods, wights waiting by the trees. Jon saw bodies bursting up

through the snow, undead creatures falling from the branches.

He heard Rattleshirt's cry, his mammoth rampaging as a wight jumped at the great creature's head. Spears and burning arrows were snapping.

Fighting was all around him. Jon heard Leg Lun Dar roar as he snatched a dead man out of the snow and tore its arms clean off. The limbs were still squirming even as Leg Lun threw them at another wight.

The direwolf howled, closer and more urgent than ever. Malvern.

Malvern is close .

In his own skin, Jon could feel it. He could feel the ache in his chest, the blade through his heart.

"Push through!" Jon boomed, but his voice could never be loud enough. "Push th-!"

The mammoth's snout twisted, instincts causing its huge body to jerk. Alarm . Great footsteps were thumping across snow, a huge black body shoving through the trees. He heard the cries from the men behind him, he saw the scattering of arrows, but then…

Bear! It was a large black bear, its hide slick with hoarfrost and rot. Half its skull had been cleaved open, its frozen brain spilling out - it had no eyes, but it was still charging. The wight bear lunged out of the trees, lumbering straight at the mammoth.

Jon was in the mammoth's skin, ordering it to respond. The great beast's instincts were to flee, but Jon forced it to fight. The mammoth roared, its tusks thrashing…

The bear was smaller than the mammoth, but it lunged with no hesitation. No self-regard, no restraint. Boom. The mammoth crashed into it, slamming the creature backwards with its tusks, but

the bear was still clawing. Sharp, frozen claws snapped at the mammoth's forehead, blood hissing.

Men shouting, trying to throw burning torches. The mammoth's mind flooded with raw panic, and not even Jon could keep it under control. Its instincts were fighting him, thrashing against Jon's control.

"Brace!" a voice cried. " BRAC - ! "

The great mammoth reared upwards, kicking and stomping out. The bear staggered, but the mammoth couldn't shake it off. Even as the wight bear was lifted physically upwards, it was clawing and snapping. Men were screaming, losing their grips and tumbling…

He fell. Jon gasped, snapping back to his own skin as he landed backwards into the thick, white snow. Five feet of snow cushioned his fall, but it was so deep it felt suffocating.

Jon's ears burst from the deafening roar of the mammoth slamming the bear against a tree, despite the cuts on its forehead. The whole world was quaking.

Jon's torch was left extinguished in the fall, and he could not light another one. Everything was too cold and wet. Their fires were failing. Curse the snow.

And all around him more and more dead were converging. They poured from the shadows, surging forward. Dark Sister swooped out, cleaving through a wight's neck. The dead man was still moving, still trying to fight.

"Form up!" Jon screamed. "Form up!"

His voice was lost in the chaos. The noise was drowned out by a giant roaring as a dozen wights tried to jump on it. Leg Lun Dar thrashed like a bear fighting against an onslaught of rats. Crazed, relentless rats.

Hundreds of blue eyes shone through the dark. The woods were howling. Jon's skin prickled, and he knew Malvern was close. He could feel the Other's gaze on him, he could feel it staring through all those eyes.

There was biting pain in Jon's chest, a painful ache over his heart, but he pressed on.

Behind him, one of the giants fell, toppling to the ground. Another giant slammed its maul through the back of his fallen brother's head, with no regard. They knew their foe; they knew to leave no corpses whole that could rise again. If they couldn't burn the bodies, they could smash and desecrate them. The men were dropping spears and swords in favour of axes and mauls.

Jon was at the forefront, fighting through the tide. Dark Sister slashed outwards, left and right, cleaving through frozen flesh…

Men were behind him, but Jon could only think on the wave of enemies in front. " Form up! " he screamed. "On me! Form up!"

The men were chanting. "Snow!" they cried. "Snow! Snow! Snow!"

Three dead bodies lunged at Jon, but Dark Sister slashed them down in a flurry of black steel. Half of the wights weren't even armed, Jon realised, and others were clutching sticks as makeshift weapons. They hadn't been able to burn so many bodies, but scavengers had still picked much of the iron and steel from the battlefield. Malvern had raised his troops too quickly to arm them properly.

He saw many that were wearing Bolton crests, and others dressed as wildlings. Still, they all charged with no restraint, with nothing held back…

The snow was so thick that Jon could hardly walk. He could only shamble through the cold, blade lashing, while the wights were stumbling through as well.

It was less a battle, and more one giant chaotic brawl in the trees. He heard trees falling as the mammoths stormed forward. In weather like this, the bark on trees froze so cold they could snap and explode, even a solid push could topple an old pine.

"Push through!" Jon screamed, through pained, breathless wheezes. "Push through!"

Behind him, a mammoth finally collapsed to the swarms of wights, sending giants around it roaring in berserk rage. Bodies were crushed under clubs and feet, wildlings were heaving with mauls and spears. It would have been easier using fire, but their torches were being extinguished one by one by the snow and cold.

They couldn't kill the wights swiftly without fire, they could only crush the bodies till they couldn't move.

A flock of birds screamed death through the trees - crows flushed from the woods. Ahead of him, Summer howled.

Jon felt it coming by his hair tickling on end. He felt the way the air became colder by its very presence.

"On me!" Jon bellowed. " On m- "

And suddenly a wave of wights lunged from the snowdrift. Footsteps shoving through snows, staggering over tree roots. Jon didn't stumble backwards, but a few of the men behind him did. Dark Sister sung through the snow, cleaving down rampaging bodies. Jon had a blade in one hand, and he wielded his extinguished torch in the other - swinging the wood like a club to knock back wights.

They were everywhere, blue-eyed creatures swarming. But where is Malvern? Jon cursed. Has the white walker already fled the trees?

Then he felt the air go dead. Jon didn't realise what was missing, not until he realised that he couldn't hear the men behind him. The

sounds of their war cries and bellows went dead. The hairs on the back of Jon's neck stood on end, and he turned around.

He saw the black and white figure standing like a statue in the snow.

Malvern wasn't running anywhere. The white walker had doubled back to meet him. The Other slipped from the trees like a ghost, and half a dozen men fell with barely a sound.

The world hushed with its presence. For a moment, the only noise was the deafening beat of his heart. Malvern paused.

It was so cold it hurt to breathe. It was like Jon's blood froze in his lungs. Giants were still roaring in the distance, but in that moment there was naught but silence. Its wights were charging onwards to push back the mammoths, but Malvern was there - standing in the middle of corpses - staring at him .

The white walker cocked its head. A single burning blue eye inspected him. Its body was half crystal ice, and half scorched black. Its outline rippled, frost crackling around its body. The world was distorted by its presence; all of the colours blurring together.

Camouflaged armour of ice. Even despite the blackened burns across its body, the Other's armour caused it to blur. Jon took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of strength he had left.

The Other raised an icy sword, so cold that mist swirled around the edge with every lazy movement. So thin and sharp that it whistled through the snow. Jon gripped Dark Sister so tightly it hurt.

It took a step forward. It walked with a limp, Jon noted. They stood and faced each other, white blade against black.

Focus. Kill it . "MALVERN!" Jon screamed at the top of his burning lungs. "MALV-!"

The Other made a noise, a sound like the rustling of ice. Its blade swiped outwards so quick it blurred, and Jon staggered backwards. The slash was light, teasing. War horns were blowing, a direwolf was howling, but they were lost in the swirl of snows and swords.

Jon raised his blade. Every instinct he had was screaming at him. One cut, Jon thought. I wield Valyrian steel. One cut is all I need. "You," the Other croaked suddenly. "I know you."

Jon lunged. Blades cracked like glass chiming together. The icy sword parried Dark Sister so fast it was lazy. Jon tried to break the lock, but even with only one hand the Other was strong. Impossibly strong.

Clash. The blade of ice lashed out, and Jon's instincts barely kept up. Dark Sister only just caught the edge, metal scraping against ice, but the blow still knocked him backwards.

Ser Rodrik always said it was poor form to parry edge on edge, Jon thought suddenly. But against a sword like that, what choice was there? The white walker's blade could cleave through any shield. The icy sword was sharper and colder than anything Jon could even imagine.

The blade of ice left a crisscrossing trail of mist hovering in the air.

It moves as fast as the shadow did . The shadow assassin at Winterfell had been blindingly quick, but the white walker felt stiff and sharp where the shadow had been fluid.

The sword whooshed. It was fast, too fast. Jon only just managed to stumble away, but the razor edge came so close it sliced through the edge of his furs.

The Other made a sound like a tut. "You," it repeated. Sounds from a throat that wasn't built for human words. "You. Felt this blade before,

haven't you?"

The sword swung in slow circles, leaving a trail of mist with every movement. The scar on Jon's chest had been aching for hours, the pain in his heart intensifying with every step the Other took.

He remembered the scene. He remembered fighting atop the ice, screaming his vows and lashing out with everything he had. He remembered Ygritte's eyes, remembered the Other plunging its sword through his chest.

It was this one. This was the one who stabbed me, all of those months ago. This was the one who left me dead on that glacier .

"You were the one that killed me," Jon gasped.

The bright blue eye gleamed. Its frozen throat made a crackling noise.

Vaguely, Jon wondered if he would see a shadow attacking him from the corner of his eye. Perhaps there were more shadow assassins lurking in the tree. The weirwood stake was on his belt, but he couldn't reach for it. Jon didn't understand; had the shadow worked for the Other? Had it been a different type of white walker? They hadboth exuded the same unnatural power, but the feeling was different somehow. It had been smoke and ash where the white walker was ice and snow.

The shadow assassin had caught him off-guard, but this time Jon was ready. Malvern wasn't hiding anymore. Wights were running, snows were flurrying, but Jon's attention was focused solely on the Other. He could do nothing less.

It lunged. Jon was ready for it. Dark Sister clashed.

The first blow nearly took Jon down, but he was ready for the second. It was strong, fast, but it had poor form. The blade hacked

again and again - each strike was blindingly fast, but they were also clumsy. Immensely powerful, but a poor swordsman.

It had never been trained. It had never learnt how to fight, it had never needed to. It had never spent months scrambling through the snow, it had never hardened itself against a hundred foes, it had never fought life-or-death, with the rush of blood screaming in its ears…

Its movements were too fast, too strong - no human could compare.

Jon could only match it with skill.

Clash . Jon parried, but the white walker blurred. It spun so swiftly its feet hardly touched the snow.

Jon nearly stumbled, but he kept his footing. Dark Sister never paused, not for a heartbeat. He barely even thought about it, it was like he was dancing on a tightrope. If I trip, I'm dead .

Dark Sister lashed out, but the white walker glided around the blade. Too fast . Jon remembered that moment on the glacier, uselesslyslashing and hacking out. Compensate. Anticipate.

I will not die. Not again.

Clash. Clash. Clash. They danced over the snow, the sound of metal chiming like a bell. Faster than any human, more dangerous than any fight he had ever known. Jon's muscles were screaming, just trying to keep up.

"Will not die," Jon gasped, his words a growl. "I will not die!"

The Other made a crackling sound. " Mortal," it mocked. "Brief."

The white blade arced. Jon heard the hiss of the air, raising Dark Sister to block it. The metal chimed, vibrating so hard that it jarred his wrist. It hurt, but he couldn't slacken his grip.

Keep fighting, Jon ordered himself. Stay alive, keep Malvern distracted . There were warbands behind him, Jon could only hope that they'd push through the wights. All he needed to do was keep Malvern in place, give someone a chance to fire a dragonglass arrow…

No matter what happened, Jon had to keep fighting.

Never stop fighting. Never stop swinging the sword .

"I will not die!" Jon screamed, kicking forward. "You will not… !"

The Other took the blow and didn't even twitch. It was like kicking a statue. Jon ducked under a slash, slid in the snow, tried to swipe forward and lunge, but the Other swept backwards. It darted forward in the blink of an eye, and Dark Sister parried. Incredibly agile; just like fighting one of the children of the forest, but with a strength wholly beyond them.

Malvern didn't make a noise - it was as cold and as uncaring as death. Jon was roaring, screaming, panting and fighting with everything he had. He was alive, howling like fire against the ice.

"You." Clash . "Will not!" Clash . "Kill me again!" Clash .

Their blades locked. Valyrian steel screeched against ice, and his pounding breath was frosting in the air. Jon roared, pushing forward against Malvern's blade, yet the white walker didn't budge. Jon had two hands on the hilt, but Malvern was holding him back with only one.

"You," the Other said suddenly, cocking its head. "Your purpose is over."

What? The words were so strange, caught him off-guard. There was no time to think on them, the white blade arced again…

Jon stumbled backwards, but the Other didn't lunge forward. It held backwards, rotating its sword in lazy circles. Playing with him.

Just like it had done before, Jon realised. When they fought on top of the glacier, the Others had teased him there as well. It had focused on me. "What do you want with me? Why? "

"Needed to bleed," Malvern said. "You were the one that needed to bleed."

His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. The Other was pacing, and Jon kept his sword ready. "You tried to kill me."

"We did not… did not wish to 'kill' you. We looked for you. Searched for a time," Malvern said slowly, cocking its head. It took a careful, lurched step forward. "We needed your blood. Needed to awaken it."

Awaken it? What is it…? Jon's head was spinning, but those words… At the Frostfangs, did the Others target me specifically? Malvern's voice was rough and inhuman, but it was trying to say something.

"Supposed to bleed out," Malvern said stiffly, "not supposed to come back. We needed the blood, they said. King's blood."

King's blood? My blood? Jon blinked, trying to understand. "Awaken it," he repeated. "Were you trying to wake the dragon?"

Malvern made a sound like a tut. "Not supposed to come back."

Jon heard movement. Behind him. He heard the crunch of snow, the patter of uneven footsteps. Wights, charging at him from the trees behind.

He twirled, swinging Dark Sister in a wide arc as a rusty axe slung at his head. Three wights, each dressed as Manderly men-at-arms. The Valyrian steel blocked the axe, but as soon as Jon turned, Malvern lunged.

The air whooshed. Jon dropped backwards to avoid the blade, and then the wights… The wights were on him. He saw the blue eyes gleaming as the blades hacked downwards…

And a grey shape pounced over him, knocking the dead man straight to the snow in a flurry of claws and teeth. Summer . Summer was there, the wolf tearing through the wights. There was no time to think, no time to react, the icy blade was swinging again. Jon heard it hissing through the air, he moved on instinct.

He barely reacted in time. Dark Sister sung, chiming against ice.

Malvern made another tutting noise.

The direwolf was growling. There were wights charging from the trees, but Summer was behind him, protecting Jon's rear. Malvern lunged again, but Jon lashed out and the white walker twisted backwards.

It tried to distract me, Jon realised. Malvern had stopped to talk while its wights took position behind him. It knew that Jon's blade was fatal to it, it was trying to be cautious. Even despite its speed, it gave Dark Sister a wide berth.

Perhaps Jon imagined it, but for a heartbeat there was something akin to annoyance passing over the white walker's icy features.

Clash. Their blades rang again, dancing together across the snow. Will not die, Jon thought. Just stay alive, just stay in the fight. Stay alive and wait for one opportunity.

He felt Summer swoosh by him. The direwolf twisted, lunging at Malvern's back with fangs snapping. Malvern twisted with shock, and Jon darted forward. Dark Sister glinted through the air, swinging so close… so close!… even if his blade was just an inch longer…

For a moment, the white walker was pressed backwards onto the losing foot.

Then pain. The blue eye was screaming, and suddenly a solid impact landed into Jon's chest. Its fist. Malvern's fist collided with his chest, a blow so powerful it swept him up off his feet. Its hand was so cold Jon couldn't even breathe.

Jon crashed backwards into a pile of snow, thudding against a tree, but Dark Sister was still held upwards. He heard Summer yowling in pain, and then the white walker was lunging, blade sweeping down. Jon was on his back, but he still swung Dark Sister to parry.

The air snapped. An arrow whooshed over his head, and suddenly Malvern blurred. The Other moved faster than Jon could blink.

The next instant, there was an arrow in its grip. A black-tipped arrow. The white walker moved so fast that it caught the obsidian arrow out of the air.

Voices were howling. Men screaming war cries. The raiders and giants were pushing through, and through the corner of his eye Jon saw Rattleshirt notching a second arrow into his bow.

Another arrow snapped. Malvern's sword lashed outwards, deflecting the arrow on its blade. That was all the chance Jon needed to recover. It is nervous, Jon realised. The Other was inhumanly strong and powerful, but not even it could survive men armed with dragonglass from all sides. It was backing off suddenly, trying to retreat.

"Surround it!" Jon screamed. "Surround it!"

Malvern glared, but the wights were already rushing. Dead men lunged to defend their master. Jon was on his feet, panting for breath, but swinging Dark Sister as swiftly as he ever had.

Their blades chimed once more, but this time Malvern was losing ground.

Force it into a corner. Surround it. Kill it. Kill it.

With barely a thought, Jon reached out and grabbed a hold of his mammoth's skin. The great mammoth was bleeding from a dozen bear scratches across its head, but it was berserk with rage. Come to me, Jon ordered. Now!

Men were running forward, trees toppling…

He heard the blare of the mammoth trumpeting, stampeding through wights.

Malvern cast a bright blue eye at Jon, darting backwards with inhuman agility. Wildlings were shooting arrows, but then a dozen wights stepped in to act as human shields. Blocking dragonglass arrows with their bodies. The wights were going mad - flinging themselves forward just to hold the raiders back. Sacrificing themselves to cover the Other's escape.

The mammoth charged through, great billows of snow gushing around immense feet.

The white walker had been betting on their ranks falling apart. It did not expect the living men to force through.

"Do not let it escape!" Jon screamed. "Do not let it-"

It was too late. Jon saw the Other raise its hands upwards, and suddenly the wind itself responded. A great gust of wind whooshed through the woods, sending a flurry of snow hissing against Jon's eyes. A cold mist was rising, a white cloud pluming from the ground. It's controlling the weather, Jon realised.

The world was screaming as the cold mist rose. Everything was blanketed white. Malvern had cut his losses and ran.

The wights didn't stop. Bodies were shuffling blindly through the trees, but Jon couldn't see a thing. He was panting for breath; the exhaustion nearly took him to his knees. He could feel frozen blood sticking to his furs on his hip; he must have torn his wound open

again. Jon couldn't even feel the pain - his heart was pounding too fast.

A hand lunged at his shoulder, and Jon very nearly sliced the man's head open on instinct. It was only as he saw the dull glint of the giant's skull that he froze.

"Need to run, need to fall back!" Rattleshirt was screaming. "Fall back!"

Jon bit his lip, glancing to where Malvern had disappeared. The white walker left no tracks.

Summer was growling, the direwolf's mouth was left blistered from where he had bitten Malvern. The Other's flesh was cold that it had torn the fur off the direwolf's snout. Everywhere he looked, the living were tiring, mammoths were going mad, but the dead never stopped…

A tide of dead bodies was rushing through the trees, the wind roaring all around him…

We will not win in the long fight, Jon thought with a grimace. Dusk was falling and they were already exhausted. Through the thick clouds, the sky was hazy pink like grey splattered with blood. They needed to fall back, needed to rest, but the dead were relentless. They could not survive like this, they could not pursue any longer; they needed to fall back and recuperate.

But the white walker would only grow more powerful. Every hour that Malvern roamed was an hour that the whole world was at risk. Jon cast one final look through the trees, before turning and running.

Sonagon, Jon willed, I need you Sonagon .

Ramsay

Quickly now! Move, move!' the white walker called happily, as the dead shambled through the fields. 'Our brothers are waiting.'

It is eager, Ramsay thought faintly. The Other seemed excited, even. Thoughts and visions flickered across Ramsay's blue gaze, and his body could do naught but obey. Unspoken orders surged through him, and Ramsay's limbs moved automatically. The white walker was in his skin, but Ramsay could see something of its senses too. The Other felt alien; its thoughts were inhuman, its vision coloured in shades of white and blue.

Above him, veins of ephemeral blue light flowed through the sky. The song of winter buzzed in the air and the clouds churn; like invisible hands were wringing the sky until snow and hail spurted downwards.

The white walker's attention was focused on the Wall, on the sworn brothers. ' Every man wearing a black cloak must die,' the Other ordered. ' And quickly. We must be the first. We must break the barrier before my brothers do. '

Visions flickered through him. The Others have a wager going to see which one could break the Wall first, Ramsay realised. They werecompeting to see which one could clear the way first. Malvern was giddy like a little child; he wanted to see his brothers again, he wanted to win their little bet. This is all a game to him.

It was already past dusk; the skies were black. He could see the flicker of torches in the distance, he could even make out the gleam of steel in the night. Ramsay's body lurched forward into the battle, his cleaver in his grip.

This is the start of a new age. Our age come again!' Malvern cheered. 'And I shall be the first.'

All around him, men were fighting and screaming. Howling and dying. Ramsay watched dispassionately as men fought and died. Ramsay's own arms were swinging, his cleaver hacking down and down like a butcher's blade, but he could not feel a thing.

He saw men with painted faces and bronze disk armour trying to hold the way, but the wights pushed through them. The dead didn't stop, even as scores of their number were torched into cinders by burning arrows. The wildlings were tough, but the wights attacked from all sides and showed no mercy.

An arrow thudded straight into Ramsay's shoulder, but he didn't even feel it. The blood in his veins was frozen.

Ramsay used to howl when he fought. He used to feel the flush of rage and bloodlust. Now he just felt nothing but the ghostly tingle of phantom limbs.

He saw a man screaming something in a tongue he did not know, swinging two short swords furiously. A wight fell against the wildling, but then Ramsay lunged with his cleaver. Right into the back of the man's neck. Normally he would have loved such a death, but Ramsay felt nothing. Warm blood splattered, hissing against his frozen face.

Thenns, he remembered faintly. These wildlings were Thenns - Ramsay recognised them from his time with the Bastard King's army. The wildlings had been camped on the kingsroad south of the hills when the wights ambushed them from all sides.

Do not let any warning reach the black castle,' the white walker commanded. 'Target the riders first, bring down any birds. Quickly now; our brothers are waiting for us.'

All around him, Ramsay saw black birds with blue eyes mustering in the fields. Malvern had been planning this assault for a long time, and now all of those dead creatures were converging against Castle Black.

I must stop this! Ramsay screamed. This is my body, mine, it can't use me like this, it can't!

If he had control, Ramsay would have torn his own blue eyes out of his skull in pure, seething rage. His soul was fighting and thrashing every single moment, but his body didn't react in the slightest.

From atop the hills, Ramsay saw the shadow of the Wall looming like a mountain. The wights had been marching for nearly two days straight without even stopping, and they were already over halfway to Castle Black. Even a man on horseback would struggle to make such a time, but the dead were relentless.

The Wall looked different. He had never seen it like this before, had never seen anything like it. The world was smothered by the pitch black of night, yet Ramsay could still the sky shimmering blue and the Wall was glowing red and green. The Wall itself was alight, illuminated in scintillating colours.

Above him, veins of magic threaded and weaved through the sky, but to the north they were cauterised by the Wall. The colours mixed together - green like rot and red like blood. It was as if someone had brought a jagged cleaver to the earth and hacked the land apart.

A barrier that reshaped the earth itself. Ramsay stared with amazement, struggling to understand.

Around him, the Thenns were scattered and falling backwards. The army of wights was dispersed out over leagues, but each one was perfectly coordinated. Ramsay saw visions of wights tearing through small villages, staggering through woods, or flapping through the air. I can glimpse everything that the Other sees .

To their rear, Ramsay saw images of mammoths and giants tearing through the snow. The bulk of their forces were ordered north, but the white walker itself lingered to their rear to harry their pursuers. The Bastard King, Ramsay realised. Snow is trying to stop it. Stop us.

Ramsay didn't know what to do. The thought of being useless was even worse than dying.

The Other was… Ramsay sensed emotions that he could hardly even decipher. Frustration, perhaps, or something like irritation. The image of Jon Snow, fighting desperately amidst the snow drifts, flickered through Ramsay's gaze.

Ramsay saw wight after wight being cut down by the Bastard King's blade.

That one is troublesome,' the Other grumbled. ' His task is done, but he has the gall to linger . We should not have preserved him on the ice .'

For a moment, it felt like the white walker was in trouble. It was trying to kill Snow, but it couldn't. Ramsay didn't even think it was possible for a human to hold a white walker off in single combat.

Malvern had to retreat, but he bloodied the Bastard King's force enough for them to fall back as well.

' This is the tree-fiend's doing, no doubt, ' Malvern thought irritably. ' The cursed greenseer was likely the one to bring him back. Another inconvenience to our side. '

Ramsay didn't know what that meant, but he caught snippets of thought. The tree-fiend; a watcher inside a tree who had resisted them for a hundred years. The last of a legacy - the Others thought of him with scorn.

How could anyone resist such power?

To the south, a cold flurry churned over the northern edge of Long Lake. Ramsay saw the veins in the sky contract, the weather itself distorting to the white walker's will. But its presence, Ramsay realised, it feels different .

The burning sense of the Other in Ramsay's head felt softer - the blue light felt strained. It is exhausted, its strength is running low .

The Other wanted to kill Jon Snow, but the use of its powers left it weaker. It was even moving slower; its legs heavier and its movements more sluggish.

The white walker was monstrously strong, but even it had a limit. Ramsay could feel the exertion in its aura; the strain of manipulating the weather and so many bodies was mounting on it. It wouldn't be able to keep it up for long. No wonder it was pushing so hard for a swift victory. But what if it grows weaker still? Ramsay thought, will I be able to retake control?

No,' Malvern's voice chided in his skull. ' You won't. Your flesh is mine, thrall .'

Ramsay couldn't even think about ways to escape without the Other being aware of them. The white walker felt all of Ramsay's desperate thoughts of resistance, and it seemed vaguely amused by them. It was a special type of hell, darker than any he had ever imagined. To be trapped, useless, a puppet… he couldn't even scream.

Behind him, Ramsay sensed the Other limping up the hills, its blue eye staring across the moonless night sky. Its gaze was focused on the Wall, staring out over the veins of the world. The air was singing, and the Other seemed to brace itself.

' BROTHERS! ' it boomed, so intense that Ramsay nearly flinched. ' BROTHERS! I AM READY! '

The words were unspoken, but they were so loud they pulsed through the world. For a long time there was naught but silence, but then Ramsay felt a twinge of a reply. It was faint, barely a whisper, but Ramsay could feel the echo coming from beyond the Wall.

You took your time,' the wind whispered, the faintest susurrus on the storm. ' We grow impatient, brother .'

Begin your attack now,' Malvern returned. 'I am ready. '

All around Ramsay, flocks of blue-eyed birds started to gather, flapping and circling on the wind. It was the dead of night, but Ramsay knew that dawn was coming soon. They were already nearing the Gift, approaching Castle Black. Up above, the barrier of red and green glimmered in the sky.

How long will it take?' Malvern asked, shouting beyond the Wall.

Not long. But we will not suffer another failure. ' The voice was scolding. ' You have your plan, and we have ours. '

Malvern only laughed. ' I shall do my part. For the king. '

The Other pffted as it stepped down from the hill and strode towards Castle Black. The fields were littered with bodies. This is coordinated, Ramsay thought numbly. The white walkers were readyand waiting, assaulting the Wall from the north and south together.

The bastards. They don't get to do this, they can't… Can't let them, I must…

My brothers mean to break through themselves,' the white walker said. In his mind's eye, Ramsay imagined a young boy jumping up and down with anticipation. ' But I shall clear the way first, and prove my worth to the king. That is to be your task, thralls .'

I'm not your thrall, Ramsay wanted to scream. I'm not . And yet his lips were sealed and his legs didn't stop walking.

The closer he came, the brighter the colours of the Wall shone in the night.

Had his jaw still been his, just the sight of the Wall would have made Ramsay gape. He had seen the Wall before, but never like this. He could see the light, shining like a barrier in the sky.

The Other's army pressed forward through the ice and snow, while Malvern itself lingered at the rear.

We cannot cross ourselves. Foolish magicks - they are old but still formidable,' the white walker said distastefully. ' But the enchantments themselves are fixed onto the foundations; once those break, the barrier collapses .'

Across from him, the wights collided against the first of the perimeter parties. The dead men flushed through the guards, hacking them down before a single horn could be blown. Ramsay felt one man try to run, but the Other chased him down using the body of a dead boar.

We end the sworn brothers,' Malvern ordered, ' and then tear it down brick by brick. '

Bodies were trekking through the snow. Ramsay could see the lights of Castle Black, but they approached under the cover of dark. The wight birds were in the air, flapping through the trees ready to tear down any ravens that passed.

The bastards. They don't get to do this, they can't… Can't let them, I must…

Still, the Other's attention slowly turned back to Ramsay. The thrall was just one more wight in an army of them, but on the inside Ramsay was screaming. ' Aren't you a curious one? ' Malvern mused. ' You are still trying to resist. '

YOU BASTARDS! YOU BASTARDS! YOU DON'T CONTROL ME, YOU DON'T… !

Malvern made a noise like laughter. ' It will be over quickly. I have waited my whole… what is your word?… ah, I waited my whole 'life' to see the Wall fall. '

The Wall loomed above them, so huge the height of it was obscured by the clouds. On the other side of the ice and magic, Ramsay felt the faint echoes of white walkers ordering their troops into formation.

Behind him, Ramsay sensed the Bastard King's army trying to regroup, but it wouldn't work. They were too far away, they wouldn't reach the Wall in time. The living needed to rest, but the dead did not.

If not for that one mortal, our victory might have been so much smoother. He is the tree-fiend's weapon, a thorn against us,' the white walker mused. Icy hands roamed through Ramsay's memories curiously. ' Perhaps that is something I share with you, thrall - you had a chance to kill that one too .'

The Bastard King. The thought of the man helped focus Ramsay's hatred. He remembered the moment on the ice, with his blade at the Bastard King's throat. Fight, Ramsay willed. Fight!

It didn't work. Malvern's grip was too tight, still looking through Ramsay's memories. It paused with visions of the dragon, trapped on the ice. ' Yes,' Malvern agreed. ' That was my mistake too. I was tasked with slaying the dragon, you see, and yet I allowed that 'Snow' to steal it from me. My brothers were quite unhappy .'

Then, we decided that one of us needed to be on the other side; one of us had to cross first to clear the way. That became my punishment - my penance for allowing the dragon to escape. I had to be the first to walk through the barrier. It was… ' The white walker's hands lingered on the burns across the side of its face, the black scorch marks that cut across its eye. The barrier had set Malvern on fire. '… it was an unpleasant experience .'

Up above, the green and red light swirled in the air. Malvern stared thoughtfully. 'I do not quite understand your concept of emotions,' the Other said finally. ' But I think… yes, I think I will 'enjoy' watching the wall crumble.'

It will not work, Ramsay thought furiously. It can't. The Wall is too big, too immense . The Bastard King had reinforced the Night's Watch, and the relief force from Winterfell was on its way. They

might be able to break the castle, but they could never dint the Wall.

Even for an army of the dead, it would take an age to tear it down.

Malvern tutted. ' Not so. '

Images flashed before Ramsay's eyes. The white walker was showing him memories. He saw a battle - a slaughter - of thousands of men in jagged mountain peaks. He saw a snowy field, and a bleeding figure clutching his chest. He saw a buried giant's tomb beneath the ice, with ancient coffins torn open.

He saw a great white horn, a horn carved of ancient pale wood.

And he saw an immense beast, buried underground. The Others had dug it up from the mountains. They had needed blood to awaken it.

Ramsay stared in shock. The reply felt smug. ' For we have the weapon that the builder himself used. '

More visions flashed. They were creatures that had been extinct for millennia, but that was hardly a limitation to the white walkers. Their corpses had been buried in the north, and that was all the Others needed to raise them once more. Immense, frozen bodies sealed in the ice - monsters lost to history.

Night was falling. The first of their numbers were beginning their attack. Black shapes were flapping in the air, but Ramsay's eyes were drawn to the other side of the Wall.

They were the ones to build the Wall in the first place. ' Malvern was gazing to the north, staring out over Castle Black. ' It is only fitting that they be the ones to destroy it. '

The roar rumbled from north of the Wall like thunder, a sound so immense that the earth itself quaked.

Sam

Darkness was crashing down across the Wall.

Sam felt the panic surging and the air screaming all across the Wall. It felt like the sky itself was pounding, racing like his heartbeat. The world blurred with the flurry of snows, all the while the sound of horns blared. There were more than three horns - it felt like hundreds of blasts, echoing and reverberating with the wind.

Sam was left quivering in a ball on the floor, clutching his bleeding scalp. All around him, blue-eyed bodies were still squawking, still trying to flap and claw.

He heard the sound of battle, but it was everywhere. The Others were pressing against the gates from the north, and to the south they saw the shadow of an army on the kingsroad, obscured by the faint setting sun.

To the north, it was already pitch blackness. The shadow of the Wall was so dark that they couldn't even see the bottom of it. There were no torches in the army of the dead, nothing but vague shadows in the black.

The Wall could resist any force from the north, Sam thought, but there are no walls on the southern side . Two-Toed Dirk and Bedwyck were both leading men, already rushing down the steps.

His heart was racing as he huddled in the trenches. How long do we have? How long before they break the garrison? He thought of Dalla,her babe, all of the refugees… all of the men and women that couldn't fight…

"Swords! Swords and spears, get to the castle!"

"Defenders!" Garth Greyfeather shouted. "Defenders to the south!"

"Stone-throwers!" Aki the Wroth screamed. "Men on me! Lift the stone-throwers up, we need them on the other side of the Wall!"

Men were rushing to hoist the wooden beams of the hefty mangonels. The northern edge of the Wall was littered with siege

weapons hunched like wooden birds, each perched at the precipice and angled downwards. They were trying to lift them to the southern side; it took a dozen men just to lift a single catapult, and more to carry it through the narrow trenches. Sam was scattered on his knees, staring in horror. "… No… !" Sam squealed. "Don't bother, it's not worth it!"

It would take too long to move all their siege weapons across, too many were frozen in place in the ice, and they wouldn't be useful enough. Heavy rocks didn't have the range, and they'd become useless after the wights broke into Castle Black. Moving the mangonels was a waste of precious time.

The men didn't hear him. They were still trying to lift the heavy weapons. "Don't!" Sam tried to shout, his voice quivering. "Ignore the stone-throwers, we need to build barricades ! We need archers and we need spears!"

They weren't listening to him. Why aren't they listening to me? Mance could have boomed orders and every man would just obey. Men were still fumbling with the siege weapons, but they didn't have the time. Forget the bloody catapults! Sam tried to scream. Get down there with axes and swords!

Sam's breaths were strained, hyperventilating. He couldn't focus, he couldn't…

There was no command on the Wall. The men weren't responding properly, there was too much clamour. A chorus of panicked voices shouting over each other.

"They're at the gates! They're at the gates!"

"Drop the scythe! Bury all the bastards!"

"Spiders! Spiders! "

"Evacuate the castle!" Marv the Red Hand bellowed. "Everyone on me. Light the flare and signal the evacuation! Get those people out of there!"

Evacuate . The thought of Dalla, Gilly, the babes, the children… No! Don't evacuate, don't… "Don't evacuate!" Sam squealed, as he shuffled to his feet. "Don't light the flare, don't-"

He made it half a dozen steps before he felt something sharp peck at his ankle. He felt pain, a sharp beak lunging into his heel. Sam scattered straight to the snow.

It was a hawk - a nasty rotten blue-eyed beast with a crushed wing. It couldn't fly, but it could still waddle and lunge. It was on him, squawking and slashing, trying to claw through Sam's boots. He tried to kick, tried to squirm…

Half-crazed, Sam kicked it into a snowdrift and then scampered away.

Don't evacuate the castle, Sam thought, through the craze of panic. There was nowhere to evacuate them to except up the Wall, and the Wall wasn't safe. To flood the steps with panicked men and women trying to flee would be disastrous; they'd be easy targets and access from the top to bottom of the Wall would be hopelessly jammed. The lift couldn't carry that many, and the stairs up the ice were treacherous by night.

And every death was another soldier for the Others. The refugees were wights waiting to be raised.

Don't evacuate . But what else could be done if Castle Black was lost? The ice cells, Sam realised. The best solution would be to barricade the refugees in the ice cells, to even lock them in the prisons. That way even if they did die and come back as wights, they'd be trapped.

Sam tried to scream orders, but his voice wasn't strong enough. He was nothing but one more panicked voice in a chorus in them. "Don't light the flare! Wait-!"

He wasn't loud enough. Men lit the flare and blew the horn, signalling for the castle below to evacuate. No, Sam thought in dismay. No… !

Disorganisation was the true bane in any disaster. Bad commands were worse than the enemy. The men below would see the flare and assume that somebody had a plan. They would try to evacuate, it would be a slaughter, and it was all Sam's fault…

Sam's head was spinning struggling to think. Noise all around him, he couldn't concentrate. What would Mance do? What would Jon -

Boom . The crash of a heavy object caused him to shudder. Sam could have screamed as the object soared overhead.

"Catapults!" a man screamed. "They've got catapults-"

Crash. A heavy object crashed through the snow. It was all so dark, so chaotic, Sam couldn't even…

There were no lights to the north of the Wall. The dead were the only army that didn't need light. The Others were hidden by the shadows and the snows, but in the gloom Sam made out large shadows pushing out of the tree line. Massive trebuchets, being carried and loaded by giant wights. There was another boom, and something solid collided against the Wall.

More and more trebuchets were launching from across the dead man's land.

At first, Sam thought they were firing boulders, but then he saw arms and legs soaring through the sky. He heard men screaming, swords clashing against flailing bodies. Wights . The Others were launching dead bodies seven hundred feet in the air. Some of them missed, others soared too high and were sent shooting through the air to the

south. Most of them shot too low and crashed against the Wall, but the white walkers had no shortage of bodies to fire.

The barrier stopped wights from walking through, Sam realised, but it didn't stop physics. Flying objects still worked, and even when the bodies collided, crushed to pieces, the wights would still flail. It wasn't the perfect attack, but it was a means to fire more soldiers south. A means to spread panic.

The white walkers had prepared this assault; those trebuchets had been built in advance. They knew the difficulties, they had devised solutions.

But how to stop it, how to fight back…?

Sam saw a blue-eyed corpse with its spine shattered and its limbs broken to pieces, but it was still trying to claw, trying to attack. The air was thick with the echoes of screams, the twanging of arrows and the thuds of siege weapons.

All around him, the panic was spreading. Too many men were abandoning their posts, running for cover, or rushing down to the castle. The ambush left them in disarray, trying and failing to react to threats on multiple sides.

Sam knew what had to be done. He knew what they must do. But the men weren't responding to him, he was left squealing orders uselessly in the dark. "On me!" Sam cried. "On… on me! Defenders gather on me!"

It didn't work. His voice wasn't powerful enough to split the chaos.

"Mance!" a man screamed suddenly. Bearded Ben - an aging sworn brother clutching a pike in both hands. "Mance! He's alive!"

Sam stared in shock, but the cry was spreading. At once, Sam was running, bleeding feet pounding through the trenches of ice. "Mance!"

Bodies were already gathering. Dornish Dilly risked the climb downwards, trying to hook a rope around Mance's waist. The Lord of Castle Black was left spilled precariously over the wooden beams of the lower rampart, blood oozing from his skull. Sam had thought the fall killed him, but he was stirring.

There were too many men huddled around the Wall's edge, Sam couldn't push his way to the front. "Get back, all of you get back… !"

He heard the grunts. They were dragging Mance up from the wreckage. "Mance… ! Mance!"

"He's alive… is he alive…?"

"Wake up! Mance wake up!"

To the south, Sam saw the battle unfolding in the gloom, watching helplessly from seven hundred feet in the air. He saw the flurry of torches fighting against the snow. Malvern's army was clashing with men over the horizon, a battle on the kingsroad. Sigorn's host? Sam thought, heart in his mouth. It could be the force of Thenns from the Shadow Tower, or perhaps the northern clans had mustered men against the wights. Could the Thenns hold them back? Could reinforcements -

Crash. Another flying corpse thudded down, crashing so close it shattered through one of the wooden structures. The wight was left splintered on a broken wooden beam, pinned above them, its shattered body uselessly squirming.

Sam could see Mance sprawled out over the ice, with men trying to rouse him. He was alive, he was writhing incoherently, but he wasn't awake. Blood was oozing from his skull, his eyes wide and mouth flapping open.

Sam prayed that Mance might recover, but the man was not fit to command. He might not ever recover. The Wall was without command, and the dead were pressing closer.

They were caught in an attack from both sides, and the dead had a supreme advantage in the dark and the snow.

But where is Sonagon? Sam thought frantically, like a drowning man clutching at the last straw of hope. It was a long way to Winterfell, but a dragon could cross it in a matter of hours. Surely the message would have reached Jon by now, surely the dragon should be coming any moment now…?

We need to last until dawn, Sam thought. We only need to last until dawn .

Bodies! " a voice cried suddenly, splitting through the air. Ulmer was running, a bow in his hands and his quiver already empty. " Bodies climbing the Wall! "

"Drop the scythe, drop the-"

Another three wights crashed atop the Wall, while a score more tumbled through the southern air behind him. Two broke where they landed in the ice, spines snapping and still thrashing, but the third crashed through a snowdrift, and within moments it was up and raging amongst the men. More soared too low, and swatted like flies against the Wall itself.

Another wight bounced off a watchtower and scattered into the trenches in a hail of broken limbs. Sam saw its severed, rotten arm dragging itself by its fingers, still groping blindly as it tried to find a sworn brother to maul.

The boom of the trebuchets pounded through the world again and again, beating like endless war drums in the background.

It felt like the world was shaking. The ground was shaking, Sam could feel the vibrations in the ice.

" Mance! " Bearded Ben screamed. "Wake up!"

A concussion. Perhaps worse. Mance wouldn't wake up, and Sam couldn't wait for him. What would Jon do? he thought with crazed panic. What would Jon do, what needs to be done…?

Sam was already running. Too many men were running backwards and forwards, north and south, like a flock of headless chickens…

"Climbers!" a man from a watchtower screamed, his horn echoing. "There's hundreds of them, they're climbing-"

The voice was cut off as a heavy object ripped through the watchtower. Sam only heard the screams. He felt the quaking; the Wall itself was trembling and Sam didn't know why.

Climbers. That was impossible, Sam nearly protested. The wights couldn't climb the Wall, there was a barrier . Yet more and more menwere shouting alarms from up and down the length of the garrison. The sky was so dark, the battle had been raging for hours; Sam had no idea how many might have climbed.

He needed a weapon. They needed bowmen. Sam stopped to grab the bow and quiver from a fallen man; Marthe of the Antlers had died in a bloody mess after a dead hawk half-tore out his skull.

Beyond the Wall, darkness loomed. Men were throwing torches down off the precipice, but the light wasn't strong enough. All Sam could see was black, writhing shapes. In the black abyss, Sam saw the shapes of ice spiders as large as mammoths, and glistening arms of huge trebuchets.

The Other's army was assaulting in full force; they had archers and artillery barraging the Wall from the ground below. Covering fir e, Sam realised. They were launching wights to keep the sworn brothers off-guard. They were providing cover for the bodies climbing their way upwards.

The ground trembled, like an earthquake rising… Men screaming all around him.

An icy arrow as large as a spear snapped upwards, so fast and powerful it tore straight through a scorpion and sent wood shattering. Sam had to duck as it sent splinters flying overhead. The Others had prepared the type of scorpions and stonethrowers that might threaten a dragon, he realised.

It was all coordinated. First the Others acted as a distraction for Malvern's army coming from the south, and then they took advantage of the assault on the castle to attack in earnest from the north. They were attacking with everything they had.

And the climbers… Sam could see hundreds of rustling figures, moving upwards. Grapnels were firing upwards, ropes of icy chains. Men were rushing to cut them down, but the climbers were making progress.

It doesn't make sense, Sam could have screamed. The wights couldn't cross of their own volition. They could be dragged or carried or thrown, but they couldn't cross any more than regular corpses could. How are these dead climbing?

Trembling hands fumbled with his bow, shaking too badly to notch an arrow. The first of the black bodies broke over the precipice, spears stabbing upwards. Dozens of them were falling, but the black brothers couldn't stop them all.

Sam recognised it from the way they moved, he heard the scream of war cries. He understood how they managed to climb.

They aren't wights, Sam thought with shock. Living men, fighting on behalf of the Others.

They were wildlings. They were screaming. He saw men clinging desperately to the fortifications, trying to lever their way up, thrashing and stabbing out madly with spears. Garth Greyfeather put an arrow straight through the eye of one wildling, but then there was another climbing over his corpse.

Living men. Had the wildings aligned with the white walkers? Breathing, bleeding men who could have built siege weapons, ropes and weapons…

All around him, the fighting was spreading. They were climbing across a huge length of the Wall, the outer edges slipping past the fringes of where the sworn brothers were concentrated. Attacking us from all sides…

Crash . Another flying wight splattered in a hail of rotten flesh and bones. The earth was shaking…

A sudden boom echoed from the ground, a howl like the earth itself was roaring. A great gust of snow geysered upwards, pluming up from the edge. A dozen torches hissed out at once, white darkness dropped, and Sam felt the ice shivering…

The wind picked up, battering the defenders with a flurry of hail as hard as stones. An errant brother took a blow to the head and tumbled screaming over the side, while the others covered their heads with arms and shields and cloaks.

And then the climbers crested the edge.

He saw spears lunging at bowmen. They couldn't stop all the grapnels in time. The battle had reached atop the Wall.

All around them, the storm raged and the earth quaked.

Sam saw a figure in an ice-covered cloak, slipping a spear straight through a black brother's chest with a savage scream. The bow was in his hands, shaking in Sam's grip.

"Stop!" Sam screamed, his muscles staining as he pulled back the bowstring. The wildling was panting for breath, doubled over in wheezed breaths.

The battle atop the Wall was all around him. Bodies crashing from the sky, wind howling…

The wildling pulled the spear closer to their chest, staggering upwards. Sam was about to fire, but then he caught sight of face under the hood. He saw the curve of the jaw, the cheekbones… it was a woman. Sam faltered at the sight. " Stop !" Sam howled, the arrow shaking.

A woman, clutching a bloody spear. Sam didn't understand, too much panic, couldn't think. Why are living men and women working with the Others, why help the dead…?

She howled at him, screaming bloody murders that were lost in the wind. Her eyes were crazed, Sam's bow twitched. "STOP!" Sam screamed. "I don't want to-!"

Twang. He fumbled his grip and the bowstring snapped. The wildling fell backwards with the shaft through her torso, red hair spilling out of her hood. Someone screamed.

Sam could have collapsed in shock. These were living men and women. "Fall back!" a man was yelling. Kedge Whiteye, howling at the top of his lungs. "Fall back to the trenches!"

A hand grabbed Sam's shoulder trying to yank him backwards. Wind and hail tore across the cliff's edge of the Wall. All around him, the wildlings were storming forward with crazed ferocity and the sworn brothers falling back.

A man's voice roared in fury, charging with a spear and an ice-pick. Strong hands were dragging Sam backwards, and all he could do was stare. All around him, people were fighting and dying…

Sam didn't know what was happening. All he knew was that this battle was being lost, and he couldn't… he couldn't…

Living men. I can't fight, Sam thought numbly. I'm sorry Jon, but I'm not a fighter. I can't fight .

The dead always win in the long run. Perhaps the Others were laughing right now. Sam turned and looked at the men spilling out, screaming bloodthirsty howls as they charged. Sworn brothers were holding the trenches, meeting them with shield against spear, swords against axes.

Sam knew what he had to do.

The bow dropped out of his hands and into the snow. He shoved himself from the grip of the men trying to pull him back. He ran forward. Sam opened his arms wide, his eyes fearful, and he stared straight at the man with the bloodthirsty spear.

All that panic… it was like it all just overflowed He had gone from fear, to panic, to a sort of animal horror, and now Sam just felt numb.

He was defenceless, exposed. The wildling was screaming, his spear flashing. Sam didn't twitch, he didn't fight, he just fell to his knees in the snow.

His eyes were wide, waiting for the spear tip through his skull…

And the wildling's spear stopped, moments away from plunging through his gut. Sam caught the flicker of hesitation, the surprise, the doubt.

These were living men. A living man was different from wights; even the most blood-crazed wildling probably wouldn't immediately slaughter a defenceless, fat man on his knees. Sam's only defence was his helplessness.

"Move out the way," the wildling growled, and Sam could have collapsed face first with relief.

Sam gulped. "No."

"Move or I'll gut you, you fucking crow!" the wildling screamed.

No ." His head was spinning. He was closer now; he could see the wildings' eyes. They all had the same desperate, crazed look to them, the same pale faces. All scared and angry. "Why are you doing this? Why are you fighting for the Others?"

The wilding's spear went to his throat, the tip pushing so hard it hurt. There was blood trickling down his neck. "You fucking dare-"

"Lower your weapons!" Sam squealed suddenly. The wildlings looked off-guard, but Sam was shouting at the sworn brothers behind him. "I am Lord Steward of the Night's Watch, and I order you! All sworn brothers lower your weapons! "

And just like that the air faltered. There was the murmur of uncertainty and doubt. That moment was good, anything to stop the panic - even just for a heartbeat. To give us a chance to think .

Why are we fighting? Sam couldn't understand it - why are living men working for the Others?

There was a breath's pause. Attackers and defenders standing against each other, all weapons raised and hungry for blood, with Sam on his knees in the middle.

It was the look in their eyes, Sam realised. All the wildlings climbing the Wall shared the same look. They were scared men fighting for their lives. " Why are you doing this? " Sam screamed, looking between the gaunt and bloody figures. "What did the Others offer you? What did they promise?"

The wildling's jaw twitched, but his spear didn't waver. There was a brief moment, a gulp of doubt, a flicker of his eyes. "They said that they'd let us go. Let us go south," the man admitted finally, "if we captured the Wall for them."

Sam could have sagged. They were prisoners! The Others sent prisoners to attack as the first wave . Sam shook his head. "We're not your enemy," Sam pleaded. "Help me stop the fighting, you must. Help me recover this."

The wildling at the front looked hesitant. Men behind him were pulling back bowstrings, but Sam held his arms out wide as if he could block the arrows. The air was screaming, the trembling didn't cease, but the two groups were left standing off against each other on the frozen Wall.

"What are you doing?" a wildling demanded, a bald-headed man with a missing eye. "We've got to do this-"

"Don't you bloody-" the first man snapped, but Sam saw the conflict in his eyes.

"We have to kill them!" another howled.

"They've got our families, Ryk!" the bald wildling snapped. "My family! It's us or them." The wildling glared around the sworn brother with pure, desperate hatred. "And they're crows!"

The man made to lunge at Sam, and the sworn brother squealed like a pig. "We're not!" Sam shouted, scampering backwards and looking around the faces. "We're not crows!" Sam was panting, head whirling… "Marv! Marv the Red Hand! What clan are you from?"

Behind him, the gazes flickered behind. Marv the Red Hand, a tattooed figure wearing the black cloak, blinked in shock. "Nightrunner," the man grunted. "I'm a Nightrunner."

"And Wulf!" Sam shouted. "What of you?"

One-Eyed Wulf hesitated, but he answered. "East coast. Antler man."

"Look around you!" Sam screamed at the wildlings. "You face free folk! You face Thenns and Hornfoots, cave dwellers and river clans! Free folk who stand against the Others! Free folk wearing black, but they are free!"

Gazes flickered uncertainly. These men had been prisoners of the Others, maybe for months, Sam realised through desperate breaths. Had they been captured after the first battle of the Frostfangs? Theyall looked tortured and starved. They didn't know of the pact between free folk and sworn brother, they never knew of the peace that Jon had built.

The white walkers held their families captive, forcing these men to assault the Wall.

Sam saw the wildlings falter. The man at the front - Ryk - they were looking to him. He was a tall and strong figure, Sam focused on him too. "You have families down there, families the white walkers are holding over you," Sam pleaded. "But there are families on the other side too. There are women, children and babes. You have a choice, Ryk."

Please, Sam begged. This is what the Others, they're using you as shock troopers . "Now lower your bloody weapons!" he wailed. "We're not your enemy - the only enemy here is the cold!"

Ryk looked torn. Other wildlings were screaming, voices rising. Men were calling for blood. "They ambushed us. They're fucking crows!"

"We're going to die if we don't… !"

"They're crows, Ryk, we have to-!"

"Ryk," a voice called, splitting through the clamour. "Longspear Ryk."

Sam turned, and voices went hush. Behind him, he saw two men walking forward, with a limp figure draped between them. Mance. He

was awake; his eyes unfocused, his head sagging, but he was awake. "Longspear Ryk," Mance repeated, with wheezy breaths.

The wildling jammed. His spear finally lowered. " Mance ?!"

Longspear Ryk gasped, eyes widening in utter shock. "You're alive ?

We thought the crows…"

The murmurs spread. The sight of Mance Rayder, former King Beyond the Wall, supported by black brothers…

Mance didn't reply, only nodded. His head was sagging, like it took everything he had just to stay conscious. Mance was trying to stand, but his head was dazed. Sam took a great sigh of relief.

Help us! " Sam shouted to the wildlings. Mutters were rising, but the fighting was stopping. The tide of the battle was withering away. Sam's voice grew louder, more confident. "Help us defend the Wall, help us push them back. We're all dead if the Wall falls."

Sam didn't understand why all of their gazes were still so dark. Sam was begging with everything he had, but he didn't understand why they were so hesitant,

Ryk shook his head grimly. His spear clattered to the ice. "We're already dead." The wildling pulled down his furs, and Sam saw white veins snaking up the man's neck. "They didn't… they never trusted us. They didn't let us go free without making sure…"

Sam blinked, peering closer at the skin. There was a wound in Ryk's shoulder, two frozen bite marks in his skin. An ugly wound coated in frost. Oh .

He recognised those marks; Sam remembered when he saw them last. Poison - ice spider venom.

"They said that they'd give us the antidote if we took the Wall for them," Ryk explained with a gulp. "The Others promised us the

antidote, promised to let our families go - so long as we captured the Wall for them."

Sam looked around the wildlings, and each of the wildlings had the same skin all similarly marked with white. Men with slow-acting venom seeping through in their veins. Slow enough that they could climb the Wall, but then die after they crossed. Oh, those bastards, he cursed. The cunning evil bastards . The white walkers had sent poisoned prisoners over the Wall as shock troopers.

"They lied." Sam gulped and shook his head sadly. "There is no antidote. They just wanted you to cross the Wall and then die so you can be raised as wights."

Sam took a step forward. These were tortured and captured, crazed and poisoned men. Sam saw mad eyes, and tears frozen across their cheeks. The bald wildling flustered, trying to object. "They said-"

"They're lying!" Sam took a deep breath, mustering all the courage he had. "But you're not dead yet. You can fight!" Nobody met his gaze. "How do you want to die? Do you want to fall as slaves of the Others? Or do you want to go down as free folk until the very end?"

Nobody replied. He saw men breaking down into tears. "You are free folk! " Sam pressed, turning between them. "Fight like it! Die like it!"He gulped. "All men must die, but we must fight too."

He felt the change in the air. He felt their gazes on him, he felt the bloodlust start to die out. The relief could have dropped Sam to his knees again. "Lower your weapons," Ryk said finally. "Lower your weapons!"

" Our families - ! " the bald wildling wailed.

"Lower your bloody weapons!" Ryk screamed. "Grab as many as you can, stop the fighting."

"Help them!" Sam ordered to the sworn brothers. "Quickly now, help as many as you can up onto the Wall! Now! Before the white walkers realise we're not fighting anymore. We're not playing their game, we're working together."

Men were running. They were moving across the Wall, and the skirmishes were withering. Sam's hands were still trembling, his heart was still racing, but he knew what had to be done. The men were staring at him for orders, rather than shouting over him. The white walkers had set the battlefield, but it wasn't over. Not yet. I must turn this battle around .

The ground shuddered. The booming of the trebuchets never ceased, and Sam could feel the quaking growing louder.

Longspear Ryk turned and ran towards the woman with the arrow in her shoulder, kneeling over her. The red-haired woman. She was alive, Sam realised. Gasping and straining to breath, with ice spider venom in her veins, but she was alive. Ryk seemed distraught as he looked down at her.

"How long do you have?" Sam asked finally. "The poison… how long?"

Ryk shook his head, anger and grief roiling over his face. "I don't know. Hours, maybe? I don't know. I can feel it - my hands are growing numb, everything's so cold." He took a deep breath. "The Others… they kept thousands of prisoners - fuck, they were working us, farming us…" His hands clenched into ball, looking down at the woman beneath him. "There's no antidote? You sure?"

"None." That might have been a lie; for all Sam knew, the Others truly did have a cure, but he couldn't risk spreading that thought around. He needed to focus, keep them focused. "How many are there?" Sam pressed. "The white walkers - how many do they have?"

"Too many." Ryk was wheezing, still weeping as he wrapped the bleeding girl in his arms. "There's no fighting them, we can't…" Sam stepped closer. "I saw them. They dug up the Frostfangs, they found… it was the horn…"

"What?" Sam breathed.

"The Horn of Joramun. They have the Horn of Winter, they found it," Ryk muttered. For a gaunt and grim man, he looked so scared. "There's no fighting them, you can't…"

The earth quaked, the rumbles growing louder. It had been trembling for hours. Sam stared out over the black precipice, and he heard the cracking from below, the ground churning. Like giants thrashing in the earth, writhing in the black.

Men were gathering around him, looking at Sam. It was the darkest hour of the night, and there were legions of dead pressing against the Wall. He could feel the earth vibrating - were the Others digging beneath the Wall? Or was this truly the Horn of Joramun?

The Others were holding nothing back - they intended to crush the Wall from both sides.

"The castle is overwhelmed!" a man yelled. "They're pushing through-!"

Another crash of the trebuchets, bodies shattering against the ice. "We must take the fight to them!" Aki the Wroth shouted. "Break through their armies, scatter them!"

"Don't be a damn fool!" Ulmer snapped. "There's too many, we don't stand a chance!"

"You can't beat them!" a wildling wailed, tears in his eyes. "You can't, you just can't…"

"We must run! Retreat!"

Sam's head was spinning, lost in the panicked shouts, the screams.

The world was falling into madness, and he didn't know what to do.

A sworn brother - Bearded Ben - grabbed Sam's shoulder tightly. "We have to evacuate," he hissed. "We're ducks frozen in the ice up here. We've got to get off the Wall, retreat and rally our forces. We can launch a counterattack in the light of the morn."

Sam hesitated, counting the frenzied beats of his heart before replying. "We can't," he muttered numbly. "The barrier is powered by us - by our vows, by our loyalty. That is the only thing stopping them from crossing. If we abandon our post then that's as good as dropping our black cloaks. The barrier will fall and the wights will just climb across."

Eyes stared at him in shock. "We'll be bloody dead if we stay here and then they'll climb across!" a man screamed. "They're already through the castle, we can't hold them back!"

He's right, Sam thought. We can't . There were too many wights, the walkers were too strong. They didn't stand a chance against such forces.

What would Jon do? Sam wondered. Jon would rally their forces, he would bellow orders to their men. Jon would bring the fight against the Others, he would lead the push on the front lines and he would seize a victory from the jaws of defeat. Jon would be able to turn the battle around.

But Jon wasn't here, and Mance's brains had been scattered in the fall. It was all on Sam, they were all staring at Sam. I'm sorry, Jon, Sam thought. But I can't be like you .

We can't retreat, we can't fight - what other choice was there? There was only one last thing that could be done…

"We need to surrender," Sam gulped. "We must surrender."

Chapter 47

Chapter 47

?

Seventeen months ago…

The wind howled over the white world, and the silence crept slowly through the jagged mountain peaks. The children of the moon stepped through the cold and ice, overcast by stormclouds fat with snow.

The cold winds were blowing, and the sounds of battle echoed with the snowstorm.

' Forty-seven! ' the white walker laughed. ' I have forty-seven! '

And I'm on sixty-three - no, sixty-four,' another Other said smugly. Behind it, there was a thud of an arrow through flesh. ' And now sixty-five. '

No fair! ' it whined. ' You took all the best thralls… ! '

It's the archers you need, ' the Other returned. ' Look at how they fall - the poisoned arrows work wonders against mortals. '

How many do you have, brother? ' It turned to the brother striding besides it, casually slashing its sword through the frenzied crowds.

It snorted. ' As if I could count. '

It walked with nine of its brothers, all of them clad in frost and ice. They walked together as the winds roared and the blizzard seared through the frosty fangs of the mountains, directed by their will. The white walkers were figures of bright white and ephemeral beauty, wearing rippling armour with eerily sharp blades swinging in their

hands. They strode over the battlefield like ghosts, bringing cold and silence with every step they took.

The white walkers had no identities, not really. They had no names, no sense of self - such things were alien to them.

It had heard of the naming practices of mortals, but it had never really understood such. What was the point in designating everything like that? Why bother naming something that was so, so brief?

They had been granted so many names that they all blurred together with the ages of the world. They had been called the white walkers, the children of the moon, the lost sons, the new gods, the soldiers of the woods, the Sh'Gargar, the pale plague, the guardians of the sleeping heart and the frost demons. Names were useless - there were only those who were brief, and those who were Other.

The mortals were like flickering candles, while they were eternal.

The battle was well underway as they came. Their creatures cut through the camp with ease, flanked by thralls of all shapes and sizes. There were undead wolves, hogs, bears, shadowcats, each of them decaying animals with bright blue eyes. Then, there were dark shadows looming over the rocks - the resurrected rotten giants lumbering into the battle.

The army of the wildlings - the greatest, largest gathering these mortals had ever known - was being torn to pieces from all sides. They watched the battle through a thousand eyes, and the white walkers giggled and pointed.

The white walkers glided over the frozen rocks, as the mortals screamed and shrieked. All around them, men were fighting and fleeing for their tiny little lives - but the clamour of noises might as well have been the chirping of insects.

' They run! ' a brother laughed. ' Look at how they run! '

Why do they have to be so noisy about everything? ' a brother whined. ' It's irritating .'

I bet you I can shoot down three at once with one arrow, ' a white walker challenged, as one of its thralls raised a large bow of crystal ice. ' Three mortals, one arrow .'

I'll take that bet. They're not standing in a straight line, you can't. '

The bowstring creaked, tensed by inhuman strength. The arrow was pure crystal ice. ' Just watch…'

Twang. The arrow snapped. It pierced straight through the skull of one man, and into the neck of the one in front. The Others laughed. ' Oh! So close but so far away. '

' Hold on, best two out of three… '

Quit your foolery,' another Other chided. ' We have our task .'

Eighty-seven,' its brother counted, as the bodies fell faster and faster. ' Eighty-eight, eighty-nine… '

The mortals were running down the frozen river valley, the water oozing across the ice like milk, but the white walkers already had their trap in place. They attacked from over the mountains; firing arrows from the cliffs, and assaulting the camp with wights and ice spiders, but they had already larger bodies marching up the river valley to cut off all escape.

Across the writhing ocean of fighting shapes, there was a sharp roar. The boom of a large creature writhing in the flurry of snow. ' The giant! ' the white walker called eagerly. ' The giant is mine! '

It still only counts as one, you know .'

Nuh uh, something that big should be at least ten. '

The white-furred giant howled in fury, but the thralls didn't stop. The Other only needed to will it, and a tide of dead bodies surged against the beast.

A mortal tried to charge at the Others themselves from behind, swinging his axe in raw desperation. The Others hardly even bothered to react; one of their brothers just waved their hands and an ice spider intercepted the would-be attacker. The man dropped, but the white walker caught him before he hit the ground.

The Other held the man tightly in icy hands, cocking its head as the mortal screamed. ' Look at this one! ' the Other laughed. ' It has such a queer face - what are all those marks on its skin? '

' Tattoos, I think they are called. The mortals paint themselves. '

Beneath it, the man's flesh begun to blister from the cold of the Other's grip. ' Really? ' It frowned. ' Why? '

There's quite a lot of them like that here. Painted faces - perhaps different families? ' its brother noted. ' I like to collect the thralls that look interesting. '

The white walker considered the words and then squeezed, dropping the pile of motleyed flesh into the snow. A brief thrust of thought, and another thrall was raised.

I prefer the animals myself. The men are so clumsy - the beasts and birds are better. '

Just watch for any with the Sight,' its brother warned. ' They use the bodies of beasts too. They are not worth the hassle .'

The Sight,' one repeated. ' If they have the Sight, then could we convert them instead? '

Perhaps. But only if they are young enough - only the fledglings, the children. The king does not like converting the adults, that causes

too many problems. '

Yes, that had been the mistake of the old regime. The old king had converted hundreds, thousands, of mortals into ice, but sometimes that had brought queer ideas into their fold. They had created white walkers with leftover memories of being brief littered in their heads. There had been Others that had even… mingled. That had been their downfall - the last king had been prone to foolish mortal thoughts that had led the old reign to ruin.

See to your task, but just be mindful, 'responded a distant brother.' Capture the fledglings, perhaps, but if you find any adults with the Sight, end them and do not raise them after. '

It was more recently that they had started to only convert the fledglings. The children were converted, and they matured free from the taint of mortality. Blank slates, as the king called it. The king had begun to harvest from specific bloodlines, cultivating certain families, to form a better breed of Other. Fewer white walkers as well, but each one more powerful. The old reign had toppled, and their current king had taken the crown.

We are the master race. It was the fate of mortals to be thralls.

The white walkers stood and made idle chatter, as the battle of the mountains raged around them.

The white-furred giant finally fell, leaving a trail of crushed bodies behind it. The Other felt the spark of life extinguish in the giant' body. The white walker reached out to seize its skin, but one of his brothers pushed ahead of him. The power of another walker surged through the corpse - stealing the thrall before it had a chance. ' That body was mine! ' the Other wailed.

Too slow,' its brother laughed, as the giant rose again with bright blue eyes. The dead giant surged with blue energy; the magic of the Others filled the vessel, moving its limbs as its own. ' I am on two hundred now .'

This is not fair. You are stealing all the good bodies, leaving me with only the useless thralls. '

The tide of the battle was falling backwards, a stampede of bodies retreating down the Milkwater. ' Should we start taking captives? ' a brother asked. ' It would be nice to have some to breed. '

Not quite yet. We need more thralls first. We'll capture whatever is left alive at the end of the night, for now just end them. '

They kept on playing their counting game. After a long debate, they settled onto the rules; common mortals were only a single point, but the giants were worth five points and mammoths were worth ten.

Any mortal that possessed the Sight was worth fifty. It was very doubtful there'd be one present, but if by happenstance they did see a child of the forest - then that would be worth two hundred points.

Even as they talked and laughed, their scores quickly started to reach thousands.

' What of our target? ' it asked. ' What is that one worth? '

A million. If you find it, that wins the game .'

But where is it? ' the Other asked, looking around its brothers. ' Have we found any with the blood? '

All of these new thralls were useful, but they were truly on the hunt for their prize. It was here, somewhere, they knew it was - one of these mortals was important. Their king had given them their task, and they were all eager to see it done.

A thousand blue eyes scoured through the ramble of mortals. They were watching through every thrall. Frustratingly, they only had its likeness to search for; a young one, with dark hair and grey eyes.

I found it,' a white walker said suddenly. ' One of my spiders has found it. '

' Are you sure? We've been mistaken before. '

I'm sure. The spider bit its leg, I can taste it. It has the right blood .'

Its brother shared a vision; of a dark-haired man in a sheepskin cloak trying to climb up a rocky cliff face, clutching onto the arm of a red-haired mortal. The spider had pressed its fangs into the man's leg, and they could feel the power of its blood on their tongues. All of their thralls shifted direction at once.

Finally. ' Despite itself, there was a twinge of anticipation in its chest. The white walkers all set off, stepping gracefully across the frosted rocks. They had their target in their sights, and this time it could not get away.

It had been a long journey to get here. The king had ordered that they find the blood required, but it hadn't been easy. They had gone south to search down specific members of an exclusive bloodline. They had not found enough traces of the blood in their own territories, and then they had no choice but to turn towards the watchers on the wall itself.

One of their mortal servants had helped point them towards their target. Firstly, the Others had set a trap, and they caught three helpless crows - three rangers scouting north. None of those had been suitable, but the white walkers had allowed one of them to escape. They let one run free, so it might run for help, so that the Others could then trap the search party that came next. They had needed to whittle the watchers down, and draw out their target.

The group that came next had been more promising. They had killed all but one; a single one that could have been suitable. And yet that mortal had irritatingly fled, eluding them and disappearing into the forest. The white walkers had searched, but had not been able to find it again. They suspected the tree-fiend's involvement.

Thankfully, after a bit of poking, a much larger force had come north next - four hundred mortals wearing black, camping on the ruins of

the Last Stand. The Others had readied to assault the party of sworn brothers in search of their target, but then they realised otherwise.

They realised that the mortal they were after wasn't with the sworn brothers anymore - that one had joined the larger gathering of the natives. The white walkers had changed targets, focusing their attention on the great host of mortals camped in the mountains instead. The Others refused to let the blood slip away one more time.

And now finally, they had their target in their sights. ' It is running,' the Other reported.

' Will it escape? '

No. It has venom in its blood, it grows weaker. ' There was a pause.

But we should take no chances. '

The brothers agreed. The ten white walkers split up - with four of them continuing to harry the fleeing wildlings, another three circling around to cut off the target's escape, and the last three following it directly.

They gave chase, but they didn't rush. Why bother? They would move slow and steady, they would surround it from all sides, and this time the mortal would not escape.

The king commands, we obey.

It is heading up the valley wall .'

Then herd it in the right direction. Push it north. We need it up onto the glacier. '

With a thought, their thralls took position. Undead corpses turned to block off all escape, all the while the two mortals were still trying to run and slip away. They forced the mortals to turn around; forced

them to try to head back north and circle around. The Others were already one step ahead.

Through the snowstorm, the Others saw them. They felt their warmth, the heat of their bodies. The two figures were running and panting, stumbling with every step, and the three Others followed from a distance. The white walkers glided across the snow.

The female was useless, but they were drawn to the male. It - he - was limping, growing weaker and weaker with the ice venom in his blood.

It drew its sword eagerly. ' Shall we? '

Not yet .' Its brother shook its head. ' Wait for it to collapse first, it doesn't have long .'

They watched from a distance, following with slow, careful steps. The mortals had nowhere else to run, as the ice fell away into a cliff of sharp blades. They heard the female scream something, there was a brief scuffle. And then the two mortals embraced, their lips mushing together. The white walker cocked its head, watching curiously.

Then the male pushed the female off the cliff.

What curious creatures these mortals are,' the Other mused. The white walkers looked at each other, and stepped forward.

The mortal had his sword in his hand, staggering to meet them with weak steps. The Others considered him like one would a queer insect beneath their foot.

It had dark hair that looked white with snow, grey desperate eyes, and gaunt cheekbones. Its lips were twisted, its jaw clenched, and its blade shaking in its hand. Young, scarcely more than a fledgling.

How queer. It wants to fight us.'

Is it the right one? ' the white walker asked, casually dodging a frenzied stroke.

I think so,' it replied, blade in its hand. The mortal was screaming something - uneven, crude human words. ' How can we be sure?'

Cut it open and see, I suppose,' the Other said, as it idly swung its sword. The blow wasn't even meant to hit, but the mortal nearly stumbled backwards. They waited for it to stand up again patiently, surrounding it. ' We need its blood, yes? '

That is what we were told. Only certain blood can awaken the weapon .'

It's not just the blood,' another white walker called, pushing its thoughts across the mountain. ' It's the… the ceremony of it. Part of an old mortal ritual, the sacrifice that must be paid. Death and life. '

It inspected the man curiously. The venom was thick in its blood, draining its strength, but the man was still trying to fight. Its lunges were desperate and raw, but the white walkers glided smoothly around the frenzied attacks. ' Are we ready? '

' Yes. We are in position. Do it. '

The steel blade lashed out, yet the white walker dodged easily. ' Aww… look! He's trying to fight! '

' Stop fooling around. Let's just get this over with. '

But it's funny! ' the Other protested, staring at the mortal with fascination. 'Look at its face - is this 'anger'? 'Fear'? Are these the emotions that the king speaks about? '

Enough of this. ' The Other stepped forward, raising its sword. ' Just end it alrea- '

The blade of ice swung downwards. It chimed.

The whole air froze. The mortal's iron should have shattered, they expected the steel sword to break. But instead it was the blade of ice that rebounded. The white walker blinked in surprise.

And then the mortal's blade lashed outwards. Straight through its brother's chest.

The white walker shattered, breaking into a thousand shards of ice. Suddenly, its brother's aura vanished, and across the mountainside a thousand corpses dropped still.

' Cursed steel! ' the white walker cried. ' It wields cursed steel. '

There was no grief for their fallen brother, only mild irritation. ' Look at what you've done now,' its remaining brother chided, pointingdown to the broken remains. ' We told you to stop fooling .'

How was I supposed to know the sword was cursed? ' the Other grumbled, suddenly taking the mortal much more seriously. ' We have not seen cursed steel in eons .'

Just deal with it. '

The white walker obliged. With a flurry of speed, its blade plunged straight through the mortal's chest, skewering straight through. Warm blood hissed, steam rising across the snow.

The mortal whispered some words, his eyes bulged, and then he fell backwards to the snow. There were tears in his eyes, salty water down his cheeks.

Red blood soaked into the snow, gushing from the wound.

The white walkers had no concept of 'death'; they neither feared nor mourned it. Death was only an annoyance to them - much like the concept of life itself. And yet the king will be irritated that one of us has fallen.

It is bleeding on the ice. Start the ritual .'

The white walker raised its blade, to cut off the mortal's head. ' Do not, ' one of its brothers said suddenly. ' Keep it warm, we may yet need it to bleed more. '

That caused it to grimace, but it complied. The white walker knelt down, gently moving its hand across the mortal's chest. With a light brush of its fingers, the wound was instantly cauterised by frost, the skin turning pale. Its aura shimmered, fire against ice.

What delicate things these mortals are.'

The white walker exerted a touch of power, just to preserve the mortal on the edge over the abyss. It could not die, not yet.

' Just like that? Is that what is needed? '

Take the cursed blade too. That has blood on it .'

It picked up the bloody sword gingerly, staring down at it in distaste. Even just being close to such a metal caused its icy skin to tingle - it could feel the aura of fire, blood and screaming clinging to the metal. The steel still carried the memories of burning torture. An evil weapon.

The white walkers jumped down off the edge of the glacier, easily gliding to the snow. It saw the red-haired girl, squirming out of the snow, still trying to crawl away. The mortal was screaming, tears freezing on its cheeks.

What shall we do with the other one - the female? ' another white walker asked as they walked. ' It is still breathing .'

You said you wanted captives? She might have use. '

Bring whatever mortals you can capture,' the white walker ordered, reaching out to all its brothers. ' The weapon may not respond to our kind. Meet us in the tomb .'

They moved quickly. It wasn't far; they had ensured the mortal had been in running in the right direction. There were caves under the glacier, old tunnels buried and forgotten.

There was a tingle in the air, a ripple of power. They had already spilled enough blood to fill a lake, and the old powers were responding.

Magic was death - magic was sourced from the energy leftover when mortals died, from the spark of power as they burnt out. If you killed enough of them, you could achieve wonders. Just as our creators did.

Behind them, ranks of thralls were marching, as they dragged screaming and wailing mortals into the caves.

Is it working ?' the Other asked.

I think it is,' another said slowly, placing its hand on the ice. ' Can you feel it in the air? The blood pours, and the weapon responds. '

They could feel it. There was a shimmer of power, a rustle in the ice.

Old, old magicks - coming to life once more.

They saw the tunnels; their thralls were already in position. The white walker noticed the marks across the jagged ice flows, the ruins of old campfires and the littering of crude pickaxes. Once, these caves had been completely collapsed, but recently the natives had evacuated them.

The wildlings had been searching for the weapon too. Once, there had been a city built here - an ancient city of giants that was now left buried beneath ice and earth. The wildlings had tried to dig the ruins up, to search through the ancient tombs, but the Others had noticed too.

The mortals didn't share their memories. The wildlings had been working using only folklore and hearsay, but their king had been

there when it was buried.

The white walkers stepped through the great caves, into a cavern of ice and white stone. Wind echoed through the tunnels, screeching through winding passageways of ice. There was no light, no fire, but the white walkers needed none. They walked lower and lower, deeper through twisted frozen buildings collapsed under the ice. This had once been a tomb for ancient giants; but the foundations had sunk, the stone pillars collapsed and frozen.

They walked beneath a great stone archway, large enough for a mammoth. There were faded runes etched on the stone that were lost to time and frost.

They saw signs of the mortals' search. All of the crypts had already been broken open and ransacked, but the wildlings hadn't searched deep enough.

Great spiders scuttled across the tunnel walls, mandibles clicking as they searched through the ruins. With spindly legs and threads of frozen ice, the spiders pulled against a collapsed wall. The rubble cracked open in a cloud of dust, and the white walkers stepped through.

They could hear the humming, the vibrations through the ice. It was working - the weapon was awakening.

Be ready, ' the Other ordered. There were nine brothers - four of them armed with spears of ice, the rest readied and aimed huge greatbows. They used weapons of ice, forged the same way as their swords and armour. They had sung and twisted the ice into form.

They could feel it - the power in the air was old as the children themselves. The white walkers could see the magic in the air. Like all of the old magicks of its time, the weapon had been bound with blood. Blood was what controlled it, blood was what forged it. Blood was the lock and the key.

They stepped deeper into the ancient tomb, and they saw it. They saw the horn lying on its pedestal.

It was a great white horn carved of ancient, petrified wood that was as smooth as bone. It was twelve feet long and wider than a man, with old runes etched along the rim, barely noticeable. It was bounded in dull iron, but showed no wear.

Completely smooth, completely untouched by time. The weapon that reshaped the world.

The Horn of Winter. The horn first crafted by the Builder. The Icebinder.

So this is it,' the white walker whispered, running its cold fingers across the white wood. ' This was the weapon that turned the war against us .'

The mortals rallied behind their magic and attempted resistance, ' it said distastefully. ' But it was not the weapon that won. It was the old king's folly that ended the night. '

Mortals could never beat us,' its brother agreed. Their liege had told them so many times. ' But they made their deal and forced us into their pact. '

The old king had been plagued by human thoughts. Plagued by fear, compassion and weakness. The Others could have won, but then the old king chose not to fight. Instead, the white walkers had been duped. It was a foul thought, a mistake they made long ago. It left a bitter taste in the white walker's mouth - but it was a mistake that their new king sought to correct now.

The white walker held the cursed sword carefully, its edge still slick with the mortal's blood. The pommel was carved into a wolf. Gingerly, the Other stepped forward and extended the metal, letting blood drip down onto the horn. Red splattered against white.

The room shuddered. They felt the ice crack.

Only the blood of the Winter Kings could activate it.

We have it,' the Other whispered eagerly. ' It is responding . This is what awakens them. '

And the beast? '

Buried above us .' The Other stared upwards at the hundreds of years old mass of ice. ' I can feel it stirring too. Is it enough? '

Not quite. We must awaken it fully .'

Then bring the prisoners through. '

The room was shuddering, every thrall stood alert. They were abandoning the fight against the natives - the battle was useless to them now. Instead, their thralls were shifting direction, and gathering across the glacier. They felt the ice above straining. ' Should it not have awakened by now? '

' Tis a horn. It must be blown. '

Their prisoners were being marched through, screaming as the ceiling rumbled. Men and women in dirty rags, screaming and sobbing against the dead bodies that held them. The white walker pointed at one man, and the thrall dropped him before the horn.

The mortal was wearing a black cloak. ' That one first .' it decided. ' It's a sworn watcher - we found it creeping over the rocks. The horn may or not require the black oaths, I'm not sure. '

The mortal was mumbling. Praying, it noted. ' I do not speak their filthy language,' one of the Others said distastefully.

' I do,' it offered. ' I find their tongue… curious. '

There was a sound like a scoff, but the Other let it pass. Its brothers thought that curiosity concerning the mortals was queer, it knew. The white walker looked downwards and cocked its head. There was a long pause, struggling to push the cumbersome words out of its throat.

"Blow the horn," the Other said, the words a croak. "Blow it and go free."

The mortal was incoherent; frantic mumbled words it could not make sense of. Around it, its brothers were preparing weapons. ' Ready the spears! ' they ordered.

"Blow the horn," the white walker repeated, easily hoisting the man upwards with a single hand. The mortal screamed in pain from its grip. "Blow it."

The Other had to force the mortal's lips onto the mouthpiece. "Blow it. Go free."

It was weeping, but it complied. As soon as the sobbing man breathed into the great horn, a thunderous cry echoed from beneath the ground.

It was a wail like the echo of a thousand souls, so loud that the earth itself shivered.

The horn that wakes the sleepers. That was the line in the oath the watchers themselves took, but they had all but forgotten what it meant.

The hornblower died quickly, with his body frozen solid from the the inside out. The man was gasping and sputtering; white veins snaking across his skin, his lips frozen to pale blue. The price that Icebinder required. The white walker let the body drop. "As promised,' it said quietly. "You are free."

At once, the white walkers were running. The air was alive with power, the horn was shaking.

The Horn of Winter. The ice dragon horn.

Eons ago, the ancient ice dragons had been used to build the Wall. The great beasts had been bound by the horn, used as weapons in the Long Night. The Others had hunted and controlled the dragons once, and then with the Horn of Winter they had been commanded by the mortals.

The old king grew scared, tricked into believing the mortal's power was greater than it was. After the ceasefire, they built the wall to keep the two forces separate - the Others had allowed the barrier to be forged. The fool of the king had even surrendered the horn so that the wall could be raised.

And afterwards, the ice dragons could neither be allowed to live nor die. That was one of the terms of the peace. If they lived, the mortals would have used them, and if they died they would have belonged to the Others. Instead, the Horn of Winter was used to bind them - to put them into an endless sleep, to turn their skin to stone. The creatures had been bound and then buried, but they were not dead so they could not be raised as thralls.

The Horn of Winter remained as the last safeguard to protect the foolish pact.

The weapon had a history to it. At first, the horn had been built for the Winter Kings, and then it was entrusted to the care of the Night's Watch, but later the king Joramun stole it on behalf of the wildlings. It became the Horn of Joramun for a time; the weapon that kept the balance between north and south.

For a long time, the Others had believed the horn was in the possession of the last children of the forest, and the line of greenseers and tree-fiends that maintained the balance. They thought it hidden for a long time, beyond their reach.

But then, four hundred years ago, the horn had been unearthed once more - to bind yet another dragon. Afterwards they had buried the horn again, but then the wildlings and the white walkers tracked it down.

Finally, they had everything they needed; the horn, the blood, the sacrifice and the beast.

It was working. The dragon was stirring; the beast writhing against the prison of ice. It was pushing upwards. The Others could feel it, could feel the tide of magic erupting…

Boulders of ice were flying. They heard the roar - and then the blast of white icefire scorched through the earth.

This time, their king had promised, this time the dragons would be chained by the dead.

' Slay it! ' the white walkers shouted. ' Slay it and raise it anew! '

Let us play a new game!' the Other laughed. ' A thousand points to the one that seizes it! '

Thralls and spiders were pushing forward, ice crunching with a tremendous noise. The whole earth was bulging - the beast was trying to force its way free from the entire glacier of ice.

The white walkers stood ready with great spears, ready to finish the beast as soon as it emerged.

The image of the mortal flickered through its gaze - the mortal with king's blood was still preserved on the edge of death in a pool of red snow. Its hair had turned white from the white walker's power. ' We are done with its blood, ' the white walker ordered. ' Finish that one for good. '

At its command, thralls pushed over the snow, frozen blades ready. There was no rush; the mortal was still - not quite dead but not quite

alive. The dragon was the Other's priority.

The ice cracked, a surge of dragonfire exploded through the tunnels.

The beast was alive again, thrashing with almighty fury.

A hundred thralls were disintegrated in a second, and the beast was still breaking through. They saw its snout - great white teeth snapping, horns crashing through the ice. Frozen greatbows took aim.

' Finish it! ' the Other hissed. ' Finish- '

Around them, they felt the wind whirl, they felt the power on the air. There was another aura - a foul, perverse aura that felt like rot and mould. It was in the air, possessing the storm and wind.

The world hissed, the weather itself fighting back against the white walker's control.

' It is the death-stealer! ' they cursed. ' The greenseer, do not let it- '

It was too late. A fierce wind hissed across the ice, scattering their own forces. It was all around them, protecting the dragon. The tree-fiend was interfering, and the Others were hissing.

The age of the greenseers was over, but the last remaining one still had a few teeth left.

Their thralls were being cut down. The Other saw a vision of a black-cloaked figure pushing through the bodies, ravens cawing in the snow. It was going for the unconscious mortal, trying to carry him away. The cloaked figure wasn't mortal, it was another remnant. A leftover that had no place in the new world.

Bodies were stampeding. The white walker saw an elk possessed by the greenseer, storming through the thralls. It was trying to run; a dead man carrying the half-dead man. The ground was rumbling…

What is the tree-fiend doing? What is he trying to achie-

Crack. The ice snapped, and suddenly an immense body was storming upwards.

Arrows of ice loosed, and the beast roared, but it was still rising.

They felt the whoosh of wind, great limbs extending outwards.

For a moment, the Other was left stunned by the sight.

' It has wings! ' the Other laughed. ' Is it supposed to have wings? '

' Bring it low, bring it low! '

Fighting on the glacier. There were servants of the tree-fiend, pushing through their thralls. The greenseer was in the storm, trying to shield the dragon. Great arrows of ice fired like spears, so sharp they cleaved through scales, but it wasn't falling. It thrashed and screamed, but it didn't collapse.

The dragon pulled back its head, and suddenly the white walkers had to run for cover as white light scoured across the ice.

The remnant was still running onwards. The dragon roared, huge wings pounding and struggling to fly after four centuries of being buried.

Thralls were charging. The greenseer was all around them; wrestling against the Other's powers, trying to control the dragon. The beast could not be restrained.

The white walker was on its feet, a frozen spear in hand. It ran, and it threw the spear so fast it was blinding. The Other missed the skull, but the dragon howled as the spear pierced straight through its huge wing. There was no time for a second throw, as the dragonfire scoured the snow in a furious blaze. Blades of ice stabbed through the air.

The beast's snout dropped, growling and tensing. It was glaring down at the black-cloaked figure with pure fury. Across its horns,

crows were flapping.

"Save him!" the black-cloaked revenant was shouting, hoisting the man over his shoulder. "It was his blood, you have to save him!"

The dragon boomed. Its tail whipped so fiercely a hail of ice scattered across the cliffs. The air thundered.

The bleeding man. The white walker didn't have a thrall near enough to see exactly what happened, but it saw the dragon grab the mortal in its claws.

The Others were rushing, but the dragon was already flying away.

With great whooshes of wind, the beast rushed into the sky.

Blue eyes watched it fly.

It has wings! ' the white walker laughed. ' I did not know that the old beasts had wings .'

That one does. It is a relic of fire, a beast of a later generation,' another said, shaking its head. ' But it was too powerful. It was supposed to be weak after its slumber. '

I blame the death-stealer. That one has been a nuisance for far too long. '

The remnant was fleeing too, galloping away on a large stag. Their thralls tried to follow, but the greenseer was shielding its retreat. As quickly as it came, the power of the tree-fiend disappeared.

The Others gathered slowly, staring out over the devastated field of ice with their arms folded.

It must have been waiting, ready to interrupt us,' the Other said foully. ' What is the tree-fiend planning? '

There was a moment of quiet consideration. ' It stole the mortal, ' it said finally. ' Could it be trying to steal the horn back as well? It

wants to use the weapon itself. '

' Possibly. ' The white walker paused, and then made a decision. ' We cannot allow that to happen. '

' We cannot,' another agreed, and it drew its sword.

The Other flicked its wrist, pushing orders to the thralls. It took four thralls to carry the Horn of Winter out of the caves, even as the tunnels were collapsing behind them. The beast had left a great jagged crevice through the ice from where it had dragged its way up, sending avalanches tumbling across the mountainside.

Above them, the northern lights glimmered in the night's sky.

We are done with the horn, are we not? ' it asked, as it walked back towards the horn.

We are. The binding has already been undone. '

It raised the icy blade. ' Then it is too dangerous to risk the mortals using this again. '

With a smooth slash of its sword, the Horn of Winter was cleaved into two. The white wood crackled and sparked, but the Other did not stop hacking until it was broken into jagged splinters. It felt like the aura of the horn was screaming as it snapped, all of those ancient enchantments coming undone under the frenzied strikes.

With a dismissive kick, it swept the wreckage of the horn away. It paused to pick up a single shard of the weapon, a single broken rune, before turning away.

Take the pieces,' the Other ordered to its thralls, ' and bury them in the deepest hole. Let none ever find them again .'

The thralls obeyed. ' What of this cursed sword? ' it asked, motioning to the blade that the mortal had carried.

Bury that as well. Shatter it, if you can. Such magic has no place in the new age. ' The Other paused to stare between its brothers, and the devastation that littered the glacier. There were thousands of captives after the battle of the Frostfangs, and even more dead bodies. ' Our age .'

Tonight was a failure,' another said foully. ' We lost one of us, and our king will be upset that the beast got away .'

Yes, that was disturbing. Their king's fury was something to behold. Their liege was coming south from the Eternal City, and the brothers had been given their task in this war. They had been charged with clearing the way before the king arrived, yet problems were stacking up.

It is a minor setback, naught more,' the Other decided after a pause. ' You four, chase after the flying beast. Hunt it, bring it low, and raise it again .'

Very well, we will see it so .'

Do not allow the tree-fiend to interrupt again,' it said darkly, turning between them. ' No more mistakes, do you understand? '

They paused, but then nodded. ' And what of your task?'

We must dig. Dig deep .' The Others turned to stare out across the jagged mountains, the broken shard of the weapon still in its grip. ' Gather your thralls, we will need them all. That one was the closest to the surface - it was buried hundreds of years ago, but the others were buried millennia ago .'

The originals sleep too, and the binding is undone. The rest must be awakened as well, before they can die .'

Now…

Ramsay

He saw them. He saw their shapes in the visions that the white walkers shared. He could feel them in the rumble of the ground. They were huge, so large that the earth itself quaked with their roar.

In his mind's eye, Ramsay saw immense serpentine bodies coiling, he saw great beasts clawing through the earth. He saw huge creatures of rotten flesh and scales, as large as castles, with blue fire burning in their throats and ice clinging to their skin. He saw dragons.

If Ramsay had any breath, it would have frozen in his lungs.

These were the creatures that built the Wall, the Other had said. It had taken the breath of ice dragons to raise the Wall. Once, perhaps they could have been magnificent creatures, but now they were mutilated, half-rotten, undead gargantuans.

Wyrms. Ice wyrms.

Ramsay remembered all the tales that he had once been told. Ever since the news of the wildling dragon arrived, Ramsay had even researched dragons and the old lore. Ramsay knew of the tales of ice dragons haunting Cannibal's Bay, of the ancient sea serpents of the west, of the giant bones of Nagga that stood on Old Wyk.

He thought of the great fire wyrms of Valyria that had lived in the Fourteen Flames, from which the dragonlords had first learnt their magic.

He knew that such beasts had existed, but the world had thought them long extinct. No, Ramsay thought with quiet horror, they were extinct - the Others had found their corpses .

The Others had dug up their bodies and raised them again. They were giant wights - great beasts powered by the white walker's touch. Their bodies were missing chunks of flesh, with scales

hanging off and bare ribs showing through flesh. Ramsay saw blue fire burning inside their bodies, unnatural light blazing from underneath rotten scales.

There were cold flames running through their whole bodies, enough power to make the world tingle.

Boom. He felt the tremble as one of the wyrms breathed. It was the biggest one, as huge as the world serpent pushing against the Wall. They breathed blue fire - breath ice cold and as foul as rot. A blue-tinged dragonfire that cleaved through the ice and earth. Every time it breathed, the earth shuddered.

Five of them, Ramsay thought numbly. There were five of them - one for each white walker.

The wyrms had no wings, but they were large. Larger than Sonagon, perhaps, but it was hard to tell. There was no sense of scale, only flashing visions and feelings. They coiled and moved like snakes, with long and muscular bodies and huge powerful tails that rose into fins. They had tiny, stubby little legs, and gaping mouths filled with more teeth than Ramsay had ever known.

Their scales might have once been white, but now they seemed a grimy grey.

Their backs were covered in spines - crests of yellow and black running down to their tails. Some of them had half a dozen horns jutting backwards from their heads, and others were hornless. When they moved, it was with earth and frost grinding across their scales, slithering and squirming.

They are all different sizes , Ramsay realised. The smallest wyrm felt around forty feet long, but the largest seemed over four times its size. He could feel them churning backwards and forth, grinding against the Wall. Carving their way through with their breath.

How old must something be to reach that size? Before it died, it must have been hundreds of years old.

The wyrms were burrowing, pushing under the ground, using their powerful tails and their ice breath to force themselves forward. They couldn't even be seen from the surface; each swoosh of huge tails threw up immense billows of snow, and the tremors rumbled all up the Wall.

There were undead leviathans. They were on the other side of the barrier, but Ramsay could feel them through Malvern's thoughts.

Malvern seemed entranced. Ramsay could feel the Other's gaze fixated on the beasts, its mind swimming with images of them.

The Other watched them and laughed. ' It was before my time, ' the white walker said through giggles of laughter, ' but the king told us of the old days - back when the great beings used to roam. Back in the first days of our birth, in the Age of Giants. '

Beasts that once roamed thousands of years ago - during the time of the First Men. Maybe the ice wyrms had gone extinct during the Long Night.

Ramsay could only stare.

Suddenly, Ramsay understood the Others endgame. They were attacking the Wall from all sides; from the north and south, from above and below. The wights were needed to subjugate the Watch, but then they had larger creatures to break the Wall itself.

The Others intend for the wyrms to undercut the Wall's foundations, he thought, stunned. They are truly planning on collapsing it and walking through .

One of the wyrms shifted, and Ramsay felt the earth tremble. The Wall was rumbling, with shards of ice as large as boulders scattering

to the ground. The Wall was a two-hundred-foot-thick block, a mountain of ice but Ramsay could still feel it shaking.

Quickly, thralls,' Malvern ordered eagerly. ' My brothers are going to break through, but I want to beat them to it. I want to open the gate first. '

The white walkers weren't even bothering to attack the tunnel.

Instead, they intended to carve a new one straight through the ice.

All around him, legions of wights were storming against Castle Black. It was very early morn; the first glimmers of dawn rising through the clouds. Even as the sun rose, the swirling snows left everything grey. Rotten bodies coated in hoarfrost pushed through.

Sounds of battle surrounded him. The Night's Watch was still trying to cling on to the castle; there were crude barricades of tables, beds and doors blocking the road, with spears sticking out of the snowdrifts. Ramsay saw men still holding the line, dug into trenches in the snow.

But the men had been fighting for an entire night. The living were exhausted, but the dead didn't know the meaning of the word.

They're going to win, Ramsay realised. The Others had this in the bag. Perhaps they always had.

Ramsay could see the red and green barrier glowing over the Wall, and it was flickering. Weakening with every rumble of the ground and with every sworn brother that fell.

How long will it take for the wyrms to break through? How long do the defenders have?

With a jolt, Ramsay realised that he was rooting for the Night's Watch. He didn't care for the Bastard King's army, but if Malvern won… Ramsay would be a thrall for all eternity. Cannot let that happen, cannot let them control me .

Malvern pulled back its soldiers slightly, allowing more and more wights to gather for the second wave. A thousand undead bodies shuffled through the drifts, while the winds were so fierce that the snow was near horizontal. Hail and snow lashed against his skin, splattering against blue eyes. A flurry of arrows shot downwards from the towers, but they were scattered in the wind.

The wights had already broken through one barricade, but the sworn brothers had held them back with another. There were trenches in the snow filled with bodies where the defensive lines had collapsed, only to be rebuilt a few yards back. The sworn brothers were losing ground - wights were slipping through, and they were struggling to hold their line across the road from the Tower of Guards.

Castle Black was perhaps the only castle in the realm without outer walls. It was simply not defendable from the south.

Ramsay saw remnants of the Thenns among the defenders. The host on the kingsroad had scattered, but survivors had run for Castle Black. There were men that had been running and fighting for an entire day and night, still trying to cling on despite severe fatigue. Their eyes were dark and bloodshot against the wights' blue.

This was a losing fight from the very beginning . The Others waged war the only way they knew how; with overwhelming strength, the utmost methodology, and absolutely no remorse. Ramsay could even have been impressed by the brutality, if he had not been so furious.

I am not a puppet, Ramsay resisted. I am not . Still, it was growing harder and harder to gather those same feelings - his emotions were being quenched by the ice. The longer he spent under the Other's influence, the more Ramsay could feel himself withering away. Becoming a drone. The fire will die, the Other had said.

Behind him, he could see a haze of light creep over the world. Dawn was rising, and in the morning light Ramsay could see more and

more chunks of ice raining down from the Wall. His legs kept on shuffling, completely removed from Ramsay's control.

There was a cleaver in his hands. The wight raised it high and charged against Castle Black.

Torches were flickering, voices shouting. The sworn brothers were swinging burning torches, and throwing flaming debris from the towers. Even in the cold, the wights burnt into ash with barely a spark. In front of Ramsay, wight after wight fell against the barricades, but they never faltered. They just kept on coming.

I still have intestines dangling from my stomach , Ramsay noticed faintly. The frozen coils of flesh dragged behind him through the snow.

A sharp scream filled the air, followed by a thud. In the tremors, a sworn brother lost his footing on the Tower of Guards, and then he fell from the height of it. He bounced off the ramparts and landed on the snow banks with a painful crack - his back broken, his spine twisted, but somehow he was still alive.

The man was screaming nonsensically as Ramsay reached him, and brought the blade down.

Another sworn brother - a wildling - threw an axe at Ramsay's face. The weapon sliced straight across the side of his skull and cleaved off Ramsay's cheek and ear, but the wight hardly even noticed.

Ramsay knew that half his face was hanging from his skull, but he couldn't feel it. The cheekbones of his skull were showing, but there was no blood except congealed mucus - his flesh was frozen solid, and his fluids were a rotten gloop.

Ramsay's hands lunged, and he threw his cleaver at the wildling. It jammed straight through the man's neck.

My muscles remember, Ramsay thought. Even as a wight, his body knew how to hurl a blade. Not all of the wights moved the same way

some of the dead bodies were more capable than others. Some of them knew how to fight, others could only flail. Even if Malvern pulled their strings, there was something of the former person left in each wight.

Ramsay pulled the cleaver out and charged forward. Arrows and stones were dropping around him, but there was no fear. The defence felt like it was floundering - maybe they were running out of arrows, or maybe just running out of will.

Ramsay reached the barricades just as they broke. Malvern ordered a dozen undead horses, oxen, goats and cattle to charge straight through, and they splattered through the defences in a flurry of flailing hooves.

The Other had raised more creatures than just men. Malvern had scoured the forests and settlements for as many bodies as possible, resurrecting everything from horses to pigs to goats. Any living being that the white walker could catch. Ramsay could have gaped as he saw a chicken - a rotten chicken with bright blue eyes - struggling to flap its way through the snow drifts as it tried to peck and attack. A chicken was a near useless thrall for such a thing, but perhaps that was Malvern's idea of a jape.

Next to Ramsay, wights were shambling in formation, blankly staring ahead. The wight next to him never had a weapon, so instead it was wielding a severed arm like a club. The arm was flailing too, fingers groping, even as it was being swung.

The solid line of wights pushed forward. Ramsay thought of ants - mindless drones following unspoken commands, soldiers serving the hive.

The sworn brothers fought like desperate men, but the wights were already pushing through.

The earth trembled with the wyrms writhing, and suddenly a great blanket of snow shook free from the Wall. Ramsay heard the

screams as a dozen sworn brothers upon the keep were smothered by it.

A horn blasted, men shouting. The barricades had fallen, and sworn brothers were falling backwards to the castle. They had no walls to hide behind, instead the defence was broken and they had to try to hold each tower and courtyard separately. Ramsay saw men sealing up in the lower tunnels, trying to keep the dead out.

Above him, there was a solid line of bodies - a stampede - of men and women trying to flee up the stairs of the Wall. Every now and then, as the earth trembled and the snow avalanched, a scattering of refugees fell straight off the steps. The steps upwards were so jammed that no one could move up or down.

Whoever is in command is doing a poor job of it, Ramsay thought. The sworn brothers had only survived this long out of pure desperation, but now it was falling apart.

Castle Black was in a frenzy, but the wights pressed onwards. Dead men were scaling the towers, climbing up the stones themselves. Lines of wights were charging against the towers, forming human ladders of grasping bodies to hoist themselves up. Even as they toppled, the wights didn't stop clawing.

"Retreat!" a man boomed. "Retreat to the keep!"

The dead were through to the courtyard, with Ramsay pushing on the front lines. The ones holding the battlements weren't sworn brothers anymore; Ramsay saw women and children, old men and infirm warriors struggling to notch arrows or hold spears. Refugees armed with weapons, fighting as a last resort.

They were through the strongest of the fighting men, and now the wights had pierced into the refugees trying to hold the final line.

They were dropping like flies.

The earth quaked again, so fiercely that every man staggered. Ramsay heard the creaking of stone - the Lance, the tallest tower in the castle, was creeping and starting to lean dangerously, threatening to topple in the tremors.

Ramsay's blade hacked into a free folk's head so hard that the skull cracked like an egg. If he had been alive, Ramsay might have loved this fight. Malvern had drained all the joy out of battle.

Ramsay was still trying to resist, but it was growing a more and more futile effort. Malvern was everywhere, controlling everything.

Like a god. The white walkers were near gods.

"We surrender! We surrender!" a voice called suddenly, high-pitched shrieking through the clamour. "Lower your weapons, we surrender! "

Ramsay saw him. There was a figure, swinging a grey sheet like a flag. It was the fat one, squealing like a pig at the top of his lungs. Ramsay recognised the figure from his time with the Bastard King's army - Samwell Tarly. The Lord Steward of Castle Black was standing on the upper level of the courtyard, shrieking at the top of his lungs.

"Surrender!" the fat boy screamed, tears running down his cheeks. "Drop your weapons and surrender!"

And just like that the very last slivers of defence broke apart. Sworn brothers were shouting, calling for orders, but Tarly just shouted the same word over and over again, louder than anything else. "We yield!" he squealed. " We yield! We yield! "

The dead poured through, hacking and slashing. They gave no quarter.

Castle Black was done. It felt like Malvern was giggling. If Ramsay had control of his throat, he would have screamed. The craven! The

fucking fat craven!

Ramsay's body was shambling up the steps, breaking through to the upper level of the courtyard. The gates to the tunnel were in sight. Four men wearing black cloaks tried to bar the stairs, but then they threw down their weapons and fled. "Yield!" the cry wailed. "Yield! Yield!"

It was not a battle anymore. It was a slaughter. A murder of crows.

The wight heard voices - the sound of men squabbling. Two men were arguing, shrieking at each other in hysteria. Ramsay saw the fat steward, standing next to a scrawny wildling with a white beard and a black cloak. Other sworn brothers were milling around, screaming objections or just breaking down into tears.

Suddenly, Ramsay felt Malvern's presence inside him. The white walker was instantly interested, looking out through the wight's blue eyes.

"I don't want to do this, I don't…" the skinny one cried, trying to squirm. He was trembling in his shadowskin cloak, and then his eyes widened in horror as he stared up at Ramsay. Wights marching up the steps. "Don't let them… !"

"We have to… we have to surrender!" the fat one wept. "We surrender, surrender !"

The scrawny man tried to run away, but then the fat man grabbed his cloak and yanked him backwards. Tarly had to tackle the other sworn brother to the snow. The fat boy was weeping incoherently, even as he stopped the other man from fleeing.

The fear… they stunk of it. Scared like pigs before the butcher. All around the courtyard, Ramsay saw other sworn brothers raise their hands, and collapse in the snow.

"We surrender," Tarly whimpered. "We surrender."

Ramsay recognised them. They were the 'leaders' of Castle Black. The scrawny man that Tarly was sitting on was a wildling - 'Varamyr Sixskins' - and then Ramsay knew the Dragonguard Grenn, Eddison Tollett, Ser Wynton Stout, Ser Endrew Tarth, Henrik the Hog, and Duncan Liddle, plus a dozen more Ramsay could not recall.

They all had their hands in the air. They were all cravens. Is this the best that the Night's Watch has to offer? Ramsay cursed. His fathercould have resisted better than this.

They were all begging, voices whimpering like pigs to be slaughtered. The wights were still staggering forward, raising their cleavers high. Ramsay's legs surged, charging to attack.

"Please!" Tarly squealed. "We surrender, we surren-" Ramsay's arm raised, ready to bring the cleaver down… ' Stop. '

Ramsay's body froze like a statue. The white walker locked the wights' limbs, and every body came to a sudden halt. Malvern was peering through Ramsay's eyes, staring down at the Lord Steward on his knees. There was a cruel, vengeful emotion swirling through Malvern's mind.

They paused. Lord Steward Tarly was three feet away, quivering as he stared up at Ramsay's still body.

"We surrender," Tarly pleaded through the sobs. "Just let the brothers live - we will help you cross the Wall. You could use us, we could help you… We surrender, take us prisoner, just let us live…"

For a long heartbeat, the only sound was the flurry of the snow and the rumble of the earth.

Malvern paused, considering it. ' Kill everyone not wearing a black cloak. '

Ramsay didn't move, but around him the other wights did. Half the wights were fixed in position in the courtyard, but the rest were surging forward, moving ahead through the keep. Dead bodies were slamming through the doors - crashing into the wormwalks where all the refugees were hiding.

"I said we surrender, we surrender !" Tarly was screaming. "You don't have to, don't have to… !"

The screams of women and children filled the air. The fat boy looked crazed, and all around him they heard the hacking of blunt blades.

A few of the sworn brothers tried to grab blades, but the Lord Steward still stopped them. " NOO! " the craven howled. "Don't resist, don't resist!"

Men were hissing insults, spitting curses at the Lord Steward that Ramsay couldn't even decipher. The scrawny man beneath Tarly was sobbing, "You're going to kill us all," Varamyr hissed. "You've killed us all!"

They heard a newborn baby's wailing, as a wight picked it up by the leg and swung the babe against a wall. The wights had no mercy.

True to Malvern's word, they spared every sworn brother who surrendered.

Tarly broke down into tears, but he didn't resist.

All around him, the wights hacked through women and children, but the fat one was still saying those words. "We surrender… We surrender…" he sobbed into the snow.

Ramsay was still poised with blade in the air, snow swirling around him. There was no emotion on Ramsay's frostbitten face, but on the inside he was screaming. The craven, Ramsay cursed. The fucking pathetic craven .

"Open the gate," the words suddenly came from Ramsay's throat, a guttural sound. Ramsay had no control over them. Tarly stared up at the wight with shock. "Surrender. Open the gate."

The Lord Steward gaped, gulped, and then nodded. "Open the gate," he repeated, and then turned to the other brothers behind him. "Open the gate now! Do it!"

"Sam -" a man - Dolorous Edd, Ramsay recalled - tried to protest. "Just do it!" Tarly shrieked. "We surrender, open the gate!"

Bodies hesitated, but they ran towards the gatehouse. Ramsay heard the sounds of shuffling, and then the groan of a heavy winch.

All around him, the fighting was dying. Castle Black was falling silent as the grave.

The gate creaked open, and the long and dark tunnel opened. Icicles were scattering off the roof, but the tunnel was pitch black. There were desperate men trying to hide and barricade themselves in the tunnel. Ramsay heard that same infuriating word, over and over - "Surrender," they said. "Surrender."

Slowly, the men dropped their weapons to the ground.

The wights stepped forward, grabbing the spears off the sworn brothers and forcing them into the wall with their own weapons. Nobody resisted; the men were either weeping, or they bore dead, haunted expressions.

It is over, Ramsay thought numbly. The Night's Watch had lost. Castle Black was Malvern's, the Wall was in disarray, and the tunnel was clear. Ramsay could feel Malvern's eagerness; the white walker had just won its bet.

Perhaps the Bastard King's relief force would still reach Castle Black in time, but that hope was fading faster and faster.

Search them,' Malvern ordered suddenly. ' Restrain them. Ensure compliance .'

Ramsay's body lurched, stepping forward and dragging the fat boy backwards with a single hand. Tarly sagged under his frozen grip, and then Ramsay's body bent over. The wight's hands roughly groped, searching through the fat boy's cloak for weapons. He had none.

"We'll help you," Sam repeated, his voice a fearful murmur. He was looking straight up at Ramsay. "We'll help you, just don't kill us."

Behind Ramsay's eyes, the white walker seemed amused by the very suggestion.

He felt the ripple in the air as the Other stepped closer. The wights were walking through the castle, and nobody resisted them. There were hundreds - thousands - marching from the kingsroad.

The white walker itself walked at the very rear, limping over the snow but barely leaving a footprint. The Other raised its hands and held them out, and Ramsay felt its aura flex. He felt the power ooze out of it, he felt its eye spark.

One by one, the dead bodies started to rise again.

There was movement through the keep. Mutilated corpses were standing up once more. Suddenly, bright blue eyes were glaring down from every rampart and window. The eyes of the dead were open - looking down at the courtyard from the towers and battlements.

The fat craven whimpered.

Malvern was walking closer. Its gaze was focused on Tarly too. Malvern had his sword in its hand, and the Lord Steward was on his hands and knees, face first in the snow. Bowing, praying.

The white walker wanted revenge, Ramsay realised. Memories flickered by him - the memory of walking through the Wall and being set on fire. Malvern remembered the fat boy; he wanted to hurt him for that.

From the Other, there was nothing but waves of satisfaction as more and more wights rose. Thousands of them, all of the fallen defenders and refugees. Too many to beat.

Death stood before the sworn brother, and the Lord Steward was on his knees. The wights stood in formation, pushing the other brothers back. Malvern slowly circled his sword, dragging out every moment.

"Look," the Other said suddenly, staring down at Tarly. The craven only whimpered. "Look at me."

Tarly didn't move, and then the Other nodded. Suddenly, Ramsay's body lurched - his boot slamming into the fat boy's stomach at the white walker's command. Tarly squealed, rolling in pain.

Finally, he looked up. The craven was crawling backwards, and the white walker took a step forward. It felt like Malvern was grinning, even despite the burns across half its body.

"I know you," Malvern mocked, walking closer. It raised its blade. "

Scared ."

The fat boy wiped the snot from his nose, and then nodded. "Yes,"

Tarly agreed. "Terrified."

Then, without warning, the fat boy kicked out to stamp on the skinny man's foot. He kicked so hard that Ramsay heard the ankle crack, but Varamyr didn't flinch.

From up above, they heard the cry of an eagle.

Malvern frowned, and then turned to look upwards.

They saw the shadows only for half a heartbeat. Suddenly, three shapes were tumbling down from atop the Wall. Catapults? Ramsay thought with brief confusion.

They saw it fall.

And then crash. Wood shattered. The three barrels hit the courtyard together, and exploded in a hail of splinters.

Without warning, the Other exploded. Ramsay heard it screaming as black rubble cleaved through its body.

The blue in Ramsay's eyes disappeared. The wight sagged.

All at once, every corpse dropped to the ground.

There was a brief howl of agony - a scream of pure pain, like fire itself piercing through tender flesh - and then Malvern shattered into a thousand shards of ice. A brief scream of inhuman agony, like burning to death a hundred times over in a single instant…

Everything went black.

…

…

There was shock, no feeling, only numbness. It was there one instant, and gone the next. The white walker shattered, and suddenly the ice that kept Ramsay anchored in place slipped away.

It's dead, he thought numbly. Malvern is dead .

The world faded, Ramsay's soul slipping away.

…

The river of death thawed, and the current took hold of him again.

He felt himself sag, threatening to fall back into the void. The ice had been holding Ramsay into his dead flesh, but suddenly it all evaporated and Ramsay felt himself draining away. Like piercing a hole in a bucket. It was all spilling out…

NO! NOT AGAIN! I CANNOT DIE AGAIN!

Ramsay grabbed a hold of his broken husk of flesh with everything he had. He thought of his family, his father, his mother… he thought of the rage, the anger, the hate. He clung on and he screamed with everything he had…

The world shattered, and flooded away - but Ramsay was holding on. His life, his body, his memories were an anchor and he couldn't let go…

It was his hate. That was the only strength he had.

…

The corpse's eyes opened. The world felt hushed and still.

He was lying in the snow, unbreathing. He couldn't feel a thing, but he was aware. He was staring at the scene - but the blue light from behind his eyes had vanished. I am free .

It took everything he had - every fibre of his being, every ounce of hatred - just to make his arms twitch. It was difficult - so, so difficult - but Malvern wasn't blocking him anymore. Ramsay forced his own dead flesh to move by himself.

His head lurched, mouth sagging open. Frozen eyeballs ground against their sockets. It was hard to focus without feeling. Hoarfrost covered his gaze, smearing everything. Unblinking eyes rolled, but slowly Ramsay managed to focus on the patch of frozen ground where the white walker fell.

Malvern had shattered without a trace.

All around him, the snow was littered in black shards of glass. Dragonglass, Ramsay realised. It was dragonglass . The splinters littered everywhere - even stabbing into Ramsay's own skin. A splinter of glass about two inches thick was stabbing into his chest, and another into his arm. He couldn't feel them, but they were there.

They had fired three barrels down from the Wall. Three barrels filled with dragonglass.

The barrels had landed straight into the courtyard; one barrel bounced off the gatehouse, another crashed through the keep, and the third broke off the steps. The barrels exploded on impact and rained rubble everywhere - not even a white walker could dodge.

It had been a trap, he thought. They had waited for Malvern to get close. The sworn brothers had surrendered - luring the white walker itself into the courtyard so they could kill it.

All around him, there was screaming. The sworn brothers had been in the courtyard too, they had been in range as the barrels shattered. There were men howling with pain with splinters of wood, rubble and obsidian sticking through their bodies. The tiny shards of glass went everywhere.

The keep was devastated. Ramsay saw corpses - all of those wights were still there, but they weren't moving. The blue eyes had vanished. Where once they had moved with purpose and direction, now they were just… there.

Many of them slumped to the ground, a few of them were just milling around, one or two were walking aimlessly. The wights were puppets, but all their strings had been cut.

Bits and pieces of the person they used to be still remained. The wights were left as fragmented, hollow bodies.

Ramsay heard the sound of a man hurl, vomiting blood and bile on the snow. The fat boy - Samwell Tarly - he was still alive, but with a

shard of glass in his side, and a cut across his brow where a chunk of rubble bounced off his head. Tarly had been huddled into a ball on the ground, but he was still lucky to survive.

Others weren't so lucky. A few feet away from him, the scrawny man

Varamyr - had died with a wooden splinter jammed through his skull.

They had been standing in the scatter range too, Ramsay thought slowly. They had been bait . The catapults fired straight at them. The sworn brothers must have known that they weren't like to survive.

Even despite the noise, everything felt hushed. Ramsay swayed, and then toppled backwards. He felt like a babe to trying to walk for the first time.

Across the Wall, the earth quaked. Without Malvern, Ramsay couldn't sense the wyrms any more, but he knew they were still there.

Move, Ramsay willed. I must move. I can't lie here .

The fat boy - Tarly. He was clutched over the snow, staring at the corpses surrounding him. The disintegrated pieces of the Other lay before him. Slowly, Tarly reached outwards, gingerly reaching for Malvern's white sword that lay on the snow. Tarly yelped in pain as soon as he touched the ice-cold hilt.

Ramsay focused himself, and then dragged himself forward. Dead arms lurched, dragging the wight forward.

The fat boy screamed like a little girl as the wight suddenly grabbed his leg. Tarly's eyes widen in horror - staring at Ramsay's mutilated, frost-coated face. "How…?" Tarly gasped in fear. He tried to run, but Ramsay yanked him down. " Help ! Don't -!"

The wight grit its teeth. "Stop," the wight croaked. Its voice was hoarse and throaty, the word barely decipherable. It was so hard to

even force the air out of his dead throat. "Stop them."

Tarly's eyes widened, and Ramsay pushed the fat boy backwards with an oomph. Ramsay's body was numb, but his arms were strong .

Ramsay knew what he needed to do. "They have the Horn of Joramun," Ramsay croaked. "They have dragons - ice wyrms. Five of them."

Tarly's jaw dropped open. Ramsay wanted to slap him.

"The Others are using them, burrowing through the foundations. Undercutting it," Ramsay pressed onwards. "You feel it, the tremors - that's them . They mean to collapse the Wall. Stop them. Break them."

The fat boy's mouth trembled. "Wait…" he gasped. "You're helping us?"

Ramsay could have screamed. Any other day, any other time, Ramsay would have cheerfully gutted the pig himself, but today it seemed like they were on the same side. Today, he needed all the help he could get to stop them.

It turned out that Ramsay hated the Others even more than he hated the Bastard King. He didn't think such a thing was possible, but it was that hate that kept his limbs moving. "Stop them," Ramsay hissed. "Break the wyrms. Hold the Wall. Kill the white walkers and their army falls."

Tarly didn't reply, his mouth was flapping. Ramsay groaned, but staggered upwards. His body was swaying, his balance gone, but he had to move.

All around him, most of the unchained wights had collapsed - though there were some few that were still moving. They didn't have blue eyes anymore, yet they were still wights.

Ramsay was already running. The remaining brothers were stirring, and Ramsay didn't want to explain himself. He grabbed a black cloak from a sworn brother, wrapping it tightly around himself to hide his dead features, and then staggered as quickly as his limp legs would take him.

He was already breaking into a fast, lurching stride - heading straight up the Wall. There was a splinter of obsidian sticking out of his arm. Ramsay knew what he had to do. The white walkers had to die.

He could feel the rage simmering in his chest, and it gave him strength. Cannot let them control me, Ramsay thought. I will not be a puppet! I will not be a puppet!

Sam

That moment flashed before his eyes, over and over again. He felt the whoosh of air, the wood shattering open, and then the rain of rubble scattering over his head. Sam's heart was beating so fast he couldn't feel it, and his head so hysterical that words were nonsensical wails.

He had seen the white walker standing over him, in all its terrible beauty. He had seen that brief moment of surprise, just as the barrels crashed to the ground and the obsidian exploded.

I'm alive . Sam had set the trap, he had set himself as bait. I'm alive, he finally realised in surprise.

He had never expected to survive the trap.

Now, the Lord Steward was heaving, bile spewing from his throat. A chunk of rubble had embedded itself into his side, so painful he could barely breathe.

All around him, there were so, so many bodies. Castle Black was flooded with corpses.

Sam had gambled everything on the wights collapsing or disappearing - but instead they were just standing there, staring blankly. The wights were milling around, occasionally twitching or shuffling.

A few wights were walking, one of them had even talked, but the rest just seemed dazed and confused. Their eyes weren't blue anymore, their gazes looked black.

All around him, the castle was devastated. Sam thought of those women and children that were hiding in the wormwalks as the wights stormed through. I sacrificed them, Sam thought numbly, I just sacrificed every refugee in the castle as bait . Potentially thousands -Sam couldn't even begin to count.

The only easy way to kill an Other was to catch it by surprise.

The battle had been lost, Sam told himself, surrendering had been their only hope. One final chance to draw it in, one final resort to let them target the white walker itself. The wights were distractions, Sam had argued; the dead were an unending foe. The battle for Castle Black could only truly end when Malvern itself fell.

The Other had no reason to enter the castle personally during the fighting, but in the battle's aftermath Malvern would choose to come closer to raise its army. So long as it had been hiding, it had been effectively unkillable - it needed to be lured closer before it could be slain. He had known that Malvern would need to raise its wights.

Sam had gambled that it would want the sworn brothers alive as prisoners to open the way. Sam had suspected that Malvern would want to gloat.

The plan had almost failed before it began when Varamyr lost his courage. They had readied the catapults atop the Wall and they had placed every chunk of dragonglass into three barrels. Still, there had only been one chance to kill Malvern, they had to be sure it was in position. There was no good line of sight in this weather - they had

needed to rely on the skinchanger and his eagle to pass on the signal of exactly when to fire.

But Varamyr had turned craven, and tried to run. Sam had to tackle the skinchanger down and hold him in place, forcing him to do his duty.

Across from him, Varamyr was lying in the snow with a bloody splinter through his eye.

It worked, Sam realised, slowly becoming aware of the world around him again. It worked .

The courtyard was stirring, stunned gazes rising to stare at Sam.

The other sworn brothers had not known of the plan. Sam hadn't been able to risk telling them - the panic and the loss needed to be real, that was the only way Malvern would believe it. Only a preciousfew had known of his intention, the rest had thought that Sam truly betrayed them.

How many were killed? How many have just been lost?

Edd, Grenn, Halder, Albett, Goady, Duncan, Tim, Arron - they had all dropped their weapons and raised their hands because they trusted Sam.

How many did my plan kill?

The air felt strangely still. Empty, as though the world had stopped. The frenzy of activity had vanished. Even the snows seemed calmer; the winds felt less vicious after the white walker's death. All around him, wide eyes were staring at Sam, or looking at the lingering wights.

"They're not moving," a large man said dumbly. Small Paul was on his knees, staring up at the wights with a blank expression. "Not moving."

Sam saw one wight - an old dead woman - that was left staggering repeatedly into a wall, over and over again.

The white walker had burnt away into nothingness. All that was left of the Other was a steaming outline in the snow, and a clump of shattered obsidian.

Before him, Malvern's sword lay on the ground, a white-frosted blade so fine that it could have been a water dancer's edge. The rest of the white walker had dissolved into burning ice, but the sword had fallen out of its grip. The sword was freezing, so cold that even the snow beneath it was crackling.

It radiated frost even from the handle, no human could hold it. Even through his gloves, Sam had lost a patch of skin from his hand just trying to touch it. If he had tried to grip it, he would have lost his hand.

A remnant of the white walker's magic, lying before him - a blade so cold that iron would shatter beneath it. Sam could only stare, before pulling off his cloak and gingerly trying to wrap the sword up.

"The Father raise us above the turmoil o' flesh, to hath and to hold in your light…" Sam heard the words in the background - a voice mumbling from the Seven-Pointed Star. Ser Aladale Wynch was on the ground gasping through sobs, reciting broken scripture. '… how art we lost, see us to the path… for the dark descent and up to reascend, give us the dawning light…"

The earth rumbled, causing him to stumble. His head reeled, and Sam felt dazed.

We're still under attack . Wyrms, that wight had said, but Sam could barely process the words. Wyrms?

Sam heard a cry - an inhuman voice echoing. A great, furred giant was bustling around, roaring guttural words that Sam couldn't decipher. It is calling for someone, he realised slowly. Sam counted

another four giants that had taken shelter in the tunnel when the castle fell. There were the bodies of another two buried in the snow when barricades fell.

The giants seemed distraught, searching for their fallen clansmen. They barrelled through the snow, kicking down corpses with frenzied blows. The wights never even twitched.

"Sam!" a voice said suddenly, a hand shaking his shoulder. Sam saw Edd standing above him, the steward's face lined in worry. "Bloody hells, Sam, how did you…?"

Sam couldn't reply.

"What happened?" another was shouting, staggering out of the tunnel. "What happened, where did it…?"

"Father judge us true, for in the Light of the Seven we are guided…"

"Halder… !" that was Grenn's voice, shaking a body on the ground. "Halder, get up… get up…"

It was dead. Malvern was dead.

But there are more. There are more Others just like that one .

"Sam!" Dolorous Edd snapped. "What is happening here? The ground is bloody shaking and what is going on? "

Edd tried to shake him from his shock, but it was all spinning. The brothers, Sam thought. The Wall .

"Rollo!" a sworn brother was shouting, pulling up a dead body. "Rollo! Rollo, he's alive - he's moving!"

Sam turned to stare. The man's friend - Rollo - had his stomach gouged open. He was a wight; his gaze was vacant and his breath was still, but his arms were still twitching and his mouth flapped open as if he was trying to speak. Sam didn't even know the man, but

Rollo wore a black cloak. He must have died and been raised as a wight, and then Malvern died moments later. His friend was still calling for aid, insisting desperately that Rollo was alive. The dead man's mouth was flapping.

An echoing cry filled the air, and a giant's footsteps rumbled. Wun Wun looked dazed as he stepped out from the gates, his head lowered to crouch underneath the beam. The giant didn't know what was happening. "Dead," Wun Wun cried. "Dead?"

Sam took a deep breath. More and more men were staggering up from the stunned castle. Voices were rising in pitch - cries for aid or screams of anguish. The earth rumbled with hysterical sobs.

"Who's in command?" Red Jack called. "Who's in command?"

It wasn't over. The attack from the south had been stopped at great cost, but there were even more pressing against them from the north.

We have breathing room now, that's all I have won . Room to breathe, to rally. Maybe that was enough.

The Others had the Horn of Winter. They have the weapon that destroys the Wall .

"Gather whatever survivors you can," Sam said finally, his voice hoarse. "Get them out of here - evacuate the castle. Any that we don't need must start running."

Edd started at him in shock. Behind him, the sworn brothers were gathering, men creeping out of hiding places. "Find any survivors, get them on their feet," Sam insisted, pulling himself up. "Get them out of here as quickly as possible."

There was a cry of protest, but Sam's voice broke into a scream. "Any man or woman that can still fight, form up!" he shouted. "But anyone who can't - get out . Quickly, just run!"

Others were stirring; Sam saw Grenn clutching a blade, and Halder doubled over in the snow, and Ser Wynton Stout wailing nonsensically. Men were coated in frost and chunks of rotten blood. The shrieks filled the air.

There was a great roar - Wun Wun was staggering, confused and scared. It trampled through the snow, kicking down wights with immense feet. Men cowered, but Wun Wun was going berserk. The giant never understood what was happening; Malvern had disappeared so suddenly, leaving shock and pain in its wake.

"You fucking craven!" a voice screamed. Sam saw Ser Endrew Tarth, blood across his brow and his gaze crazed. The knight was drawing steel, staring at Sam. " You did this! You surrendered!"

The air rippled. Ser Endre screamed, and suddenly attention turned towards Sam. He saw Ser Byam Flint grip a sword, and then Duncan Liddle was shouting at him. "What happened?" the large man called. "The Other… you told us to surrender, you said surrender…"

Aye, I did . Ser Endrew's eyes were furious, but Sam just felt numb. "Hey now, this doesn't-" Dolorous Edd tried to stop him, but the knight shoved him out of the way.

"Our brothers, those people!" Ser Endrew's blade pointed at Sam, threatening to skewer him. "They died because this craven gave the order to run!"

More eyes were turning to focus on Sam. Angry eyes, scared eyes, crazed eyes. Sam cowered, barely even able to…

"You're right." Sam could hardly breathe, his voice a whisper. "They did die because of me." His head turned, looking between the other men. "And you're alive because of me too."

Others were shouting too, there were more creeping up through the keep. "You used us as bait!" a man shouted from the balcony. "You bloody used us!"

"They're dead, they're all…" a voice was wailing. "Rollo!" a sworn brother cried. "Rollo, it's me… it's me…"

"You bloody dar-!" Ser Byam Flint looked ready to lunge at Sam, if not for Grenn yanking him back.

"Order!" Duncan Liddle shouted - the castellan was a broad, fierce man, pushing his way through. "Get back you sods… !"

"It was him, it was him… !"

I did what I had to do. I sacrificed the battle for a chance to win. Sam knew that it had been the right move, but still… the sight of all those dead bodies…

Without warning, Sam's legs took a step forward. He stepped forward into Ser Tarth's sword, so that the tip of the blade pressed against his chest. Sam could barely feel it. The knight looked shocked.

"If you're going to kill me, just do it quickly," Sam whispered. "Cut off my head and limbs so I cannot be raised again. And then afterwards you must promise to lead the defence."

Ser Tarth was a strong figure, a fighter. Perhaps he'd be a better leader too. Still, the knight seemed to falter at Sam's expression. "But if you're not going to kill me, then back away." Sam gulped. "It's not over, not yet."

All eyes were on Sam. "Not over," Ser Endrew repeated, eyes wide.

"They're coming from the north too. You can feel them. They're going to break through the Wall and we must hold them back."

"Break through?" Grenn said incredulously. "You can't break through the Wall - it's the Wall ."

"We need to retreat! We must retreat-"

"Seven save us, grant us your light…" Ser Aladale Wynch wept.

Behind them, the giant roared. Sam heard wildlings squabbling - voices in the Old Tongue rising around him.

"Run into the mountains," Duncan Liddle said suddenly. "We run to the mountains, take shelter with the clans."

Ser Endrew seemed to hesitate. Sam turned, staring at the brothers. Sam grimaced and shook his head. "No," he said sadly. "Nobody can run."

All the corpses and wights were watching them. A dozen voices split the air - cries of panic. The sworn brothers were all breaking down into hysteria. Sam saw hardened men, warriors, that were left shaken to the bone.

Weirdly, Sam felt like he was the most level-headed one there. Or perhaps Sam had already broken down so badly that he couldn't break any more.

"How can we stand against -"

"We can't stop them, we can't…" a free folk wept.

"Defence?" Edd demanded suddenly, looking to Sam. "What in blazes are we defending against? What is out there?"

"Everything. Anything," Sam replied, gulping. "We are the shield that guards the realms of men. The shield is cracked, but it's not broken." Not yet . "We must defend. We must hold."

"It's lost!" Ser Wynton cried. "The Wall is lost… !"

Wun Wun cried something - so fiercely that men around him scattered. "Dead!" the giant boomed. " Dead! "

The giant doesn't speak Common well enough, Sam realised. Wun Wun never knew what was happening, never knew why people were

shrieking - the giant just lashed out like a child.

They were scared. They were all tired, stressed and terrified out of their minds. They needed order. And it's on me, he thought numbly, I'm the one who has to give it . Sam felt so scared he couldn't evenfeel it, like the fear had soaked straight through him.

"Stop… !" Sam protested, but his voice wasn't loud enough. "Stop, don't…"

"Retreat, we need to… !"

Sam saw three men - Clubfoot Karl, Luke of Longtown and Grubbs - that were already pushing through the snow to run. Another man, Leathers, tried to stop them, but voices were raising, and weapons being swung madly…

Sam saw a shaggy-haired wildling - Thundering Mammoth - screaming bloody murder in words that were hardly coherent. Some were falling apart, others were howling…

"Bugger you, crows!" an old free folk woman screeched. "Bugger you all, you let us die-!"

Wun Wun stepped forward threateningly, raising great meaty hands. Scared bodies fumbling for spears. It was all breaking apart, tumbling around him.

Sam never even knew what he was doing. He was just moving.

And suddenly Sam was shoulder-barging straight into the giant. He didn't even reach Wun Wun's thigh, but he was running and shoving the giant's leg, slamming into thick fur. For Wun Wun, it was like being charged by a witless midget, but it caused him to stumble slightly. The giant seemed more surprised than hurt.

STOP! " Sam screamed, and finally it seemed like his voice was loud enough.

The air faltered, just briefly, and Sam took a deep breath. They were staring at him, all eyes on him…

"If you want to run, then I will not stop you! I cannot stop you!" Sam shouted, a quiver in his voice. "But if there is anyone in the south who you love, anyone, anyone at all who you want to protect, then we must stand until the very end!

"You fucking surrendered… !" Ser Endrew Tarth screamed, viciously swinging his sword into the air.

Sam didn't even twitch. "I did what I had to do. Do the same." All of those corpses, it felt like there was judgement in their eyes… "Perhaps we are already lost, but we must keep on fighting for them ."

Nobody replied, but their eyes were white. Wun Wun was looking down at him, grunting uncertainly.

"Tarly!" a sound cawed, black wings rustling. "Tarly! Tarly!"

It was the crow. Mormont's crow, flapping around him. Half the castle had been slaughtered, but the crow had still survived. Dark wings flapped through the hush, causing every man to flinch. The crow was circling around the courtyard in panic, cawing in high pitched shrieks. Mormont's crow.

Sam stared at it. "Tarly," it cried. "Tarly."

They were all looking at him. Sam wanted to curl up into a ball and collapse - he wanted to block it all out and run to the library, to cuddle up behind some book. But he couldn't. Instead, Sam found himself stepping forward, staring at them all. "What are our vows?" he said with a gulp. "We shall live and die at our posts. We are the swords in the darkness, we are the watchers on the walls."

There was a brief pause. "We are the fire that burns against the cold," Edd said suddenly, his voice joining Sam's. "The light that

brings the dawn."

Grenn spoke up next, and others were mumbling. "The horns that wake the sleepers," they chanted. The words were spreading. "The shields that guard the realms of men."

Other people were still screaming, but more were joining in the chant. Even free folk were chanting the oath. Wun Wun recognised those words too, they seemed to calm him. Sam could have sagged, but he had to stay upright.

The crow finally stopped to settle on Sam's shoulder. Its talons dug into his furs, beak pecking painfully at his earlobe. Searching for corn, no doubt.

Sam looked straight at Ser Tarth. "Do your duty, ser," he whispered. "But I must do mine."

After a pause, Ser Endrew finally lowered his blade. Sam almost collapsed.

"You can't… you can't let him get away with… !" Ser Byam Flint tried to protest, but Ser Endrew just shoved him out of the way.

Sam turned to stare at the north, at the pale light reflecting off the Wall.

It was morning, there was finally daylight. Sam could see the weak sunlight through the clouds, cold and crystalline, and the fog of the storm was clearing. The Others had always seemed slightly weaker in the light of day - the hunting parties all reported that Malvern shunned the sunlight. The dead lost a bit of their advantage in the light, now was the time to push back. We must move quickly .

"I want two teams!" Sam shouted to the stunned courtyard. "One team to secure the castle, and the other to start preparing the defence. Edd - you're in charge of the castle, Grenn - you lead the defence."

"They're trying to run!" a voice - the wildling Leathers - shouted suddenly. He was at the front of a gaggle of men, trying to restrain a group of would-be deserters. "They're trying to-!"

"Let them!" Sam snapped, looking down at the men from the upper courtyard. Clubfoot Karl looked like he had the fear of the gods pressed into him - men that scared were useless. "Run if you want, but you'll never run fast enough."

Voices murmured, but they obeyed. A few were still chanting the oath of the Night's Watch to calm themselves. Sam groped down at the chunk of debris sticking through his furs, and he winced as he pulled the splinter out. It was a shallow wound, blood frozen against his furs. The wound would scar, but for now he could only bandage it.

A benefit of being fat, Sam thought woozily as he stared at the bloody shard of obsidian. Shards of dark rubble littered everywhere across the courtyard, along with the fallen wights.

"Edd," Sam gasped. "The dragonglass. Pick up all the pieces of dragonglass you can find, we need it all."

"Aye." Edd nodded, pale-faced. He was already rushing off. "Aye, milord."

Sam turned and stared. Swords, arrows and debris sprawled through the grounds. The castle was filled with thousands of wights, about half of them still standing and a few of them stirring. Sam tried to look for that wight with the severed face - the wight that had talked - but he had been too dazed to see where it had run off too.

Sam thought of the stranger - Coldhands - that had saved his life. Is that how Coldhands was created - kill an Other and its slaves go free?

The wights. Do the freed wights have intelligence? Could they be recruited to fight the Others?

Across the courtyard, the wildling was still bent over the moving body of his dead friend, refusing to let anyone burn him.

Sam saw another sworn brother hack off a wight's head, but it never even reacted. Its limbs were still twitching even as its head slashed open. Most seemed just mindless corpses now. But might another white walker retake control of the wights? They couldn't risk it.

"Grenn!" Sam shouted. "Assign men, start disposing of these wights. Burn them if you can, cut off limbs if you can't. Clear the castle of any bodies that the Others might raise."

Across from him, men started to hack through the unchained wights. The wights didn't resist, most hardly even seemed to notice. It was only a few that seemed show any traces of the men they once were.

"Who here speaks the Old Tongue?" a man cried. "Get those bloody giants under control."

The giants seemed crazed. They were stomping through the courtyard, bellowing words that Sam couldn't even recognise. For one horrible moment Sam thought that they might turn aggressive too, but then the noise spooked the crow from his shoulder - and Mormont's bird burst into the sky. The raven shrieked some indecipherable caw, flapping circles around a giant's face. The great furred creatures gaped at it.

Behind him, the earth shuddered.

Sam turned to look up the Wall, at the shower of ice and snow that was still scattering from the precipice. The defenders on the Wall had been trapped up there for an entire day and night, trying to withstand the Other's siege.

How many? he wondered. There had been two thousand sworn brothers stationed in Castle Black, plus several times that number of refugees. At least half their men were trapped on the Wall, and yet in

the castle it seemed like there were ten corpses for every survivor. How many have fled, how many can still fight?

What has to be done? Where do I need to be?

Supplies. They needed supplies. Sam stared around him, looking for the biggest men he could see. Need men that can carry things .

"Small Paul!" Sam ordered. "There is a crate of emergency rations in the kitchens, get it up the Wall." Small Paul blinked, but he nodded. "Rusty, we need bandages up there, fetch them. And Halder…" Sam faltered as he turned - Halder was on the ground, with an arrow in his gut. He was in no state to carry anything. Halder was his friend, they had been recruits together, but Sam couldn't even tend to him. "Arrows. Somebody else, carry the arrows."

He heard the indecipherable grunt of the giants, the stomping. He needed men who could speak the Old Tongue, bring them into line… "Thundering Mammoth!" Sam ordered to a wildling. "Tend to the giants, get them into order!"

Behind him, Wun Wun wailed, showing a mouth of tombstone teeth. The other giants were huddled together, but Wun Wun was an outcast from them. Like a child , Sam thought. The giant was lost - it followed the man that seemed to be in control. An immensely big, lost little child. "Barrels," Sam said after a brief pause, shoving his way through the men. "We have barrels of nails and tools, get them to Wun Wun to carry."

Sam had seen it on his way down - the platform and the stairs had been groaning under the strain. They needed supplies to have a chance to fix them.

Men were turning towards him, looking for tasks. More and more were shouting orders, bringing people into formation. "We need a supply chain, we need to move support up the Wall!" Sam shouted. "We need siege weapons. And oil - all the lamp oil that we have. Get it up the Wall."

Men were already running. Sam saw Elron and Garse hesitate, a few gazes flickering to Ser Endrew. "What the bloody hell are you waiting around for?" Grenn snapped. "Get moving."

"And rope," Sam ordered suddenly. "Lots and lots of rope." They didn't argue. They just ran.

A dozen men led by Ser Byam Flint were already abandoning post and sprinting away to the south, and more would likely follow them. Yet the Watch didn't even have the manpower to hold the perimeter against deserters too, nor the time to try.

The men had been awake for over a day straight - a long and tiring day and a frantic and desperate night - but they couldn't stop now.

Fighting men and women were gathering in the courtyard, while others were already fleeing out of Castle Black. The weather had faded somewhat, but the snows were still thick - Sam didn't fancy their chances trying to flee on foot.

Still, they had just had to leave. The fewer dead bodies in Castle Black the better.

"We should send runners to Queensgate and Deep Down," Duncan Liddle suggested. "I've had no word from them."

"See it done," Ser Tarth replied. "What of reinforcements? Any news?"

"None…" Edd grimaced. "The storm, the attack… Malvern was trying to cut us off. What about the other castles?"

Sam looked around them. "If they have not arrived by now, they must be facing assaults of their own." Sam hesitated. The quakes were nearby, they felt close. "But they're focusing on us here . Who else is nearby - what of the Shadow Tower forces?"

Gazes flickered, and then slowly turned towards a man, a Thenn. His face was painted, he wore salvaged iron armour - one of Sigorn's men. There were a few Thenns in the castle, all of them dark-eyed, fatigued and grim. "Lord Sigorn led us down kingsroad," the Thenn grunted, in broken Common Tongue. "Wights attacked at night. Scattered - some of us ran to Castle Black, don't know of rest."

"What of Winterfell?" Sam pressed. What of the dragon? He didn't dare to say the words out loud, but they were all thinking it.

Nobody could reply. Faces were scared, eyes flickering back to the Wall. "How many are there?" Duncan Liddle asked Sam, looking towards the north. "How many do they have; how many are they bringing-"

"The tunnel!" a man cried suddenly. "The tun-!"

Sam turned, and then suddenly the shudder rippled through the earth. Everything was shaking, so badly he couldn't even stand straight. The world was being ripped into two, and the deafening creak of stone.

All eyes turned upwards as the tower - the Lance - finally collapsed. The great stone structure wobbled inch by inch, until the tower was toppling in an avalanche. Men were running. Sam heard the crunch - the tearing - of solid granite ripping apart.

When it crashed, the whole world boomed. A cloud of dust and snow whooshed.

Men were screaming. Sam heard the crackling, a great thurrump of ice scraping together. Men were running out of the tunnel, shouting.

The tunnel under the Wall had collapsed. A cave-in, the ice quaking apart.

All around him, it was like Castle Black was toppling like dominoes. The earthquakes were coming closer, the shaking growing fiercer

"Get up the Wall," Sam breathed.

"Sam…" Edd warned.

"Get up the Wall, they need support." Sam looked between them. "Edd, get this castle in order - Grenn, up the Wall with me."

Grenn, the last of the Dragonguard still fighting in Castle Black. Grenn wore King Snow's white dragon on his furs - Sam could only hope that the sight of him would help inspire any of Sonagon's believers on the Wall. The dragon was coming, they had to believe that it was.

The whole Wall was quivering like it might collapse. If the Wall did fall… there would be so much falling ice it could smother whole cities. It would be the greatest avalanche the world had ever known.

He entrusted the white walker's blade to Edd, but Sam was already pushing his way through. Voices were shouting - calling for order, for search teams, for evacuation. Sam was in the middle of it all, watching the world turn around him.

Sam started to run. Two dozen men followed him, with Small Paul hoisting up a large crate while Wun Wun carried two hefty barrels under each arm. Grenn was at the front, with a sword in one hand and a standard of the dragon in the other - waving the flag of the Dragonguard to signal men to follow. Sam wrapped a large coil of rope around his torso, all the while men struggled to clear the path.

A hail of ice blew off the top of the Wall, turning the world a hazy white.

He was running up the Wall, pounding up the broken steps coated in frost and snow. The stairs were treacherous even in the best of times, and now there was scattering snow across them and so many people choking the steps that even the wood was groaning. Men needed to fasten lengths of ropes to the timbers as guide ropes, but

clearing the way upwards was a battle in itself. Panic was all around him; scared bodies clotting up the stairs.

He heard the creak of the platform, the lift moving once more. They could winch the barrels of lamp oil and weapons upwards, but the men had to climb up the steps.

With every tremble, it felt like the world might collapse.

Sam's heart was pounding with every step. The Wall rumbled so badly that Sam almost fell. It took Small Paul to lift Sam up the broken stairs - the larger man had to throw Sam over his shoulder as he lost his footing. Wun Wun balanced so unsteadily that eight men needed to tie ropes around the giant's hands to guide him up.

"Clear the way!" the men cried up the steps. "Clear the way!"

The white walkers had set a time limit. The sworn brothers were already playing catch up.

We must rebuild. We must defend, we must fight.

Sam could hear the noise vibrating through the ice. It sounded like roars.

By the time they reached the top, the sun was climbing higher in the sky and moving south. Weak sunlight was spilling through, and the clouds to the north were churning. The trenches were thick with bodies, and with every rumble Sam saw geysers of snow billowing off the edge. Men were sharing cloaks, trying to hide and find warmth around weak fires. The rest had been left to the cold.

Even as he ran, Sam past wildlings with white veins snaking up their cheeks and frost in their hair. Men had collapsed weakly into hoarse breaths. The poison, Sam thought. The first of the poisoned prisoners were starting to fall, and the rest didn't seem healthy either.

"Clear the way!" Grenn ordered in front of him. "Anybody who can't fight, make way for people who can."

Wun Wun stomped at the very front, the giant forcing people to push backwards with every huge step. The other giants were coming up the Wall as well.

"Get to the winch!" Sam shouted, looking around the crowd of wide eyes littering the wood. "They're bringing supplies up on the lift, and taking wounded down. Keep the stairs clear for people coming up!"

Men were running, bodies scattering over the ice. Sam could still hear those booms - the crash of the white walker's trebuchets across the Wall. No, the trebuchets are useless , Sam thought. The launching wights were terrifying, but the Other's trebuchets had only ever been a means to keep the defenders off-guard. The siege weapons hardly even had the range, and they could not fire enough bodies fast enough to make a difference. We can survive the trebuchets, we can fight back .

The sworn brothers were already setting to work- slinging ropes downwards to build a supply train. People were moving, Sam just had to make sure they were moving in the right direction. He pushed his way forward into the trenches, but all he could see was a field of black shapes buried in white.

"Where's Mance?" Sam called, looking between the unfamiliar faces atop the Wall. "Where's Mance, where is-"

"Here, Tarly," a voice croaked, and Sam nearly collapsed with relief. Mance Rayder was swaying with every step and his head was wrapped up in bandages. His eyes were still dazed, but he seemed more focused. Mance had spent most of the night unconscious. He's alive, Sam thought. He had half-expected to come up the Wall to findMance dead.

"Mance," Sam gushed, rushing to the lord's side. "You're alive… the castle is clear, let's get you down -"

"I ain't dead yet, Tarly," he replied with a grimace, shaking Sam off. The man looked dazed and desperate. "Get the rest down before me. What happened? Dalla… my boy… are they…?"

Dalla . Sam didn't even know. Maybe she hid in the tunnels, maybe she died with the rest. It could be days before they sorted through the bodies. Still, Sam could not say that now, he could not risk it.

"She is safe," Sam lied. "And the babe. Safe. It worked, we stopped the wights."

Mance's body sagged in relief, the anxiety draining from his face. By all the gods, Sam thought numbly, I am surely going to hell. Or maybe hell is coming for me .

"Malvern is dead, my lord," Sam pressed, taking a deep breath. "We caught him. We can rebuild the defence, we can hold from the north."

There was no relief. Mance's gaze looked haunted. "Tarly… have you seen them?"

Sam faltered slightly. All around him, there were grim mumbles. Sam's eyes flickered across to the northern edge of the Wall. Men were running or clinging on to the wooden beams. Everywhere he looked, Sam saw men scared out of their wits. Fresh reinforcements were pushing up from the stairs, yet there were crowds of people desperate to get down again.

The wildlings , Sam realised. The poisoned wildlings had broken down. There was no fighting; everyone seemed too grim and fatigued. Crowds of men were huddled together in the trenches, taking shelter from the wind.

The ground rumbled, and Sam heard the movement below. It was shaking like the beasts of seven hells, like the monsters that the Seven-Pointed Star spoke of - the unholy behemoths that would feast upon the souls of sinners.

Sam needed to see. He ran straight towards the great precipice at the edge of the Wall, panting for breath with every strained step. The rumbling was so fierce that his bones quaked, the wind stripping through his furs.

The view took his breath away. In the dark it had been naught but an abyss, but in the morning light it was all pure white. To the north, it was like he was gazing down upon a snowstorm.

At first, he could see nothing but great billows of snow from the ground. Then, he made out the shapes.

In the light of day, he could see them - he saw the earth coiling. Sam's knees turned so weak he could have fallen off the edge. He suddenly understood why the world had been rumbling so fiercely.

The wight had spoken the truth . Wyrms.

Even from this distance looking down, they were huge . Immense beasts churning in the earth, husks of flesh that were twisting. A cold mist rose from the earth, and with every slight twitch great geysers of snows gushed. It was so hard to make out their shapes, but Sam could see the grey moving through the white.

Sam stared downwards, his jaw hanging off the Wall.

They moved like snakes, but their bodies were shorter and stockier than any serpent. They reminded him more of fish - eels, perhaps, writhing through the snow.

The clouds were too dark to make out any details, but Sam saw the blast of bluish light as great jaws opened. Something ignited in the clouds of steam wreathing the Wall's base, the illumination of flames pulsing through so many teeth. Dragonfire swelled outwards. Frostfire.

The roar was like thunder. Every time the wyrms breathed, the Wall quaked.

Sam was shaking, vision blurring. The tremors were only getting worse, and Sam could see the damage that they had made. They had carved a great notch out of the Wall, working their way deeper and deeper.

" What are those things? " a voice broke. " What are they? "

"Wyrms." Sam croaked. "Wyrms."

Some creatures from a long-past age of the world. The maesters had theorised for a long time that ice dragons lived to the far north, across the Shivering Sea. The fire wyrms of the Fourteen Flames had been the first dragons of Valyria, and the sea serpents of the Sunset Sea were a part of ancient history. The white walkers had raised things that could not, should not, still exist.

They're burrowing, he thought in horror. Burrowing into the Wall .

The Others still meant to break through.

Sam saw men on their knees. "Ice dragon save us… ice dragon save us…" a wildling muttered, clutching his white stone. "We pray for salvation, for deliverance…"

There were more than just wildlings praying now. Sam saw Dornish Dilly, Alf of Runnymund, Ulmer and Jake also on their knees - even men who had always resisted the Cult of the Ice Dragon were praying for it.

"It's the horn," a wildling muttered - Sam recognised Longspear Ryk, cradling a red-haired woman in his arms. He looked pale, his dark hair streaked in white. "That's the Horn of Joramun right there."

He could see them. The beasts were coiled at the base of the wall, churning and pushing forward with every fierce breath. Backwards and forth, rhythmically, working their way through.

Sam couldn't focus. His breaths were hoarse, the sight left him shaken. "… Must defend, must ready…" he gasped. "We need

reinforcements, reinforcements…"

"They ain't coming," Ryk snapped. "Don't you understand? Nobody's coming, you can't fight them… you can't…"

"They're attacking the Wall exactly how Mance planned it," the girl croaked suddenly. She was alive, but her eyes were fluttering. There was a bandaged wound across her upper arm, with an arrow shaft still jammed into her shoulder. "They attacked everywhere at once to keep you spinning, and they sent a group in advance to circle around. But they're focusing on Castle Black - they want to crush you where you're strongest. Bastards copied our plan."

Sam understood. The whole Wall was going to tumble down.

But how long? How long have they been digging, how long until it cracks?

The Wall was over three-hundred-foot-thick, and ice wyrms were fighting against the barrier. Even for creatures that size, it wasn't easy. They must have started after dusk, and they had been going a whole night. The tremors were only growing worse.

Another distraction, he thought. They had brought the wyrms in under cover of darkness, so that they'd have a whole night to dig through before anyone could even notice.

"… Hold the Wall…" Sam muttered, stumbling as he backed away. "We must…"

"We can't!" Ryk snapped. "We can't fight them, look at them! We have to run. Can't stop them, we can't… !"

Others were crying the same, shouts calling for retreat. Half their number had already fled - trying to run west or east along the Wall. Sam blinked, and took a deep breath. Focus… think… think of a plan…

"But if that's true," Sam asked slowly, "then why did they bother sending you across first?"

Ryk didn't reply. Sam's head was whirling, struggling to think… "Ready the defence!" Sam shouted suddenly, "Get the siege weapons! Bring them in positions! We need firing teams, we need…"

More were rushing - pushing their way to the precipice to see. A few of them were still cradling bows. "Forget the arrows!" Sam called, trying to raise his voice over the clamour. "We need rocks. Or big chunks of ice, anything that we can drop. And fire - we need lots and lots of fire."

Men were staring at him, eyes wide. "They're still wights," he insisted. Big, big wights . "They will still burn." Sam looked at them desperately. "We got barrels of oil - we need ropes and pulleys to hang them off the edge. We hold them in position, we drop them and fire when we've got a chance."

"Barrels of oil?" Marv of the Red said, looking at Sam like he was a fool. "Look at the size of them - what are barrels going to do?"

"Maybe nothing," Sam gulped. "Maybe everything. But we have to try. We have to fight back, we have to resist. Now move, we need to move."

They were stirring, but not fast enough. Give them order, give them direction . "I need those mangonels over there," Sam shouted, hisvoice a squeal. Sam turned and he pointed to random men specifically. "You, you, you and you start preparing rocks. Four men to loading and firing… and pulleys. We need pulleys."

At the other side of the trenches, Sam heard the growls as the giants stepped upwards. The platform was wobbling, every rope vibrating.

"Tarly!" Duncan Liddle was running for him, with Grenn and the others close behind. "What's happening, where-?"

Then, they heard the rumble. The Wall vibrated. A great roar blasted, long and solemn like a whale.

Sam nearly lost his balance. In the moment he didn't know what was happening, but every instinct he had told him to run for cover. Suddenly a screech of cold wind hissed up the precipice.

A blast of cold scoured upwards, white fire breaking over the edge.

Sam collapsed. His mind went blank. Behind him, he saw an entire mangonel disintegrate into splinters, the whole edge of the Wall being shredded away. There was that rumble, an immense body crashing.

Dragonbreath - the same as Sonagon's. But while Sonagon's icefire was brilliant and white, the breath of the undead wyrms was bluish and foul, filling the air with the noxious stink of cold rot. It was everywhere, Sam could hardly breathe. Men were choking in it - foul air filling their lungs.

Anybody caught in that cold died before they could scream. It filled the air with putrid mist.

Sam felt the quaking, he felt the great shape rising…

An ice wyrm was pushing upwards. Its body was vertical, clinging against the Wall. It breathed straight up, polluted ice smearing into the sky. Sam felt it crash onto the Wall, its great jaws open wide. It was huge - longer and bulkier than Sonagon. It had no wings, but it was still rising. Its body was recoiling, using its tail to push itself upwards all the way from the ground.

Sam saw it. He saw teeth breaking through the snows, he saw blue light swelling in its throat.

Its scales were grey, and half its snout looked like it had been torn off. Sam could see its bones - black jawbones, with frozen greyish

flesh patched with rot. Sheaves of scales were hanging from its body, four great horns tapering backwards from its skull.

Sam could see its exposed ribcage, he could see the blue fire burning inside of it. The ice wyrm looked like it had been mauled before it died. A dead, mutilated corpse of an immense, ancient beast.

And its jaws were open, its eyes bright blue. It was jumping. Sam imagined a snake springing upwards…

Strong hands grabbed him, yanking Sam away from the edge. "Fall back!" a man screamed. "Fall back, away from the-"

Everything quaked.

The wyrm breathed again, scouring the cliff's edge of the Wall clean. Sam saw a brother lose both his arms in a heartbeat, his limbs bitten clean off by the cold. There was a straight line across the ice where everything just cleaved away.

The edge of the Wall was breaking apart. A hail of ice shattered downward.

There was a groan of wood - their wooden mangonels were straining, half of their fortifications were demolished. Large timbers were threatening to fall.

"Rope!" a voice cried. It was Sam's voice, he was screaming. "We need rope, we need-"

There was another roar. The thump of immense bodies were coming closer.

He could see the wyrms moving upwards - they were clawing on the surface of the Wall. Sam had thought them as giant snakes, but suddenly Sam realised that they had legs. Tiny, stubby little legs, but

they were clawed and strong. Sam didn't know how legs that small managed to grip anything, but they were clinging to the ice.

Even despite their bulk, the wyrms were weirdly agile. Their bodies coiled. and they used their tails to move. They pushed themselves straight upwards, their mouths open wide. They seemed like creatures built for swimming or burrowing, but they were clamouring up the vertical surface all the same.

There were two of them climbing. The big one looked three times the size of the small one, but the smaller one was climbing so much faster.

The ice, Sam realised in horror, the surface of the ice is sagging . At the bottom, the wyrms had already gouged a great chunk out of the Wall.

Behind them, Sam saw the army of wights was waiting. They had been hidden in the dark, but he could see them now. The wyrms would break the Wall, and then the wights would flood through.

Four hundred feet down the length of the Wall, another wyrm breathed. Even from this height, the cold flames smelt putrid like a rotten whale.

Sam was running, stumbling backwards for cover. Men were mad with panic, taking shelter in the trenches. Sam heard two dozen prayers; two dozen desperate pleas to whatever god might save them. The men were nothing but ants against dragons that size.

Sam fell backwards, stumbling through the snow to take shelter with Mance. He dropped into the trenches, all the while the rain of hail scattered around them. Men were huddling, trying to take cover.

All around them, men were scared witless - but they were looking towards Sam and Mance for hope. Grenn and the others from the castle pushed through towards him, while Mance hung close to Longspear Ryk and the woman.

It looked like Mance was having difficulty just keeping his eyes open, the concussion left his eyes dilated.

"How many are there?" Mance gasped.

"At least two, maybe three." Ryk shook his head. "We heard them burrowing, never got a good look."

"There's five," Sam said numbly, remembering the wight's words. "There's five."

Five. Two of them were climbing, a third was waiting towards the back. They were big. The biggest looked over two hundred and fifty feet long, but it was hard to tell from above as they churned. Outstretched, the big one reached up at least a good quarter of the way up the Wall.

Sam heard the boom of frostfire at the base of the Wall. Even the ice itself was being scoured away by the force of their breath, and the earth shook with each clash. That was what collapsed the tunnels, Sam thought numbly. The beasts were carving a large gash across the base of the Wall - meaning to undercut the structure.

Each one is a puppet, being used by the white walker for different tasks, Sam thought. The small one was climbing - trying to take potshots at the defenders a top the Wall. The bigger one coiled before the gate of Castle Black, but its breath was so much more powerful. Sam couldn't even see the northern gate anymore - the other end of the tunnel had been buried under heaps of debris.

The very biggest was the one at the back, but it was coiled so still it was hard to even make it out through the billows of snow. It was being kept in reserve.

Sam couldn't even see the other two, but they must be there.

Underground.

The men heard - they felt - the ice grinding. They could feel it all shaking beneath them. The wyrm dug on with stubby claws, heaving itself upwards.

The weapon that breaks the Wall. Only a dragon was powerful enough for something like that.

"How long do we have?" Sam said finally. "How long until…?"

Men hesitated. "I don't know…" a voice replied, a free folk Sam never recognised. "They've been going for hours. Have you seen the gash they've made at the bottom? The Wall is chipping away."

"Run," Ryk croaked. "Just run."

"We can't defend against those," another free folk. "We can't save the Wall. We've already lost."

"We must evacuate the Wall," Duncan insisted. "Run to the hills, take shelter there."

Sam turned to stare at him. "How are the hills going to save us when the Wall can't?"

Nobody could reply. Run, he thought. They could run. But what happens next if we do?

"If we run here," Sam continued with a gulp, "then the world is as good as lost. The Wall is the only thing that can even slow them down. We abandon it, and what do we hide behind next?"

"We're dead if we stay up here!" Marv the Red Hand snapped.

"And we're dead if we run back down too!" We're dead no matter what . "The Wall falls, the white walkers break through, whathappens? Their army - their army doesn't stop growing, Malvern proved that. They break the Wall, winter comes, and the Others become unstoppable." Sam's voice was desperate. "We cannot fall back now, we must hold the line."

"Hold the line?" a man choked. "We're done."

"Not yet." Sam took a deep breath. "The Others - we have to target the Others themselves. We attack."

Eyes stared at him incredulously. "The wyrms will collapse so long as we kill the white walkers controlling them," Sam insisted. "That is what happened with the wights. They are giant puppets, we must go for the masters. Where are the Others?"

Sam looked around for any that could answer. "Anybody? Where were they spotted last?"

"They were waiting towards the rear," Garth Greyfeather said after a pause. "Standing by the treeline."

Yes, hiding out of sight. That was how the white walkers preferred to fight. "Then what if we send men down?" Sam insisted. "Their attention is distracted, so we send parties to climb down and circle around. Ambush the Others instead, catch them from behind with an obsidian arrow."

"They'll never get through the line of wights." Hairy Hal shook his head.

"They will. We need to distract them." Sam turned to Mance. "We need a bonfire. As large a fire as we can make. Anything we have to burn - we need it here."

"And the men that need to go down there?" Grenn asked after pause.

"It'd be suicide, it's… !"

"We need to run, we need to…"

Sam looked around them desperately. Nobody met his gaze, but then the red-haired girl gulped. "I'll do it," she croaked.

A few men muttered. She had half an arrow in her arm, but the wound was wrapped up. It's lucky I'm a terrible shot . Ryk's face paled. "Ygritte, you can't…"

"We're dead men anyways, ain't we Ryk?" she snapped. Sam saw the white veins crawling up her neck. "I ain't dying like this."

"We have enough arrows for several parties," Sam pressed, looking around for more. Volunteers to die, Sam knew. "It's the only option."

"I'll go," Garth Greyfeather said. "Fuck it, got nothing bloody else to lose."

"You think you can climb down the Wall, old man?" the girl chided.

"Better than you can, aye." Garth snorted.

There were mumbles. Others were stepping forward, and Sam could have sagged. "All men must die," grey-bearded Ulmer said, shivering. "But all men must fight too."

Ryk looked between them, and then nodded. Other wildlings - any who were strong enough. "I'll go too." He looked to Sam. "Give us a way down, and we'll get down. I can make the climb one last time."

Their volunteers. Greybeards and dying men. Sam hesitated. "The poison…"

"It's a slow poison. I still got strength left," Ryk said firmly. "Hells, I can't even feel the cold anymore, I can't feel my arms, and my skin… I'm colder than the snow already." His breaths were strained. "But dammit, I don't want to die like this, I want to die fighting something."

Sam looked at them, glancing between them. Whatever the ice spider venom did, it was turning their hair bone white. The girl's hair was half red, half streaked white. Everyone else was shivering with cold in the freezing air, but they seemed immune to the frost.

Perhaps the white walkers got the dosage wrong, the men weren't dying as fast as expected?

Others were stepping forward - Sam knew only a tenth of their names. Fulk the Flea, Spare Boot, Bannen, Alan of Rosby, Deaf Dick Follard, Black Bernarr and Kedge Whiteye. Toe-Toed Dirk, Leathers and Lemmy, One-Eyed Wulf, Bone Erik, Stuttering Andrik and Left-Handed Yoldo. Many of them were dying men or old men, either men with families or men with nothing to lose. Sam took care that they weren't relying solely on the poisoned wildlings.

"Two teams - one go west, the other east. As many that are strong enough. Head half a league, make the climb down, and then circle around!" Sam ordered. All eyes were on him. "The rest of us will hold the Wall. We'll keep the Others distracted, give you a chance."

Eyes flickered to Mance too. He just nodded numbly. "You heard the commander," Mance croaked. "See it done."

They were running. They didn't need many supplies, this was a last-ditch effort. Even hardened men were shivering with fear. They formed several parties of a dozen entrusted with only a single obsidian arrow. Sam watched men saying their goodbyes - shaking Mance's hand, or hugging brothers that they had served with for decades. All around him, the air boomed.

"I always wondered what it was like climbing the Wall," he heard a ranger - Spare Boot - murmur. The man had been a sworn brother for near four decades, even with only a single leg. Sam never even knew his real name. "Might as well find out now."

Sam watched Longspear Ryk hug the red-haired girl. They held each other close, whispering sweet mumbles in each other's ears. Sam saw them share a brief, tender kiss.

Behind him, another chunk of ice cracked away. A boulder as large as a mammoth tumbled down to the ground.

I just sent those men to their deaths . The thought left him feeling hollow. Even in the best case, they would not return. But it didn't matter, they needed the hope.

Sam took a deep breath. A distraction. They needed a distraction. They needed their jobs and they needed to focus on them. "Catapults!" Sam shouted. "If it can be repaired, get it firing. If not, hack it apart for kindling."

"A bonfire?" Mance asked, reaching for Sam's hand. The Lord Steward pulled him up wobblily.

"A big bonfire." Sam nodded, and then turned. "Whatever we have that burns. Wood, oil, coal, furs - anything . Get it burning."

They were already rushing. Men filled one of the wooden huts with kindling, and then set it ablaze. The flames started low and dim, flickering against the cold, but then the light started to grow. The fire was blazing into life, a red flower burning against the snow.

We are clutching at straws, Sam knew. Still - maybe if there are enough straws, and enough people holding on to them?

Men were running up from the castle, stacking up kindling. It needed to be organised, needed to move with purpose. They needed teams, they needed regiments, they needed purpose…

All around him, the fire was roaring, heat radiating off it. The whole hut was alight.

Sam saw two giants, straining to lift a stonethrower off the ground. "Form up!" Grenn was shouting, slamming his standard into the snow. "On me! Form up! Form up!"

The black, hissing smoke was rising upwards, fighting against the wind. Behind them, another breath of dragonfire scoured against the edge.

Sam's head was spinning. Probability and numbers, odds and failures. His imagination was torturing him; how long do we have, how long until the ambush parties reach the bottom? How long can we hold, how long until we collapse?

All the while, the flames kept on growing higher and higher. The sworn brothers were throwing coals from the forge onto the fire, feeding it with everything they had. A great bonfire, right in the middle of the Wall.

Sam was giving orders, pushing them into the direction. One by one, turn a swarm into a shoal. Sam was shouting orders easier and easier, stuttering less with every shout. It was all about direction; get them moving in the same way. Drag the catapults, ready the defences, build a fire - men with a task were less prone to panic.

"Pots and pans!" a voice cried. "We need pots and pans, boil the oil."

Sam heard the shaking, heard the scraping of ice. The wyrm was climbing. It was trying to reach higher, trying to torch the top of the Wall itself. It was coming up again for another attack, its great tail thrashing against the ice.

The brothers dragged a metal cauldron up from the kitchens - a big iron pot that could feed a hundred. Sam saw thick tar bubbling in it like stews, while ropes were dragged across to the edge.

We need pulleys to dangle the metal pot over the edge, Sam realised. We need hammers and saws more than swords or shields .

Hemp ropes were being tightened - men were climbing over treacherous timbers to fasten them down. Brave men were dangling over a seven-hundred-foot drop, clinging to debris with their legs as they tried to wrap the ropes through thick gloves.

Around him, men were already dropping rubble off the edge, chunks of ice and stone bouncing into the white below. Perhaps it was clattering over the wyrm's snout, but Sam couldn't see it.

"Forget the small chunks!" Sam ordered. "Get away from the edge, help pull the stonethrowers-!"

Crash. He felt the ice tearing apart, and a great sheet calved from the Wall. Two hundred feet away, a blast of dragonfire seared upwards. The wyrms are moving backwards and forth, Sam realised through the chaos. They're trying to target the defenders across the length of the Wall .

The height was their only saving grace - if the wyrms had a clear shot, the sworn brothers would already be dead.

"It's coming back around," Sam breathed, and then screamed. "Fire! We need fire! More fire!"

"Flaming arrows!" Hairy Hal shouted. "Flaming arrows on me!"

All around him, the fires were crackling like the howling of a demon, devouring more and more. Sam was stumbling, the smoke thick in the air. Archers were running, men dragging burning metal cauldrons across the ice.

Even now, he saw men clutching onto white stones. The hope was the only thing that kept them going, the only thing that made them fight. The only thing that kept them sane. "For salvation!" a man screamed in the smoke. "For the dragon!"

"For the living!" another voice boomed.

Sam was staggering through towards the siegemaster. The catapults were perched like birds, half of them already scrap. He heard the winching of ropes, hammering of nails. Sam's gaze flickered around, siege for the siegemaster.

"Where's Lothar?" Sam called. "Who is in command?"

"Lothar's dead. A wight landed on him," a voice grunted. Sam turned, and a small man was pushing his way towards him. "Don't know

who's in command, but I'm doing what I can."

Sam knew him - Bedwyck the Giant, a man so small he was almost a dwarf. Even as he talked, he didn't stop hammering in nails. "Then you're the siegemaster now," Sam pressed. "Get these catapults forward, get the firing squads ready."

Bedwyck shook his head. "Our big throwers can't hit those beasts, they can't angle that far down."

"Can we prop them up, push them into position?" Sam pressed. "Stack them up, hang them over the edge if we have to." Behind him, he heard the screams as half a dozen men in the distance got caught by the ice breath. "What of the scythe? The metal scythe?"

The scythe was a great metal hook that was fastened onto a giant iron chain. It was designed to stop climbers; when it fell, it would sear across the front of the ice as it swung. Once upon a time, the scythe had been the anchor of a ship that had wrecked at Eastwatch, sharpened like a blade's edge. In the history of the Wall, there had been but three times that the scythe had been dropped.

"We dropped it," Bedwyck shouted at back at him. "Dropped it early last night."

"How long would it take to pull it up again?" Sam demanded over the ramparts. "No, how long to rig up more just like it?"

All around him, there Wall was a frenzy of activity, but they weren't running. It wasn't mindless chaos. Even as the wyrms writhed and roared somewhere so far below, the Wall's upper levels were filled with the clamour of tools, of men running with packs on their backs, men fighting the ice with axes. Sam saw regiments of donkeys dragging supplies across the ice, and giants winching ropes.

Bedwyck finally dropped off the catapult, looking at Sam with narrowed eyes. "What's the plan here?" he demanded.

"Those wyrms. We're going to drop absolutely everything we have onto them."

Crack. Sam saw the flash of dragonfire two hundred feet away. To the west, this time. The wyrms were moving across the Wall, taking potshots upwards. They went east to west, and now they were coming back around.

More and more men and women were pushing up the stairs - a supply chain to ferry up manpower. Coils of rope were taut as they pulled heavy objects up the Wall.

"Axes on the ground," Bedwyck ordered after the briefest thought. "We break apart the ice across there, we push it off with spears. Wait until they are underneath us, we drop a big chunk of the Wall onto them."

"Do it." The ice was already sagging, the Wall was already falling apart from the bottom upwards. We need ropes and we need pickaxes, need bridges to hold the platforms together. The Others think us helpless against the wyrms, we must prove them wrong…

Three men managed to carry up the anvil from Donal Noye's old forge, strapping it to a heavy chunk of timber to form a giant pickaxe. They hacked an entire watchtower apart for it to be swung from. A second scythe, a makeshift one.

Another great crash - a breath of dragonfire that sent an entire mangonel flying upwards. Sam's head turned blank, visions blurring…

Anything that could be dropped, swung, or launched, Sam ordered.

The scythe. The chain was hanging off the Wall, but then it was anchored into a big chunk of ice at the back of the Wall. Crack the ice apart, Sam remembered shouting. On the signal - break it apart at the anchor, get ready to drop it again.

Drop the entire Wall on them, if we have to.

Beneath them, they heard the wyrms roar, coming close with every rumble. The great bonfire was hissing, oil bubbling in dozens of uneven pots.

His head spun in the moment.

At some point, several of Soren Shieldbreaker's sons arrived from Oakenshield, but everything was moving too fast for Sam to even process it. He couldn't even order them with his voice, only point them to where it seemed the men needed the most help. Sam remembered gulping down a mouthful of cold rations, while men passed around tankards of ale to keep them brave. The defenders were pulling themselves into formation, more and more arriving up the Wall.

More were rallying around them, screams echoing.

Spurts of dragonfire erupted against the Wall, and all eyes were peeled for the great beasts creeping forward. Like ants trying to dam a flood, but they were still building.

It was past noon, but Sam lost all sense of time. The panic was so thick he felt crazed.

Crack. He felt the shake as it hit the ice. The wyrm was getting closer, climbing up again. The bonfire was like a challenge to them, a beacon. Here we are - come on, try to put us out .

Sam could feel it. He could feel the rumble as it clambered upwards. The sputtering of arrows bounced off its scales, uselessly. There was crash of stonethrowers, of ballista being loaded. Desperate men were grabbing burning chunks out of the bonfire with their bare hands, to hurl the fire downwards.

Behind him, there was the rumble of a huge drum, groaning against the ice. It took three dozen men to push a huge wooden drum filled

with ice across the ice. Sam hadn't ordered them to do it, but it was a good idea. He recognised it; it was the huge wooden barrel that once held the latrine overflow atop the Wall.

Crunch . The wyrm was coming closer. Sam was running. Men were rushing, still trying to load up the drum with stones, ice and rubble as it groaned across the trenches.

"Ready! Ready!" Bedwyck bellowed. "Hold… hold! "

It was nearly up. The wyrm was fifty feet from the top of the Wall, squirming with every push. The men were heaving, struggling to drag the drum over the shattered ice drifts. "Hold! Hold!"

It took teams of men to yank the drum across the ice, desperately trying to roll it over the uneven ground.

Is it going to miss? Are we in position? There was no time to check, no time for anything. The wyrm was nearly up, the precipice cleaving away. The roar filled the sky.

Sam watched with his heart in his mouth as men poured oil over the drum, and lit it on fire.

Beneath them, the blue swelled, ready to burst… "Now, now! Drop !"

Sam screamed. " Release !"

Axes hacked the ropes apart, and the burning drum shuttered. It groaned against the ice, starting to role…

Sam was already running. The blast of cold was bursting up, the drum was falling.

The flaming drum toppled straight off the precipice. It bounced off the Wall and crashed downwards with a solid thump. Straight into the wyrm's head.

Ice groaned, the beast staggering. Sam didn't dare enough look, but he heard the impact. The wyrm roared as it finally lost its grip. It

seemed to fall downwards in slow motion, its long body peeling backwards off the Wall.

It dropped several hundred feet and landed with an earth-shattering crash. Even from atop, Sam felt the impact.

Men screamed. We hit it, we hit it.

"Is it down?" Macne demanded. " Is it down? "

"It's still moving!" a man cried, dangling over the edge. "Moving!"

Sam risked a glance downwards. The drum had bounced off its skull, but he couldn't see any real damage. It was flailing in the snow, but it was whole. It's a wight, he thought numbly . It's already dead - it's as hard to kill as any other wight .

The other wyrm twisted upwards, trying to breathe. Men were running for cover, trying to flee from the edge.

"Prepare the next drum!" a man ordered. "Ready the next one!"

"More flames!" Sam shouted. "More weight and more flames!"

Sam could see yet another wyrm breaking from the ground. The fourth wyrm - it was smaller too, with only two stubby horns.

He suddenly thought of a family unit. A family of ice dragons; was that a pack, a drove? A den? A mother and a father, and three children; there were two big wyrms, and three smaller ones. When they had been alive, this might have been a family. These beasts might have been magnificent, before the Others touched them.

But now they were just rotting monsters, siege weapons against the Wall.

The defence atop the Wall was attracting more attention. The monsters had already gouged out a giant gash through the base, but

still the Night's Watch were dropping stones and debris. The bonfire was attracting attention.

That's right, Sam could have screamed. That's right, focus on us .

The Others didn't like defiance, and yet the flames were growing like a burning beacon.

He saw them shuffling. Arrows and burning hunks of rock were launching off the edge, splashing into the snow against the regiments of wights. Smoke and steam hissed beneath him, the fire raging against the snow.

Suddenly, the big one lunged upwards. It crashed against the Wall, shoving its way up. It had horns - five great horns protruding backwards from its skull, and one horn snapped off. The males perhaps? Sam wondered vaguely. The males had horns, but the females didn't?

And then icefire blazed, and Sam's head went blank.

There were three of them, all attacking upwards all at once. The big one was going straight for the bonfire.

Men were already dropping lumps of flaming rubble. Flaming arrows scattered off its hide.

"It's coming fast!" the spotter shrieked. "It's comi-"

A wave of ice swallowed the cry. The stink of rotting flesh was noxious.

Scorpions thunked, but he heard iron bolts bouncing off its thick scales. Its mouth was outstretched, jaws wide enough to swallow a mammoth. Like staring down into the darkest pits of the seven hells. "Ready the scythe, ready the-"

Men scattered. Sam was running, and then the edge of the Wall seared back another twenty feet under an immense breath.

"Where's the scythe, the scythe?" someone screamed. "Drop it, drop it!"

It wasn't working, Sam realised in horror. The chain of the scythe had jammed with ice, they couldn't hack it free. Sam saw men with axes and swords, slashing frantically to break the ice off the solid metal links.

"Wun Wun!" someone bellowed. "Wun Wun! Here, help!"

The giant tumbled through the trenches. Three hundred foot away one of the smaller wyrms slid off the ice, but the big one was still coming for them. The wyrm was climbing, roaring…

Boom . A geyser of frost nearly swallowed them all, and the world went white.

He heard the hoarse gasp of its breath, like a whale with sore throat. The ice beneath him was shivering, straining…

The great rotten snout was breaking over the precipice. Sam could only stare with horrified eyes. His mind was overwhelmed by horror.

It was barely twenty feet away from him, an immense wall of flesh rising upwards. As large as a castle. Dead muscles were writhing. It was trying to twist its gigantic head around the edge, trying to breathe outwards.

Men tried to lunge at scales with spears, but they might as well have been fleas against a beast that big. A littering of arrows were jammed in between ice and mouldy flesh. Coarse scales were shredding against the Wall, grinding the ice away.

Black wings rustled around him. Birds, Sam realised dumbly. Birds were flapping, trying to peck at the wyrm's bright blue eyes. Even its pupils were as large as cauldrons.

Its mouth opened. Sam saw blue light rising to swallow them…

"Wun Wun!" a cry screamed, and suddenly the giant was there, slamming forward. The giant had a barrel in its hands, throwing it straight into outstretched jaws. " WUN WUN! "

Wood snapped apart. Lamp oil splattered. Sam saw another man throw a burning torch, fire hissing through the air

Flames gushed. The wyrm staggered, twisting, and the giant roared. Wun Wun was tackling the wyrm, trying to push it backwards. Fire was hissing from rotten jaws, burning through dead flesh. The wyrm's grip was slipping, tearing apart the ice beneath it.

"Now!" a man screamed. " Now! "

An iron chain chunked. A solid chunk of iron clattered around him, snapping against the wyrm. Ice torn upwards, swinging like the world's largest sledgehammer.

Sam could only stare, mouth agape.

Red and blue fire wrestled against each other, and the ice was breaking away.

The wyrm was falling backwards. "Drop the flames! Drop the flames!"

Men were surging forwards, pushing blazing chunks of the bonfire. They used shields like rams, shoving the bonfire forward. Even as men were set alight and screamed in agony, they pushed the fire back…

Brave men, sacrificing themselves for a single push.

Burning debris scattered over the edge and into the ice. Great plumes of smoke and steam, ice and fire dancing.

The world was burning, freezing.

Sam couldn't, couldn't…

Its head, he thought numbly. The wyrm's head was alight. They were weak to fire, but their ice breath simply made it so much harder for them to burn.

Sam heard the resounding crack as it fell. It was so loud, so much force, it felt like his was skull was going to split…

"It's down!" a voice was screaming. That is my voice, Sam realised vaguely. " Drop everything, drop everything! "

It was on fire. The big one had lost half its head when it fell.

The men howled in pure, desperate emotion.

Wyrms thrashing below. More and more were breaking out of the ground, their bodies churning. The big one was ablaze, writhing as if in its death throws. Icefire sputtered from its jaws, but it could not extinguish the flames crawling up its head. The fire was chewing away through dead flesh.

It writhed, and crashed. Headbutting the ice.

Sam felt the crunch. Felt the Wall shudder, and tear…

He was running, and the cracks were spreading beneath his feet. Behind him, a dozen men wearing black cloaks were swallowed by white.

The ice was cleaving - a chunk of ice the size of a castle falling backwards. The Wall was tumbling apart.

Jon

He could see the Wall. The weak sun was rising over the horizon, fragile rays of lights spilling through the snows in the sky. Jon pushed across the frozen banks of the Last River and into the Gift,

and they saw the shadows of Castle Black splotting against the white of the Wall.

Ahead of him, their vanguard was clashing with wights on the snowdrift. Sigorn of Thenn was leading the vanguard, five hundred warriors pushing through the blockade on the kingsroad, yet there were wights in every corner. Even in the very early hours of the dawn, Malvern's forces were still trying to push them back.

And the ground is shaking, Jon thought grimly. Most of the men hadn't noticed it yet, but the mammoths had. At first it had only been faint rumbles through the earth, but they kept growing stronger as his army marched further north. The tremors were rising in pitch, growing louder and louder.

Jon felt the clenching in his gut. The strangely repetitive booms had the feel of war. The trembles made him think of Sonagon. The dragon could shake the earth when he grew angry enough. It felt like there was something larger than Sonagon on the far side of the Wall, looming in the distance.

The mammoth was pacing through the snow, shaggy ears flapping. Jon was in his mammoth's skin, and every instinct the beast had was screaming at him to run. To run south. To run anywhere but where they were heading. Somewhere in the mammoth's mind, alarm bells were ringing - an ancient instinct. It felt like there was a natural disaster coming.

We must reach Castle Black, he thought, and quickly . The wights were doing everything they could to stop them.

He saw the shapes of bodies across the fields, blocking off the kingsroad. The wights were nearly buried in the white, but they were moving with purpose.

Jon raised his sword, crying a wordless war cry to signal the charge.

The horns of a thousand soldiers echoed behind him. The army was surging across the snows, with a line of mammoths and giants ploughing the way forward. Clansmen and northern lords, wildlings, wargs and giants.

"Push through!" Jon screamed. "Push through!"

He was met by a tremendous boom, the war cries of half a dozen languages melding together. The shouts of a thousand men, the cries of hundreds of giants, the booms of mammoths - a legion of boots thumping.

Sigorn was leading their front and Rattleshirt commanded the flank, but Jon sat towards the rear. Malvern was all too fond of ambushes and surprise assaults, and Jon had to be constantly ready to respond in any direction.

The fields of snow were blanketed in men and beasts. It was less a battle and more a prolonged skirmish. The relief force had made steady progress hacking down every wight they found.

Still, Jon heard the horns blowing, he saw the front ranks rippling. Thenns were screaming, auroch horns echoing across the field, as they had half a hundred times in the battle up the kingsroad. And then, without warning, the tide of the battle changed.

Jon was already urging his mammoth forward towards the thick of the fighting. A guard of Thenn warriors surrounded him, each one wielding bone longbows and obsidian arrows.

"Your Grace!" a short, heavyset man in hauberk cried to him. Jon recognised him; Andrik Knott, the eldest son of Clan Knott. "It's the dead, they're…"

The words were swallowed by the blast of a horn, but Jon could see. The blockades across the road were breaking apart. They're retreating, Jon almost thought, but then he frowned. The wightsweren't retreating at all. They were just… dropping.

All around him, the battle was withering away. The sounds of frenzied fighting were falling away into confusion. Bodies were falling like rag dolls being dropped.

Jon needed to climb down from his mammoth to see; all around him men were huddled or gaping. There were wights in the snow, but they were just standing still. Weapons dropped out of their hands. Where once they had moved with purpose and coordination, now it was like they were broken. Jon saw dead bodies shuffling aimlessly, even as free folk brought axes to their heads.

"What happened?" Sigorn shouted to Jon. There was blood across the Lord of Thenn's tattoos, and four gashes over his cheek where rotting fingernails had clawed at him. "What happened to them?"

Jon couldn't reply. The giant Leg Lun snatched a wight up from the snow, holding it in the air and bellowing at it, but the dead body just sagged.

Their eyes, Jon realised. The blue had disappeared from their gazes.

He saw one body that was still walking - an old man with grey eyes was shuffling through the snow in circles. It looked like the wight was trying to say something, but half his jaw was dangling from his skull.

Jon couldn't feel the tingling on his skin. Normally, he could sense the white walkers from the chill in the air that caused his hairs to stand on end, but now he felt nothing from the wights. Their gazes were empty. Malvern, he thought. Malvern is gone .

"Somebody killed the white walker," Jon muttered, before turning to the men. "Where is it? Where?"

All around him, the soldiers looked uncertain. Nobody had seen it - Malvern must have died somewhere else on the battlefield. Perhaps there should have been a victory cry, but it was all so sudden and so abrupt.

Jon's gaze turned towards Castle Black. Another tremor sent birds exploding from the nearby trees. Men were starting to mutter now. Jon saw one bat that seemed to be going mad, flapping and shrieking across the snowy plains.

"Castle Black," he ordered lowly. "We must reach Castle Black. Now ."

"We are still half a day's march away, Your Grace," a Mollen bannerman warned him.

"Then march faster." Jon was already kicking the mammoth into motion, the beast trumpetting to call attention. "Get the men into formation, we need to reach the Wall!"

All around him, all the eyes were grim and fatigued. They had slept for barely hours last night, only forced to stop when exhaustion made the mammoths collapse. The wights had been harrying them for the last day and a half, successfully delaying the relief force from reaching the Wall. And now they just stop?

The men were exhausted; they had been fighting tooth and nail for every step they took. The dead had been assaulting them at every corner, holding Jon's forces back along the kingsroad. Jon's host had passed through the village of Creston, which had been slaughtered in the white walker's wake. Every single man, woman and child had been massacred with frightening speed, but not a single body left behind.

In a matter of days, the dead had ransacked half a hundred villages from Winterfell to the Wall.

The horde of wights had been merciless.

The relief force now stood at several thousand strong, but there was no time to count them. More were joining up every hour - from petty lords pursuing the wights, to smallfolk seeking aid with the host of men. Jon had met up with mountain clan forces from the hills and

also with Shadow Tower forces on the kingsroad, as well as dozens of petty lords that rallied quickly to stop the slaughter. Jon's banner was flying high, rallying all the forces for leagues around them. Malvern's army forced them all to flock towards him.

The dead had already devastated these lands, they were all left shaken and scared. Malvern had caught them all off-guard. Within three days, Jon thought. A single white walker can do so much damage within three days?

Perhaps it was ironic; clans Knott, Liddle and Harclay had all abandoned Jon's cause, but now they were fighting beside him. Their lands had been terrorised by the plague of bodies, and right now Stark, Bolton or Snow didn't matter. They were all against the dead.

"Snow!" Rattleshirt called to him, eyes scowling beneath the bloody giant skull helm. "Now, maybe my eyes are just playing tricks, but do you see that castle over there?"

He was pointing towards Castle Black. "What is it, Rattleshirt?"

"I'm pretty sure that it used to have more towers than that, Snow."

Jon turned and started. It was distant, but they could see the shadows of the castle's spires. He's right, Jon realised. Castle Black was missing towers; entire structures must have collapsed. The Lance, Jon realised after a pause. The Lance had been the tallest and slimmest tower, standing at a third the height of the Wall, but now it had vanished from Castle Black's silhouette.

Jon urged his mammoth to go a little bit faster.

Wights were still littering the snowdrifts aimlessly, and men hacked them down by the hundreds. They were left as mindless, lurking bodies - a few of them still moving, most dropping still. Still, Jon's focus was on the Wall, and what lay behind it. There was a sinking feeling in his gut.

"Forget the wights!" Jon snapped. "Push through! Push through!"

All around him, the giants were staggering, the mammoths were tiring too. Jon didn't dare push them into another fast march, but he couldn't slow either.

The other mammoths were shaking, but Jon warged into his mount and he used him to keep the herd together. His was a great, heavy bull mammoth, with thick blackish fur and a single broken tusk that had snapped off against the wight bear. The giant that used to own him had fallen in the woods, but now the mammoth responded to Jon's presence easily. Scratches and shallow wounds littered its hide, but it was strong. Jon needed to think of a name.

"Get the ranks into line," Jon ordered to his haggle of war chiefs and warriors after a while. "Gather the freshest of our men, and the horses. Anyone that can make good time."

"Fuck, Snow," Rattleshirt grumbled. "Nobody in this lot is fresh . What the fuck are we facing at the Wall?"

"I do not know," Jon admitted grimly. "But we must reach the Wall before nightfall."

Thankfully, the snows were calming, and visibility improved. In the distance, they saw a thick plume of smoke rising from atop the Wall. A large fire was burning. A signal fire? Jon wondered. A flare?

They were marching through the Gift when they felt the Wall shudder. No mistaking it this time. Horses were neighing, giants crying. The tremors in the earth were growing louder, threatening to crack.

And then he heard the howl of a direwolf in the distance, and moments later their spotters were shouting. The Wall was ahead of them; a mountain that seemed as white as a mirror in the south sun.

And they saw the mirror crack. Every man was gaping upwards in absolute horror.

A great chunk of ice was falling down from the Wall, slowly creaking its way onto the fields outside Castle Black.

Crash . Even leagues away, they felt the shudder as the ice collided.

Mammoths screamed.

"… Bugger me…" Jon heard Rattleshirt whisper, his face bone white.

Warriors were shouting, panicked cries in the Old Tongue.

He could see the crack. There was a chink in the Wall. It looked

small, but this was from a distance of leagues. Jon could hardly

imagine how many thousands of tons of ice had just fallen apart.

It was like someone had brought a hammer to it.

He could feel the blows in the earth, growing in pitch, as a sledgehammer tore the Wall apart from the other side.

"Faster," Jon whispered, before raising his voice. "Fast march, now ." "What the hells did that-" the Lord of Bones snapped.

"Do you think Malvern was bad?" Jon challenged, shouting down from his mammoth. "If that Wall falls, we must deal with worse. A lot worse. We stop it. Now ."

Men were charging, northern cavalry pushing through the snowdrifts. Jon's hands were shaking, but he couldn't let anyone see how badly. His breaths were hoarse, and the sight of that notch across the Wall…

He thought of Sam, Mance, Grenn, Edd, Pyp, Halder, Albett, Jake. Everyone he had once called brother. Castle Black… that was where it had all begun. Jon couldn't let it end there too.

They were marching towards the Wall. Jon was at the very front, with Sigorn of Thenn to his right and Rattleshirt to his left. Ahead of them, they came upon fields of women and children trying to push through the snowdrifts, trying to flee. Likely there were deserters among them too. They screamed and cowered as the relief force came storming through, but Jon's focus was on Castle Black.

Above him, the smoke was growing thicker and thicker. An immense fire was blazing atop the Wall.

The castle was in an uproar. There were more corpses - more mindless wights being unceremoniously hacked down. He saw signs of a battle that were already being smothered by the snows. The white made everything look clean, but there were abandoned barricades in disarray, and frozen bloody smears across the white.

There were only very few archers poised on the Tower of the Guards as they approached, but horns echoed on Jon's arrival. He urged his mammoth through the shattered gates, and then he was amidst a field of corpses.

Castle Black . In his gut, looking around the devastated castle, it felt like they were too late.

Jon was already shouting orders. "Support the black brothers!" he ordered to his men. "Hold the Wall!"

The Wall, Jon noticed. It looked like the thick of the fighting was happening atop the Wall. Black cloaks were crawling across the stairs like ants, even despite the cracks that were spreading downwards. The Wall was tearing itself apart, crushing the stairs and the wooden structures around it.

With a single thought, Jon's mammoth lowered himself to his knees so that Jon could leap down from it. He had sword drawn, frantically looking around the courtyard for who was in charge. Men were rushing around him, but if there was an order then Jon couldn't see

it. There were unfamiliar scared faces, and black cloaks rushing frantically.

Where is Sam? Where is Mance?

Then, Jon saw Edd trying to shuffle the refugees away to safety. There was a wounded boy in the steward's hands, a child with green eyes mumbling incoherently. "Get the barracks clear!" Edd shouted. "Get them out of here!"

"Edd!" Jon called, as his warriors filled the yards. "Where are they attacking from, how many do they have?"

Edd's eyes stared at Jon with utter shock. There wasn't relief on his face, Jon noticed, just fear. "The dragon," Edd stammered, looking around. "Where's the dragon?"

Not here. Sonagon is too weak to fly . Jon just grimaced, pushing Edd to one side. Another man gruffly took the wounded boy from his arms. "How many are there," Jon demanded. "What do they have?"

"I don't know!" Edd snapped. Above him, another immense block of ice was slipping down, groaning as it shattered. Like nails grinding against bone. "If there was ever a bloody time that we need the dragon, Jon!"

"Take cover!" a voice shrieked. " Take cover! "

A great lump of ice collided and shattered into a thousand crystals - lumps of debris bouncing off the stone towers. The whole world was swallowed by white. A cloud of snow and dust hissed over Castle Black.

"What is happening?" Jon screamed. "How are the Others doing this, what weapon do they have?"

"It's… I don't know - I don't - but something Sam said, a wight talked…" Edd spurted through wheezy breaths. "Wyrms. Wyrms,

digging up…"

There was a rumble, louder and closer than ever before. It sounded like a roar.

Coming from inside the Wall. It was under the ground, Jon realised. Wyrms. Wyrms?

Another block of ice fell, as large as a horse. It crashed straight through the Grey Keep, tearing apart the Wall. Around him, ravens were growing mad; their cages broken apart and the birds left squawking madly.

"This castle is lost!" the Lord of Bones shouted, grabbing Jon's shoulder. "If another big chunk falls, this whole place is squashed."

He was right, Jon knew. They needed to evacuate, to get clear, and yet…

"The Wall - how many are up there?" Jon demanded, but Edd could only shake his head. The steward was struggling to breathe, coughing through the icy mist filling the air.

Jon turned and stared up. There were still sworn brothers holding the Wall. They are brave men, Jon thought, still standing strong, even atop the quaking Wall .

There were monsters tunnelling, tearing up the foundations. Bit by bit, the Wall was collapsing.

All around him, men were caught by panic. Jon hesitated for barely a heartbeat. "Get in formation!" Jon boomed. "Hold the castle, reinforce the -"

The Wall shuddered, a great block of ice was toppling, groaning. It sounded like the ice itself was screaming.

Crash . The King's Tower was shattered by a boulder of ice the size of a farmhouse. Debris rained - over the gates, rubble falling across

the wooden stair up the Wall. Jon saw one man cut down as a lump of stone crashed through his head.

"Take cover!" Sigorn was howling. "Take cover!"

There were bodies pouring out of the lower levels, still trying to flee. All around him, the earth was quaking - they could feel it tearing apart. Scared men, running mad in the rumbling snow. Jon's relief force was swarming across the fields, trying to pull the refugees to safety.

Jon ordered runners to make for Queensgate and Oakenshield, while the rest needed to get into formation, to prepare defensive lines. They needed formation, they needed to hold against the seven hells themselves.

They were staring up at the staircase up the Wall, watching it crack apart. Glacial blocks of ice grated against each other, the stairs torn away into splinters. In all likelihood, the men set to climb the Wall wouldn't even make it halfway. The men atop the Wall are trapped up there .

Even if we drive the Others back, how long will it take to rebuild, to refortify here? Jon wondered. He was watching the greatest wonder built by man collapse in on itself. The work of millennia, crumbling.

"We need help," Edd sputtered, through a coughing fit. "We need more than this… we need…"

"You got me," Jon replied stiffly.

"Well, nothing against you, Jon," the steward replied. "But we've been kinda holding out for the flying, ice-breathing kind of help."

Yes, Jon did not doubt it. Jon had been calling out for Sonagon constantly, but the dragon was too weak to even move. It felt like there was tar clotting up the dragon's limbs, sickness infusing every muscle. He could not even guess if or when Sonagon would recover.

Jon had no more time to spare waiting on a saviour that wasn't coming.

"Snow!" Rattleshirt barked at him. "What's the plan here, what the hell are we supposed to fight?"

"Hold the castle, get those people to safety!" Jon snapped. "We push back against whatever they throw at us!"

"Snow, the Wall - THE WALL! - is falling -!"

"Prepare for a controlled retreat, Rattleshirt!" Jon nearly shrieked. "But get the people clear!" He took a deep breath and turned towards Sigorn. "Sigorn, ready our elite. We take the fight to them," Jon said finally. "Ready any that are strong enough, we're going through the Wall."

"Fight against what?" Sigorn cried.

"The Others. It's the only way to beat them - they want us to fall back, we push forward." Jon turned around them. There was no time for fear, no moment for doubt… "Only the best of our forces, each armed with obsidian - form up, follow me. We push north and we hurt them. We target the walkers."

Around him, Edd gaped. The Wall shuddered again. Vaguely, Jon wondered how many would be brave enough to charge through something like that. I will have to lead from the front - it's the only way that anyone will follow.

"You can't," Edd gasped suddenly, hand on Jon's shoulder. "The tunnel… the tunnel is collapsed."

What? Jon might have cursed. "Is there another way through?"

"Well not right now!" Edd squealed, flailing in panic towards the collapsing Wall. "But wait another hour and you might have more luck!"

Jon looked frantically to the far end of Castle Black's training yard, where the portcullis to the ice tunnel lay twisted and broken. The tunnel was collapsed. It was too dangerous to climb the stairs, and there was no way to get across the Wall. We are sitting ducks like this .

The stairs. Jon could see the stairs up the Wall - and they were falling to pieces. The platform of the lift had snapped off, the timbers splintering apart. Chunks of wood were falling down. There was no way up or down, no way through…

Whatever weapon was coming, it was big. Jon's head was swimming with possibilities, trying to imagine a battleplan. They needed to push through - to rally and turn the Other's strengths against them. Push a dagger into the Other's forces, maybe buy some time…

If there was an army of wights waiting on the other side of the Wall, Jon knew how to handle that. He didn't know how to handle whatever was breaking through. He felt lost, frantic in apprehension.

Jon pushed his way through the frantic bodies, and into the courtyard. The tunnel was collapsed, and the Wall cracking.

Behind him, what remained of the King's Tower was collapsing in on itself, falling into rumble. Jon heard Sigorn howling some war cry, he heard giants struggling to control mammoths that were going mad. Horses were galloping, lost in mindless panic.

Another roar. Coming closer and closer, breaking through the earth.

Above him, smoke and fire hissed against snow. Jon could feel the chill in the air, the cold creeping through.

Jon was screaming orders, but his voice was drowned out by the earth-shattering groan of ice slicing against ice. The Wall was screaming, huge chunks grating together.

He gasped as he felt the dying howl of the Wall.

A tingle ran down his spine, Jon could feel it. He could feel the presence of the white walker's oozing into the world. Unnatural power was seeping through the cracks, like water pushing through a dam. The Others were pushing through, faster and faster.

The barrier. The Wall was broken, the barrier was torn.

All around him, it felt like men were going mad.

Jon had never imagined the feeling - to be staring upwards as the whole world was tumbling down.

"Hold the line!" Jon screamed. "We hold the line!

A thud rocked the earth, and it was coming from beneath his feet. Men had already broken ranks, sprinting away as fast as scared legs could take them.

Jon was left frozen in the spot, in the middle of a devastated castle, watching the world end around him…

His heart was beating so fast he couldn't feel it.

Thud. Another dull thump, of earth being torn apart. It was beneath him. It's in the wormwalks, Jon realised. It's through the Wall…

Crash .

…

Jon remembered that moment he had first seen Sonagon, that moment where his whole sense of scale had been crushed.

…

The earth was screaming, shrieking apart. A flash of blue flames, and a wave of cold…

The Shieldhall exploded.

Dark stone shattered everywhere, the old feast hall broke apart from the ground up. The oldest building on the castle, collapsing into splinters.

Old rotten timbers ripped apart like wet parchment - and Jon even saw the colours flashing through the air. Hundreds of shields of ancient knights, a fountain of heraldry and chipped paint. There were hawks and eagles, dragons and griffins, suns and stags, wolves and wyverns, manticores, bulls, trees and flowers, harps, spears, crabs and krakens, red lions and golden lions and chequy lions, owls, lambs, maids and mermen, stallions, stars, buckets and buckles, flayed men and hanged men and burning men, axes, longswords, turtles, unicorns, bears, quills, spiders and snakes and scorpions, and a hundred other heraldic charges that had adorned the Shieldhall walls, blazoned in more colours than any rainbow ever dreamed of. They were all scattered and raining down across Castle Black.

Jon was nearly beheaded by a broken red and black shield that bounced off the wall by his head. Every man nearly fell to their knees.

He saw the light. Blue light flashed, and a wave of cold and mist-

Jon was running. He heard the crackle of debris as an immense body broke out of the earth, but he couldn't see it. There was only dust and snow, panic and death…

It roared, and then Jon saw it.

Jon was staring upwards. A dragon. A dragon.

A dead dragon.

A monster was snaking out of the wreckage of the Shieldhall; its jaws open wide, black teeth snapping. Teeth like daggers, a gape that could swallow a man whole.

Grey flesh and a long, muscular body - swaying side to side as it pushed itself forward. It had scales and a dragon's jaw, but it moved like some worm or snake. It was hornless, wingless, but with a crest of jagged spines running down its back.

It was long - long enough to stretch across the broken building, with its tail still trapped from where it had emerged. The beast was snapping, struggling to pull itself upwards.

It had a long, thick and flat tail like an eel's that sent a wave of debris flying with a casual swipe.

Another dozen men died, just like that. Jon's head was blank, struggling to understand…

A wyrm. He was staring up at a wyrm.

Its jaws, he realised. Its neck was gouged open, like its throat had been mauled. It must have died when huge teeth tore it apart. Jon could see the flesh hanging off its skull, he could see blue fire pulsing inside its throat.

The air was deafening. Jon couldn't even make out the screams, they were swallowed in the moment. His head was spinning, sword trembling so madly it could have fallen out of his hand…

Bowstrings snapped. Arrows flickered overhead, shafts stabbing into rotten scales, and the beast's head twisted. Jon recognised the movement; it reminded him of how Sonagon would pull back its head just before…

"Scatter!" Jon screamed, already running. " Scatter, take cover!" The wyrm breathed.

He dived face first to the snow, but he still felt the cold scour against his back. Icy breath and a noxious stink of rot.

Jon saw a giant raise its club, only to be flash-frozen, scoured into icy shards under the force of its breath. The smell - the blast of cold air was so noxious that Jon could barely breathe. A smell so heavy that it coated his tongue, tasting of death.

There was a groan behind him, as the frostfire tore away the stones of the Tower of the Guard. The whole structure was screaming, falling apart with a bone-rattling crunch. Tower after tower, building after building was collapsing around him, being knocked down like dominoes.

Castle Black was being torn apart.

The wyrm was snaking away, coiling through the ruins of the castle. There was nothing but mad, frenzied panic. Jon had Dark Sister in his hand, pushing himself to his feet. He was already running, loping unevenly through the snows.

There was only one choice, only one thought that Jon allowed himself to think. Fight, resist .

"Avoid its breath!" Jon bellowed. "Surround it! Scatter, assault from all sides!

"Snow, we mus-!" Rattleshirt tried to protest.

Surround it! " Jon snapped. "We need fire, we need torches. There's a delay between breaths - wait until it recoils, then go for eyes and the throat."

Men looked dazed, but Jon could give them no chance to panic. They needed to fight, needed to resist. "On me!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, raising Dark Sister. "On me!"

The wyrm was twisting around the keep, lashing out with sharp jaws and lightning fast lunges. The lack of wings was a disadvantage, but the wyrm was strong and agile. It was very different from Sonagon,

but Jon could still recognise the similarities. There was something in how it moved - it was reptilian, fierce and aggressive.

A single breath could kill him in an instant. Will not die, Jon thought. He repeated the words like a mantra, thinking them over and over until he believed them. Will not die .

Another breath of blue cold scoured through the edge of the keep, but Jon was ready for it this time. It was twisting, spinning in a semi-circle to scour the courtyard white.

Two dozen men died, but then there were more readying flaming arrows, taking position in between lumps of the rubble. He heard Sigorn rallying his Thenns, warriors charging like zealots. Jon saw men wielding flaming torches, swinging them like slingshots.

"Now!" Jon screamed. "Fire!"

Flames hissed through the snow; a barrage of arrows that was weak at first, then strengthened as more men rallied.

Flaming arrows thudded into scales. It doesn't notice, Jon observed, as he followed the battle. The wyrm had the same weakness as any wight; it was unfeeling, which meant its reflexes were very poor.

Sonagon would have reacted to the pain with berserk rage, but this wyrm just twisted away.

Around him, a giant garbed in patchwork leathers roared through the snow, swinging a hefty wooden log as a club. The giant was crazed, swinging the log like a beast, but then the wyrm snapped the giant apart in a flash of teeth.

A single sharp lunge, then it jerked its head to send half the giant's body soaring through the air. A single bite spilt the giant into two - the lower half dropping to the ground, and the upper torso splattering off the Flint Barracks.

Spearmen were rushing up the burnt top of the Lord Commander's Tower, hurling spears down at the wyrm's body. Not sharp enough, Jon cursed. It was too big, its scales too tough - spears couldn't pierce it deep enough. We need heavy scorpions, we need more…

Flames flashed - men were swinging lanterns like slingshots.

More fire . The fire was working - even a small flame would set a wight alight.

Jon could see the flames flickering and hissing across its rotten hide, but then there was a breath of cold air from its throat. The wyrm twisted around in a strangely circular motion, like it was trying to swallow its own tail, as it spat out jets of icefire across its grey scales. Polluted ice smeared across its own body, snuffing out the flames.

It can use its own ice breath to stop itself from burning, Jon realised.

Its long body was crackling with ice.

The wyrm's tail rippled, muscles tensing. Jon saw the way it recoiled, he knew that movement well…

"Take cover!" Jon screamed, a heartbeat before anyone else.

Crash . Rubble scattered overhead, the beast's tail whipping straight through an outhouse. Jon dived downwards, but the men behind him were too slow.

The debris scattered like it had been launched from a catapult - stones fast enough to split skulls, splinters like swords. Jon was on the ground, feeling the death raining above him. Against a monster like this, there was no space for error. To be in the wrong position was to die in a heartbeat. How many times can I dodge death? Jon wondered faintly.

He stared upwards, watching the wyrm thrash. Just a few more, he decided. A few more .

"Surround it!" Jon boomed. "More fire, more fire!"

Jon couldn't pause, he had to get closer. The bigger the beast, the more vulnerable they were up close. A dragon needed space to turn, distance over which to breathe.

We can handle it . It was a monster, but they could harry it, hunt it. They could surround it with archers, exploit its weak spots. Jon was familiar enough with dragons to know their vulnerabilities.

It's not as big as Sonagon, Jon thought. It seemed barely a third of Sonagon's size - around fifty feet from head to tail. We can kill it, we can burn it . We can beat it .

It would likely cost him hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men to bring the wyrm low, but that was nothing compared to the damage it would wreak otherwise.

And then he heard another rumble, and Jon realised that the Others had more than one. This was the first wave.

The wyrm was snaking away - taking shelter behind the timbered keep to avoid the bowmen. Men were running for shelter into the vaults, or taking cover in the armoury. Jon was already pounding up the stairs, chasing after it. Even despite its size it was surprisingly swift, hardly even using its stubby legs to move. It moved with its tail and its stomach instead.

"Bowmen on me!" he screamed. "On me, on m-"

His voice was cut off by the tingling on his neck. He knew that feeling, he knew the Other's touch. Behind me.

Jon spun around, Dark Sister flashing - just as the white shape lunged upwards at him.

His blade cut straight through an ice spider's abdomen, but the force of the creature still knocked him backwards. Jon stumbled, but he

still managed to hold Dark Sister straight.

Around him, the shadows were stirring, and the air was clicking.

Blue-eyed beasts were skittering across the ruins.

Ice spiders. Where did they, how did they-?

Across the keep, the wyrm breathed again. The undead monster was scouring through them, but ice spiders lunged from behind.

"Snow!" Sigorn was crying for him, blades flashing. Ice spiders were swarming against them. " Snow! "

The tunnel, Jon realised in horror. The ice spiders followed in the wyrm's wake, they passed the Wall the same way the wyrm did. They were surging through the rubble of the Shieldhall - crawling out of the tunnel that the wyrm had carved.

Dozens of men were falling, but Jon couldn't let them run away. It would be slaughter if they turned and ran.

"Single file, swords and spears!" Jon screamed. "Don't let them surround you, force them back!"

They were everywhere. Some the size of dogs, others the size of horses. Beasts with eight spindly legs, sharp fangs, and blue beady eyes.

Jon was lunging, cutting straight through a spider's limb. The wound wept white bile, but the spider didn't even seem to notice. It was hissing, clicking, scuttling forward.

Dark Sister moved on instinct, slicing straight through fangs.

Ice spiders. The wyrms had torn the barrier, there was nothing stopping the Other's anymore. The ice spiders were flooding through.

First it was ice spiders, soon it would be wights. The more tunnels the Other's had, the faster they could move their troops across.

"Retreat!" Rattleshirt shrieked. "Retr-"

Jon's fist took the scrawny man straight to the ground. Rattleshirt spurted as he hit the snow, but Jon could not allow that word to spread. Retreat - was there any word more deadly?

"Belay that!" Jon boomed. "Form up, hold them back, hold position! Form up! "

Men were running. He saw Rattleshirt staring up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Spears on me!" Jon shouted. "They have no armour, no defence - they attack fast but they die fast too. You want to live, you want to survive the night? Then form up ."

Men were reacting, falling back to the lower courtyard. Jon saw men grabbing the scattered shields off the ground, using them to block the lunging ice spiders. Against unarmoured and unarmed men, the ice spiders were pure death - yet a single warrior could hold back a dozen of them so long as he didn't let them get behind him. The spiders preferred to attack from behind.

Jon was everywhere, Dark Sister flashing through the snows. He had done this before; he had experience fighting these monsters. It was the men around him that had to learn quickly.

The spiders are the white walker's hounds - they deploy them against fleeing foes, Jon considered. The Others are expecting us to flee .

An ice spider jumped at him, fangs bared. His blade whirled, slicing straight through two legs, but it was still lunging at him. Dark Sister sliced through another leg, and it toppled. It was still trying to claw, even as the black blade pierced straight through its chitinous shell. White ooze gushed from the wound.

Around him, Sigorn of Thenn nearly fell back, but Jon was there to reinforce him. The Lord of Thenn was on the snow, staring up in amazement as Jon roared, cleaving through another spider.

"Single file, do not let them surround us!" Jon boomed. "Hold the courtyard, push them back ."

Across the keep, the wyrm roared. It was twisting back around. It was agile on the snow, but less manoeuvrable through the rubble. In the scattered rubble and debris, there were a hundred nooks and crannies to hide from its breath. The spiders were precision and the wyrm was mass devastation, and the Others were using them both in tandem. Jon had to react to both threats at once, else the other would overwhelm them.

"Archers to the bulwarks!" Jon screamed. "Ready the flames, set it alight!"

Rattleshirt was on his feet - his bone helmet lost somewhere in the battle. The scrawny man looked crazed, clutching his spear with both hands. "Snow!" he howled. "We have to run, we have to -!"

Dark Sister swung at him. Rattleshirt's eyes widened in horror, his spear trying to lunge, but Jon was faster.

In a single lunge, Jon barrelled through Rattleshirt and sliced down the ice spider less than three feet away from him. The spider hissed in pain, its blue beady eyes were sliced apart, but it was still trying to bite right until a spear from a Thenn pierced straight through it.

Rattleshirt was on the ground, staring up in utter shock at the spider's corpse. The spider had been less than a heartbeat away from killing him from behind. Jon saved his life.

Jon pulled the man up gruffly, and he had never seen the Lord of Bones so shaken. "Protect your damn flanks," Jon hissed. "And get these men into formation."

Cannot run. Cannot die. Not now .

"Hold the line!" he screamed, raising Dark Sister high.

It was mass panic, but others were repeating the cry. They were rallying around Jon. "Hold the line!" Sigorn shouted. "Hold the line!"

Jon heard the cry of a giant roaring the same, crude words bellowing in the Old Tongue. The whole castle was chanting, howling madly.

" Hold the line! Hold the line! Hold the line! "

Across the yards, they felt the roar. The wyrm was twisting around, rumbling closer…

Jon was already running, while clicking spiders scuttled through the snow. "Torches on me! On me!" he screamed. "Burn the Shieldhall down!"

Flames were being thrown - Leg Lun picked up an entire brazier and hurled it into the wreckage. Fires hissed from the demolished building, even as the ice spiders were still scuttling out of it.

It is the tunnel, Jon thought. The wyrm's tunnel was a chokepoint, the only way through for the spiders. The soldiers quickly caught on to his plan and set the debris alight.

All around the castle, soldiers and sworn brothers were mustering.

The Others expected us to run, Jon thought. They have not fought like this before, not against entrenched men who will not break .

Jon heard another shudder, another building falling apart under the dragon's breath. It was the Silent Tower this time, collapsing over the infirmary. The wyrm was to the east, breaking through the lichyards and crushing the gravestones of the watch - the wyrm had nearly completed a full circle of the castle. The wyrm was tearing closer and closer, even despite the arrows and spears scattering out the flesh of its head.

It was turning, mist pouring from its jaws, trying to torch the entire army…

Yet the men weren't backing down, they were fighting tooth and nail. They were clinging on, resisting with everything they had. Every arrow, every spear, every last ounce of desperation.

"Go for the eyes. The eyes! " Jon screamed, but the wyrm could not be stopped. The flaming arrows weren't strong enough, they couldn't close. They needed more flames - they needed to hack it apart.

Before he even realised what he was doing, Jon was running. He was running across the bulwarks of the keep, hurdling over the rubble across the merlons, sprinting as fast as his leg could take him up the steps.

Below him, he saw the gaggle of men - still chanting that cry. Giants were hurling chunks of rubble, bouncing off scales. The wyrm's head lowered, trailing across the snow, preparing to breathe…

" Hold the line! Hold the line! Hold the -"

Blue light swelled in the wyrm's throat, its throat gagging…

It was below him. There was no thought involved, no conscious decision. Jon just leapt.

He kicked off the battlements with his good leg, and the world spun. He was jumping, falling, straight towards the rotten husk of the wyrm's skull. For that one moment, the whole world seemed to freeze. It felt so slow that he could count every broken arrow shaft jutting from its flesh, every giant tooth jutting from its jaws…

And then crash . Jon landed.

He felt his leg crack, but there was no pain. His heart was beating too fast for pain. His blood was on fire, Jon could feel no pain.

He bounced off sharp, serrated scales, feeling them grind against his chainmail. They didn't pierce, but they hurt. It felt like colliding against solid, jagged rock.

For one frantic moment, he threatened to tumble - but then groping hands found leverage against the wyrm's crest. His leg pushed off the wyrm's spines, holding himself in place.

He remembered the first time he had rode Sonagon; trying to hang on for dear life as the enormous beast thrashed beneath him. The wyrm was smaller than Sonagon, it was easier to grip. Sonagon could swallow a mammoth, this wyrm would struggle to swallow a horse.

And Dark Sister was in his hand. There was no thought involved, Jon just plunged the sword downwards with all his might.

And the black blade stabbed straight through the wyrm's skin, piercing into its cranium. Valyrian steel - not even dragonbone could stop it.

All around him, people were screaming, and Jon was cutting its head apart. The wyrm didn't react, like it couldn't even feel him. Dark Sister was jutting out of its skull - but there was nothing but black, rotten blood oozing out of the wound.

The head is the wrong target , Jon realised too late. Wights didn't need their skull - the undead could even move headless.

The spine, I need to sever the spine .

The wyrm jerked, and Jon threatened to fall. He was holding onto Dark Sister for leverage, but his legs lost their perch. He was dangling, swinging across the wyrm's skull.

Finally, the blue reptilian eyes noticed that he was up there.

The head twisted. The world spun. Jaws snapped, trying to bite Jon's feet off. He was writhing, clambering for leverage against jagged scales.

All around him, birds were flapping. Black wings were everywhere, clawing at blue eyes.

The wyrm was rising, rearing its head. Jon flailed like a rag doll, but that was all he needed for his legs to find a perch. Jon was gripping its scales and lunging backwards.

He heard the arrows twang around him. The men - taking advantage of the distraction, launching flaming shafts through the air. Jon twisted around, and stabbed downwards.

The black blade spilt through rotten flesh.

The wyrm was thrashing blindly, with Dark Sister piercing through the nape of its neck and Jon holding on with everything he had. He felt his sword jar, jamming straight through its spine. Dragonbones grating against Valyrian steel, thrashing as it tried to move.

The wyrm spasmed as if in its death throws. It was still moving, still thrashing, still sputtering frostfire, but it lost all coordination. Its motions were more desperate, more crazed. Even an undead body could not function with a sword in the spine.

He was dimly aware of fires raging all around, both blue and red. Smoking red from the blazing ruins, rotten blue from the wyrm's maw. Jon could feel the hot and cold ash against his skin. Fire and ice hissed and bubbled, writhing and wrestling.

It was working - the fires from the wreckage of the Shieldhall were spreading. Just a bit more, Jon willed, just a bit more .

Men firing arrows, the wyrm spewing dragonfire madly. It was all Jon could do to hold on.

All around him, the wyrm was going berserk. It didn't die easy. Jon would have been obliterated into a frozen corpse, yet the wyrm couldn't reach around far enough with its breath to target him. The wyrm was twisting, trying to bite its own neck. He could feel the wafts of frozen air, the backlash of fiercely cold dragonfire, the shards of ice crystals against his face.

And then he felt the pause, the moment that it ran out of dragonfire.

Now, Jon thought - reaching out to grab the skin of his mammoth. Now!

Without even a pause, he seized the mammoth's skin, and it reared. The great beast reacted beautifully, and Jon seized control without a pause. Men were running, jumping out the way, but the mammoth was suddenly rearing through. Come to me, Jon willed. Charge .

Suddenly, Jon was fifteen-foot-tall, stampeding on four powerful legs, trumpeting through the courtyard. The mammoth's single tusk was lashing out like a scythe, tearing through the billowing snow.

The mammoth felt nothing but fear - yet Jon channelled all of that into berserk rage instead.

The mammoth charged, ramming the wyrm backwards into the flaming wreckage of the Shieldhall. Scales seared against its fur, but the mammoth was roaring. Even for a forty-foot-long dragon, the mammoth was strong. Knocking its backwards, its serpentine body flailing.

And Jon felt the flames bite against the wyrm's dead flesh. It was burning, the fire spreading outwards.

The tail snapped, crashing through the wreckage and sending flaming debris showering over the grounds. It was on fire, burning from the tail upwards. Nearly the entire beast was in flames, but it was still thrashing. Jon felt his own body lose its grip, falling backwards…

It was spilling frostfire madly, teeth snapping…

Jon jumped straight off its neck. He couldn't pull Dark Sister out in time, so he left the sword wedged into the wyrm's neck. Instead he jumped off the blade and threw himself to the ground. He landed face-first against shaggy hide. The mammoth was there to catch him, already stampeding away.

Giant teeth snapped desperately, but the fires were burning through it.

The wyrm screeched so loud that everything went numb. It echoed through his bones, rattling his skull.

Jon's ears popped, and suddenly he couldn't hear a thing.

He saw soldiers tearing forward with axes and swords, hacking the wyrm's flaming ruin into little pieces. The wyrm was down, being shredded by axe and flame. It was dead.

Jon's head was spinning, his ears screaming, but he willed himself to drag his body upright. The world had turned eerily silent, everything was shaking.

"Collapse the hole! Block it, anything!" Jon had to force himself to scream, but he couldn't even hear his own voice. He could feel cold blood trailing down from his ears. People were shouting things - cheering - at him, but he couldn't hear them. They were all screaming mutely. " Formation ! Get in formation!"

Through his mammoth, he heard the sudden increase in intensity, the rumbles pushing forward faster. One wyrm was dead, but there were more - there must be.

Another crack split across the Wall, he could see the ice creeping backward. Another wyrm was already pushing straight through it.

It was already evening, and the shadows of dusk were creasing across the white. It was a bloody red sky shining through the grey. Reinforcements, he thought. Where are our reinforcements?

The day had nearly passed, the bloody red sun was only a sliver on the grey horizon. Night was swiftly coming, and he could feel a deeper chill coming with it.

Above him, he was staring at Wall wobbling and groaning. They were coming through.

Jon's hands groped for a weapon, but he had no sword - Dark Sister was somewhere in the flames, still jammed into the dragon's burning corpse.

All around him, Castle Black was a ruin, consumed in soundless uproar. Jon couldn't even focus, he had to cling onto the mammoth else he would have collapsed. The world was twisting, like his sense of balance had been set to madness.

Sonagon, he thought, for what felt like the countless time, Sonagon!

In his mind's eye, he saw the dragon struggling to fly. Sonagon was howling in pain, long wings trying to flap…

Bran

He was in a hundred skins, and his heart was racing in each one. He was the sparrow flying across the Wall, he was the wolf sprinting up the kingsroad. He was a dozen mules clattering atop the Wall's stairs, he was a score of mammoths charging through the snow. He was the fox and the hare in the woods, the bats and the bats shrieking from the trees - he was watching the battle through a hundred disparate eyes.

The air around him was bleeding, torn, like a great crack had been rent into the fabric of the world. Cold suffocating power was leaking

through, making his warg-sense tighter, more desperate. The white walkers distorted the world by their very presence - turning nature to fear, to madness.

It was like the world was being smeared black and white.

Bran watched the battle from high above. He was a stone on the tide, another body in clamour. He felt billows of smoke and ash under his wings, steam and ice crackling in his eyes, and the bluish bursts of icefire scouring his skin…

Bran saw everything, felt everything, he was everywhere. He flickered between skins faster and faster, trying to force a hundred frantic bodies into line. At one point, Bran had even possessed a giant, managing to throw a barrel of oil into the monster's jaws. He was in ravens and crows, gouging out a hundred eyes.

But it wasn't enough. Bran was watching the men fight in raw desperation, clinging on with everything they had, but it just wasn't enough.

He could feel it. Bran could feel the barrier across the Wall - like a curtain of red and green shimmering from the sky. It was being torn, being shredded along with thousands of tons of ice. The ice crackled as it shattered into a spectrum of bloody colours, but the monsters were tearing deeper and deeper through straits of ice that had been buried for millennia.

He could feel them. The white walkers were seeping through, their power pulsing through the cracks. They were reaching for him, icy tendrils spreading across the land…

The cold felt like a dagger in his chest, the frost like needles piercing into his skin. A hundred thousand blue eyes were staring at him in the black…

Bran screamed. In the distance, a wolf howled.

The boy fell out of the sky, tumbling through consciousness until…

Darkness, thrashing, Bran was struggling. His vision was spinning, he couldn't breathe, could only claw and squirm. Rough hands were trying to hold him down, trying to suffocate him, choking the life out of him…

And suddenly a soft hand took his. There was a hand on his cheek, fingers cradling his…

"Bran!" Meera gasped. "Bran, it's alright, it's alright!"

He could barely focus, but he heard Meera's voice. His breath stiffened, heart calming…

"Deep breaths," her voice whispered. "Deep breaths, take deep breaths."

He did. Bran's vision started to focus, blurry images taking shape. His body was so stiff and heavy, so many aches and pains. After spending so long flickering through a hundred skins, his own flesh felt like a stranger's.

But Meera was by his bedside, holding his hand. That thought helped to centre him, to give him focus.

Her hand was still cradling his cheek, fingertips on pale skin. Around him, there were a dozen unfamiliar men standing awkwardly in his room, all of them clutching weapons. Two of the guards had been trying to hold Bran down as the boy started writhing. They were all staring at him in tense expectation.

It took half a dozen deep breaths just to focus himself, slowly coming to terms with his surroundings. He was in his room, and the waning sun was rippling through the shuttered windows. Bran's bed stunk of old sweat, and there was mucus clinging in his throat. Someone must have poured fluids into my mouth as I slept, he realised. There

was a moment of quiet horror as he realised that his smallclothes had been fouled.

He stared at Meera, eyes widened. There were dark circles under her eyes, a slight tremble to her hands. I spent too long out of my skin, Bran thought. She looked stressed and tense, like she hadstood vigil for days on end.

"Bran," Meera hissed, lowering her voice. Around her, all of the guards stirred, looking unsure. "What happened? What's… what's happening?"

It took a long time to collect his head, to even make sense of the spinning, patchy images in his mind. His senses failed him, but he remembered the feelings. "It's the Wall," Bran said numbly. "The Others are attacking the Wall. They're winning, Meera. They're winning."

"Fetch the princess," Meera snapped at one of the guards. "Now. Tell me everything, Bran - how many were there, how far away are they?"

Bran could only shake his head, mumbling half-incoherently. How could you even count? They had been legion, endless hordes. "What of your brother?" Meera insisted. "How is the battle going?"

"He's fighting. He's fighting, but it's not…" Bran took a deep breath. "Meera, they have monsters. Huge monsters. This… This is…"

She didn't understand. Bran could barely even put it into words - how could you describe something like that? He was shaking with the very thought, trembling in stunned fear.

"Jon is fighting. He's doing everything he can." Flashes of blue fire and coiling bodies haunted his gaze. "But it's not enough, it's just not…"

There was a long, frightened pause. Bran's eyes were wide and haunted. Meera bit her lip. "Reinforcements," she said. "We can muster reserves, we can send aid."

"They won't reach him in time." Bran shook his head. He looked to the window, and it was already nearing dusk. The skies were red, and night was falling. "He won't survive the night, the Wall… the Wall is broken."

He spoke too loudly. All around Bran, the guards were staring down at the boy as if he were mad. The Wall was a mountain - how could a mountain break? The thought was impossible. But it had; Bran remembered the screams of a thousand souls as it crumbled. Meera's eyes were wide, her face pale, but she nodded. Meera believed him without even a pause.

"Hold still, Bran," Meera said finally. "We'll fetch Sansa, we'll sort this out."

"Sort it out?" Bran choked. 'How can we sort it out?"

"I don't know, we'll think of something." Her voice was curt. Meera looked worried. She never looked worried. "We'll find a way, we'll fight back!"

"The Wall is falling!" His voice was a shriek, and Bran hated how it made him feel. He felt weak, helpless - like a child. "It's falling, it's falling…" His hands were shivering. "We can't stop it… !"

He could see everything, watch everything, but he couldn't change it. The Others were just so powerful, so immense, and Bran…

This is the Long Night, he realised. This is the end of the world. You sweet summer child .

Meera was holding his hand. Her grip tightened.

"Look at me, Bran. There'll be time for panic later, but right now - what needs to be done?" she pressed. Bran couldn't reply. "What can we do?"

"I don't… I don't…"

"Do they have a weakness? Is there anyone we can call upon?" she pressed. She stared at him, bright green eyes on his. "Will the three-eyed crow help?"

The three-eyed crow. The boy shook his head, trembles running down his spine. "No. No, he's… he's resigned for this to happen, Meera." Bran gulped. "The greenseer warned me that the Others cannot be stopped. And he was right."

"Bran!"

"That is what he said! This is what he wants ! The chains…" His voice quivered. "My family, my friends… he wants them to die so that I will go to him. He wants the chains to break."

The three-eyed crow had given Bran a prophecy; everything that held him down would snap. The world would break away.

Everything is going to be destroyed . The greenseer still expected Bran would go to him, but only once he lost everything. The Others are going to destroy my family .

The thought of the Wall falling down, breaking apart…

His breath stifled, his shoulders shaking. "I… I…" Bran took a hoarse breath, wheezing, as he held back tears. "I'm scared, Meera."

The words were a whimper, a quiet confession. He didn't know what to do, how to do it, or even if he could do anything at all. He was a child, a useless broken child…

And yet Meera was holding his hand. She was holding his hand so, so tight. "I know," the girl whispered. "I'm scared too."

Bran didn't know Meera even felt fear - she had always seemed so strong. No matter what; whether trekking through the wilderness, escaping from a dungeon, or dragging his limp body through a snowstorm, Meera could do it…

Can a man still be brave if he's afraid? a distant voice from his memory asked.

That is the only time a man can be brave .

Bran's heartbeat soothed slowly, and he forced his lungs to take a deep breath.

There was a long pause. A long and tender moment, and Meera never let go of his hand. "Do something, Bran," she whispered.

"What can I do?" All of his powers, all of his strength… the Others outmatched it all. They outmatched the three-eyed crow too.

"Anything." Meera's voice was firm. "Everything. Do whatever you can do, and then do some more."

My brother is still fighting, Bran thought. Jon must know how the battle was going. Those men on the Wall knew it too. There were thousands of men who knew their odds, but they were fighting regardless. Bran had been at the Wall in mind only, but those men had been fighting body and spirit, tooth and nail.

Bran stared at the window, where the fading red light of the sunset was leaking through the shutters. It hurt, it was frightening, but he would be brave.

He thought of the tales that Old Nan used to tell him - those frightening stories of horrible terrors, tragic deaths and evil demons in the night. He had heard them all a hundred times, but he had never really understood them. The stories weren't about the terror, weren't about the misery; they were about how the nightmares could be beaten. They were about surviving.

Meera was still holding his hand.

The three-eyed crow said that I had to save the world .

He took another deep breath. There is only one thing that I can think of that might save it now .

"The dragon," Bran said after a long, long silence. "Meera, you have to take me to the dragon."

She stared down at him, blinking in surprise. "Bran, what of those shadows? There could be more of them," Meera warned. "It's not safe out there."

He looked straight at her. "It's not safe in here."

She hesitated. "I need to go," Bran insisted. "Can you get me to the godswood?"

For a moment, it looked like she wanted to argue, but she complied. The guards tried to object, but Meera forced them to let them out. They tried to argue her down, but Meera held a broken shaft of wood like a spear, and had to all but threaten violence before they conceded. There was no time for a platter, instead Meera was ready to carry Bran herself.

"King Snow told us to keep you safe," a bearded guard protested.

"Then keep me safe. But do it in the godswood," Bran retorted, trying to sound stronger than he felt. "I order you to take me to the godswood."

Meera hoisted Bran to the door herself, until finally one of the guards volunteered to lift him instead. They were large and strong men, but they were still hesitating with every flicker of the shadows in the stairwell.

The man was broad and gruff, and he carried the boy bridal style out of his chambers. It might have been embarrassing, but Bran had far

larger worries.

Daylight was fading fast, and he could feel it in the wind. The night would be a hard one.

They met Sansa as she was rushing up the stair. His sister's hair was dishevelled, her clothes stained. She was wearing a leather apron over her dress - Bran had never even imagined Sansa in an apron before. "Princess," a man called to her. "We didn't want to, but he insisted…"

Her heels were clattering up the stones, looking between him and Meera. Sansa looked worried. "Bran, what is going on?"

"The dragon." He gulped. "You've got to take me to the dragon."

She looked like she wanted to argue, but Meera was already pushing her way through. They carried him down to the staircase and towards the great hall. Bran could feel the tension in every corner, the anxiety flooding the corridors. The doors were sealed as if men were afraid to walk outside.

He passed the window, and he saw the skies. The snows had faded, but the hissing winds lingered. It was unnatural weather, the skies were distorted. The clouds weren't sailing across the sky, instead it seemed like they were spiralling and churning. There was a power in the air - twisting the weather itself.

Bran looked down upon Winterfell, and the snows appeared black and red in the dark sunset. There were long and deep shadows drooping over the spires and merlons, and wicked gargoyles were sneering in the faded light.

Bran heard a roar - an immense, strangled boom shaking the trees from the godswood. The guards were nervous, fidgeting with their dragonglass daggers or weirwood spears.

"Bran, what are you doing?" Sansa whispered in his ear.

I haven't the foggiest, Bran could have replied. He just knew he needed to try. "Do you remember the histories that Maester Luwin told us?" he asked Sansa. "About the children, about greenseers?"

"Yes." She frowned. "Yes, of course I do."

"Do you believe in them?"

At that Sansa hesitated. She paused for a few long heartbeats. "I don't know what I believe. I'll believe what I can see."

That's probably for the best, Bran considered, but he stifled before replying.

They were walking through the main hallway, and it took four to remove the barricades from the great doors. The whole castle had been sealed up tightly; every door barred and locked. Around them, footsteps were pattering - eyes were peering out of the gloom to see what was happening.

Sansa was staring at Bran queerly, something in her eyes. "The children of the forest," Sansa said slowly. "Maester Luwin said supposedly they could see through the trees, they control birds and beasts."

"And more," Bran gulped. "They could do more too. They could dream of the future, they could travel through dreams. They could move themselves to distant shores, even travel through time too. It's not just birds and beasts either, not at first… it's like everything . There's a man who can control the trees, Sansa, or possess the weather. The Others - they're using the same powers. And I've had these dreams; I see men singing to the earth, and the world shifts. It's all power, magic it's like this spark, this fire, inside of people. I've felt it." Bran was rambling. It sounded insane when he said it out loud, but it was true. "Everybody has a little bit of it, but I think that some people have more than a bit."

The doors shoved open with a grunt. The snows had faded, but a thick blanket of white still smothered the world. Icicles like spears were drooping from a top the doorway, like the teeth of some monster's throat. Sansa was staring at Bran, her expression guarded. She thinks I'm insane, Bran thought with a quiet grimace. Perhaps I am . "And I feel…" Bran continued hesitantly. "I feel like there's more that I can do, I just… I just…"

"Bran, what are you…?" Sansa's voice trailed off.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I just have to try."

They stepped out into the courtyard, shuffling through a muddy slush of thick snow. In the distance, they heard another rustle of trees, of the agitated beast trembling.

Winterfell felt dead. All of the men had left with Jon, and the grounds were littered with tents and campsites left barren and still. The yards felt weirdly empty without the giants stomping through.

It felt like a procession was forming as they stepped out of the keep. People were creeping out of the hiding holes, staring down at him. Some few were bustling forward, trying to find out what was happening. Murmurs were spreading. The broken king being carried in a stranger's arms. All those eyes were on him.

Focus. Deep breaths. I can do this, I can do this…

There were a gaggle of men shouting angrily, the guards were already trying to push them back. Winterfell felt unnerved. Meera was twitching, holding her spear closely. Sansa walked close to Bran's side, shoving off her apron into the snows and keeping her hand on her brother's shoulder.

"Do you remember the other stories as well?" Bran's voice was low. "The stories that Old Nan told us?"

"Those were just stories," Sansa replied. "She was trying to scare us."

Perhaps, but Bran remembered Old Nan's tales clearer than he did Maester Luwin's were. The maester always started his stories with 'it was told' or 'supposedly', but Old Nan's tales had been certain. Bran remembered the story of the last hero - he had been thinking about that one a lot. Oh my sweet summer child… the ghostly voice echoed. What do you know of fear? Fear is for the winter, my little lord, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods.

The last hero. He remembered the tale; it had been a band of heroes that had journeyed north to stop the Others, as Old Nan told it. He had set out into the dead lands with a sword, a horse, a dog, and a dozen companions, but the white walkers hounded them at every turn. One by one his friends died, and then his horse, and finally even his dog, and his sword froze so hard the blade snapped when he tried to use it. And the Others smelled the hot blood in him and came silent on his trail, stalking him with nightmarish beasts of death and ice. His companions all sacrificed themselves, one by one, so he could keep on moving forward.

Until finally the last remaining one - the last hero - came upon the hidden city of the children of the forest.

The children took him in. They sang to him, Old Nan said, they gave him life again. The children healed him, made him strong again. They reforged his sword and bandaged his wounds, and with the children's help the last hero grew strong enough to finish the journey. The last hero finished his quest; he travelled to the furthest north to slay the Other's king with his burning sword. The king died and his minions all vanished, and then summer returned to the world.

Bran never knew how much of it had just been a children's tale, but if there was even a chance…

"Maybe," Bran replied. "But Old Nan told me that greenseers could be healers."

They saw the godswood, where a line of men barricaded the gates with spears and white stones on their chest. Men were unnerved, shouting words in a tongue that Bran couldn't understand. They were all tense, and anxious.

For a while, it seemed like they wouldn't let Bran pass, but then he heard his brother's name being shouted. "Snow," they were saying, amidst the mumble of gibberish. "Snow… Snow…"

Sonagon was sickly and unsettled, Bran understood. The dragon was shaking the trees, crashing through the godswood. Several times it had tried to take flight, but its wings were not strong enough to lift itself. Instead, it had grown more and more agitated ever since Jon left. Nobody was allowed near, but Bran needed to get closer.

He needed to touch the heart tree. That was the only way he could be sure.

Voices tried to protest. The dragon had become growing vicious and aggressive; it was not safe without Jon's presence. Sonagon had killed one man already while they were trying to pray to it.

"It's not safe," Sansa insisted, and those words rattled through Bran's head. Safe, safe, safe…

And yet it was already dusk. Night was falling across the world, and the shadows of the godswood had never seemed so black.

Meera and Sansa were arguing with each other, their voices tense with worry. Sansa wanted to take him back, but Meera insisted that he needed to try. Bran could barely hear the words - his heart was beating too fast.

Finally, the man dropped him in the snow, and Bran dragged his limp body over the snows. He was shambling on his arms, dragging himself with a pained gasp. Behind him, Sansa shouted something, but Bran never heard the words.

He felt the rumbling growl, as loud as an avalanche and rising in pitch. The clamour of the procession was waking the dragon to stir, snapping entire trees as it shifted.

At first, there was nothing but blackness in the dusk, the whisper of crackling ice around him. And then he saw it.

He saw the dragon's bulk in the gloom, he saw icy white scales reflecting in the shimmers of the torches through the trees. He felt the rumble, he felt the world shaking - the dragon was trembling. It was sickly, with blackish lines running through its scales, and hoarse, fierce pants.

He could hear the bubbling of the hot springs, the splashing of the pools. The dragon was flexing, great nostrils sniffing the air. He saw its eyes; black eyes that shone in the gloom.

It was curled before the heart tree. Bran kept on dragging himself, twigs snapping and snow crunching beneath him. His heart was beating, wheezing with every strained breath.

The dragon was staring straight at him, he could feel its gaze on him.

Broken trees and logs were strewn across the woods, as well as lumps of twisted, jagged ice carved by the dragon's breath. Bran was staring, and then he noticed the lumps of white, yellow and black bile littering the ponds. Puke, he realised dumbly. The dragon had been throwing up barely digested food. Hunks of meat and frozen bile splattered across the snow.

Bran was staring, and then he noticed saliva-coated fingers sticking out from the pile. He saw human limbs sticking out through the gunk.

His breath stifled, his mind flooding with panic. People. The dragon had been eating people .

They were sacrifices, Bran realised in horror. The worshippers had been sacrificing men to the dragon.

He felt the ice crunch under huge claws, he saw the shadow rising upwards. Waters were gushing around the beast, the springs bubbling off its scales. He could see its eyes in the dark.

The dragon was staring straight at him, saliva dripping from huge jaws.

It snorted, a mist of cold bursting from its nose. Bran was left frozen, a crippled little child staring up at a man-eating mountain.

When can a man be brave? he repeated to himself. When can a man be brave?

He didn't move, he didn't panic. No quick movements; that would mark him as prey. Instead, the boy just slowly tried to wriggle closer towards the heart tree. He could feel the mammoth snout inching closer, he could feel the cold, hoarse pants against his neck.

I need to help, he thought desperately. I need to do something.

The heart tree was above him. Even when every other tree was wrecked, the dragon had avoided the heart tree. Bran was crawling, pulling himself over the roots.

The dragon growled, a low rumble breaking through its throat as immense teeth parted. It watched him crawl.

Bran's hand touched the white bark and reached outwards. He reached into the wood, into the roots, into the soil. The bloody face was staring down at him. Its expression seemed expectant, solemn, cruel - like a merciless judge holding court, looming down over the damned crawling before the stand.

Take me to beyond the green, Bran willed. Let me see. Tell me what to do .

The roots reached out to grab him, like bloody white hands dragging him down into unfathomable depths. Bran was spinning, falling, flying and drowning.

The world twisted around him. He saw the inexorable march of the seasons, he saw the ages of the earth rise and fall. He watched mountains sprout upwards from the ground, he watched continents split apart, and oceans swallow islands. He saw two moons spinning through the sky.

He saw a king in a frozen crown, bright blue eyes staring out over a city of crystal white spires.

He saw two men, one white and the other black, standing against each other with swords in hand. Bright blue clashed against burning red.

He saw a wounded man in a ragged black cloak, crawling through the snows. All around him, spiders prowled - white fangs tearing at his cloak, trying to tear him down.

The vision turned, but Bran was fighting against the current. Bran could not be swept away by the tide anymore, he needed to control it. He needed to focus it. He needed to see.

The dragon, Bran insisted of the void. How do I save the dragon?

It felt like trying to control a storm - a writhing whirlwind of thoughts and memories, dreams and visions, pasts and futures. Bran pushed further and further, clawing his way up the roots.

A thousand mouthless red eyes stared down upon him. He could feel them all around him, silent sentinels trapped in prisons of white and red. They never said a word, but they were watching, judgemental and cruel.

Show me, Bran demanded. Show me!

Everything blurred, the roots caving in.

Chanting. Jeering. He heard laughter - the sound of a celebration.

The boy was suddenly standing in the middle of a gilded marble square; standing on a marble plaza overlooking gushing white waters. He stared at architectures he had never seen before, and great structures that he had never imagined. The buildings were covered in statues of horses, manticores, sphinxes, sirens and turtles, while dragon banners of a hundred different colours draped from the spires. Bran could only gape, watching the crowd of pale, ashen-haired men and women milling around him.

They were chanting something, but Bran couldn't understand the words. He stepped forward, looking blankly around the plaza.

Above him, cloth dragons were wobbling down the cobbled streets, a whole drove of lords and ladies in silk and jewels were pointing and clapping. Fools and mummers were dancing around in turtle-shell hats. The smell of rich spices was thick in the air. It was a parade, he realised. Some kind of parade over marble terraces overlooking a great river.

In the distance, he saw a blackened palace, and there were fresh stains in the marble that might have been blood. Frescoes of water spirits had been shattered by hammers and covered by the banners of dragons.

Bran stepped onto the road, and he saw the centre of it. He stared at a man of rag and bones withering away in a cage of solid gold. He was a corpse in tattered finery, a broken prince, being carted down the middle of the street while silver-haired lords and ladies laughed and cheered.

The vision shifted. Bran saw the other side of the street. He saw children dragged out of their houses and slave collars clamped

around their necks. He saw refugees hiding in the river's shallows, living in swamps, or swimming through furious currents to try to escape. He saw men and women cowering in blackened ruins as death flew overhead.

He saw dragons feasting upon great turtles, tearing them up from the waters and ripping them apart.

He saw the ruins of a thousand massacres.

The sound of sobbing filled the air. There was a woman - a dying, disfigured woman, weeping for her lost love. Bran could hear the woman's cries; sobbing cackles desperate for revenge. She pleaded and begged and cursed and wept. She staggered across a tattered bridge, watching a great city burn and the waters turning black with soot.

Bran saw the woman kiss the cold lips of a grey statue, and then the stone man came to life. Shadows danced, and a shrouded man took her hand and cradled her cheek with cold fingers.

She wanted revenge. They had granted her wish, Bran thought, but at a cost. A hundred thousand men died horrible deaths - a plague that spread outwards from the ruins and never stopped. Bran saw love turn into sorrow. He saw a shining bridge turn grey. A city of dreams, broken and ruined.

He saw legions of stone men shambling through the fog.

Greyscale, Bran realised. Garin's curse, as Maester Luwin once named it. It originated in the waters of the Rhoyne, and it spread across the world. Bran saw it with his own eyes; it had been a Rhoynish curse - they poisoned the water, unleashing a plague that would punish the dragonlords for a thousand years. There were dead bodies under the water that still remembered, shapeless phantoms haunting the fog.

Bran gasped as the visions broke away. The scene shattered apart, tumbling through a thousand fragmented lives. The survivors had fled, some of them took shelter in the west. The trees remembered, the trees stored their memories.

The boy was back in Winterfell, staring at the dragon writhing in the woods. The dragon roared - the sound sending a billow of snow sweeping across Bran's face. Through the trees, voices were shouting for him; shrill cries breaking in worry.

Bran was still clutching the heart tree, trying to make sense of all those images. They showed me what I asked, Bran realised. It showed me the curse that plagues the dragon .

The dragon was pacing. Sonagon could sense the magic in the air too, yet the dragon wasn't sure if Bran was a friend or foe. It felt like a roar of warning; the dragon was sniffing him, shuffling closer to inspect.

Bran's hand was still on the tree, still channelling a wave of green visions. It felt like he was falling into the green, but the green was swelling up through him at the same time. Everything was distorted into colours - reds and blues more vivid than he had ever seen it before.

Bran could see it; he could see the foul tumours - the black - that was plaguing the dragon's aura. It was caking like stone inside its body, stiffening its muscles and draining the dragon's strength. Making it weak.

But if this is a magic curse, could magic also cure it?

Bran needed to reach deeper. He needed more power. Deeper into the earth, deeper towards the source of it.

Bran focused on the dragon, and he reached out towards the beast.

The dragon's tail thrashed like a whip, recoiling suddenly. Bran felt flames - pure fire - swelling up inside the dragon's mind.

The boy grabbed hold of the weirwood, and clung on for dear life.

Around him, Sonagon roared again, jaws snapping furiously. The godswood whispering around him, the dragon facing off against the tree.

He could feel the dragon's pain, the poison congealing in its guts.

Like tar filling its body.

Voices were shouting, footsteps crunching through the snow. They were running for him. Meera was screaming for him, but Bran couldn't let go.

If magic has a cost, I'll pay it, Bran prayed. Help me. Help him .

Save Jon. Save the Wall .

His world twisted away. Bran was in the tree, following the roots downwards. He was going deeper and deeper, feeling warm water sprouting up through the crevices of the earth. He could feel the grass and the snow, the ice and the soil, the water and the rocks. He could trace the roots and stone, ancient layers and currents that none could see.

He could see the power pulsing through the earth - ley lines of energy flowing towards a hub. Like branches on a tree.

More power. Give me more .

Around him, invisible roots were twisting through the air, coiling around the dragon.

Sonagon roared, suddenly jerking. The dragon thrashed, sending a hail of stones scattering from the pool. An entire tree tore from the ground with a single whip of its tail. The beast was going berserk, claws raging, white fire swelling in its throat.

And then Meera was around him, hugging him, but Bran never let go.

Bran was following the ley lines deeper. Deeper through the earth, deeper into the past. He was channelling it, bringing it upwards. Bran felt it, felt it surging through him…

Something buried under Winterfell. Something powerful.

His awareness stretched. It felt like a simmering volcano resting beneath the castle. It felt untouched for so, so long but Bran pushed through the veil. He popped the cork, and suddenly it was all flooding up through the earth.

He felt it reacting to him, it was surging at his will. It was… he could hardly describe it. Words failed him, thoughts were useless. It was instinctive - as natural as every time he had ever slipped out of hisskin.

"Heal," Bran gasped, grabbing at that power. "I need you to heal."

The magic rose upwards. It was swelling straight through him. He was channelling something ancient, something immense.

He couldn't even process it. It was nothing but power.

A heart. A living, beating heart. Bran touched it, and it responded.

"Heal. The dragon…" The boy's eyes were rolling, his breaths a hoarse gasp. "You have to…"

Sonagon stiffened, great nostrils sniffing. All around him, Bran felt the swell of heat burst from the ground. It was suddenly warm - as warm as the height of summer. A great bubble of heat rising from the earth.

Men were screaming, shouting in panic. They couldn't know what was happening, but all around them they heard the hissing of ice. They could sense danger. They could sense the lightning in the air.

Bran didn't understand either. He was touching something that was beyond him, but he was desperate enough to push through it. Like an apprentice working the forge for the first time, or a child climbing an unscaled mountain.

Bran didn't know what he was doing, but he had to keep doing it.

Burn the poison out, Bran willed. Cleanse him… Heal him…

The water was boiling, the pools bursting into crackling steam.

The hot springs gushed, ice fizzing.

Men were on their knees, crying, yelling - and then a woman's cry broke through the clamour. His sister was shouting something, but Bran couldn't even…

Sonagon roared, and the earth shuddered. Steam rising upwards into the night, blanketing the dragon in pure, brilliant white…

" Heal! " the boy screamed. " Heal! "

Author Notes:

Have you ever had one of those times when everything seems to be going well, you're on track to get the next chapter out no problem, but then life comes along and kicks you in the teeth? Well, that's pretty much what March was for me. It has been a hell of a time with work and stuff, so I'm sorry for the delay. I'm trying to get back on track, but I really can't promise anything. Here's an extra long chapter to make up for it, though.

Also, special thanks to Dap for a very nice piece of fanart - 'God's Arising'. Fanfiction doesn't allow to embed art, so I've placed it where it belongs at the end of chapter 31 on AO3. It is very much what I was imagining for the Battle of Oldtown, and it

shows the scale that I was going for quite well. There's also a link on my profile if you want to see.

Happy Easter everyone.

Chapter 48

Chapter 48

Mance

He remembered his childhood well. He remembered days spent whacking wooden sticks in the black training yards, or nights listening rapt to drunken tales in the mess hall. He had learnt a hundred curse words before the age of ten, and a thousand stories of the world beyond. As a boy, he used to sneak up the icy steps of the Wall and spend his evenings staring out over the edge of the world.

Beyond the Wall had fascinated Mance. Every faraway, forbidden place had. He had listened to every tale and song and dreamt of the world that lay beyond the horizon. For a long time, Mance had been so entranced by the wandering crows that he wanted to become one - to travel between every corner of the realm wearing a black cloak.

Mance had been born to the Watch, he had taken his vows as a child. His father had been the oath, his mother was the Wall, and his brothers were a thousand men in black.

The Wall has been my life. My purpose and my bane .

And now it was all falling down.

His head was still ringing even as the world quaked atop the Wall. The ice was fracturing beneath him, immense cracks splitting the Wall and widening by the heartbeat. The Wall was collapsing, the sound was like the crackling of a glacier at its limit. Mance was on his hands and knees, gripping a wooden post while the ice tilted beneath him. Enormous slabs of ice ground against each other; another section cleaved off, taking yet more men into the great white abyss.

He could hear their screams as they fell, their frantic scrambling for purchase.

It was madness all around him, but Mance could only feel dizziness, hunger, a vague sickness. He felt detached from the world, like his mind had already gone beyond.

Thud . Another slice of ice cleaved away, and the Wall lurched downwards.

The men were screaming, shouting, but Mance couldn't. He was just watching, remembering. His whole life flashed by before his eyes.

This is where I'm going to die, he knew. He had always known. The Wall was his life.

He heard the groan - the shriek - as yet another wyrm broke through the ice in a hail of rubble. In its wake, avalanches fell from the Wall's ruin. A thousand men were crying in helpless agony before the titanic beast. It felt like the ghosts of the Night's Watch were wailing through the black air.

There was no stopping them now. The dam was punctured and the dead were flooding south.

"They're coming up!" a man's voice screamed. " Spiders! Spiders, they're climbing up!"

Mance could hear the roars to the south - the first of the wyrms had already burrowed through, it was already tearing through the ruins of Castle Black while the rest were pushing their way forward. They had opened the way; there were uncountable swarms of dead bodies following in the wyrms' wake, and fighting to both the north and south.

The Others didn't stop. Even as the Wall was collapsing, the fighting never ceased.

He saw white shapes darting up the avalanche - the ice spiders surging up the broken Wall. They were climbing and there was nothing to stop them.

The Wall wasn't a block of ice anymore - it felt more like a heap of icy debris collapsing in on itself. It was falling down, piece by piece, while the legions of the dead pushed against it. And the men of the Night's Watch were still standing atop of it.

Mance's head was dazed. His head had been spinning for hours, ever since his fall. The bandages around his skull were slick with frozen blood. His vision was blurry, he couldn't focus properly, he could hardly keep track of anything - but he heard the noises. He heard apocalyptic screams echoing around him.

He was starved, fatigued and frantic, and it felt like the end of the world.

Mance heard the screeching as the icy monsters broke over the rim, sharp fangs tearing through men. It was a swarm of them - the spiders clambering upwards on spindly legs, dragging men down. The wyrms were burrowing under, while the spiders were climbing over.

It felt like a nightmare. The night was dark and the terrors were all around him.

The ice was sagging, threatening to drop. Tides of ice were falling northwards, collapsing from where the monsters had gouged the base away. They were seven hundred feet in the air and clinging on by their fingernails.

Men were running, clambering upwards to escape the precipice chasing them. Spiders were jumping up the waterfall of ice, fangs tearing them downwards…

"Formation!" Samwell was screaming. The fat Lord Steward was in a frenzy, skittering awkwardly as the cracks spread beneath his feet.

Mance saw the men huddling at the southern edge clinging to the very last chunks of stable ice, trying to hold a semblance of order. " Formation! "

The Wall was leaning. It was broken into glacial chunks grinding against each other. It was an earthquake. All around him, the ice rippled like the waves of a turbulent ocean.

Mance could only stare.

It was the dark of night, but the stars above were bright. He could see the shimmer of the northern lights over the mountains. The view from atop the Wall always took my breath away, Mance considered. Every single time . He loved that view.

Beneath him, a spider as large as a cart snatched a man off the ice and crushed his skull under monstrous fangs. Sworn brothers were still trying to fight, but they didn't have enough missiles left. There were no spears or catapults, no arrows, not even any stones left. The men had resorted to the Wall itself, hurling chunks of ice at the tide of spiders scuttling towards them. Like throwing snowballs at monsters.

Every man that was willing to run had abandoned their posts already.

The ones that remained were prepared to die up here.

Mance remembered his own friends - Qhorin, Dalbridge, Qorgyle, Mallister, Old Henly, Dywen, Hobb. They were the figures from his past, lost to time. They had been recruits together, they took their vows together. His brothers. Few even remembered the old guard of the Night's Watch now, but they had held the Wall.

We held the Wall .

In his delirium, Mance saw the Halfhand reaching down for him, helping him to his feet. Qhorin was staring down at him, judging. He knew what needed to be done.

Mance took a deep breath, before forcing himself up off his knees.

He nearly toppled, but he could not let himself fall. Not yet.

The Wall was holding on, straining to stay upright. Mance took another uneven step.

Another crack, another mammoth chunk of ice…

"Get clear!" Tarly was shrieking. "Get cle-"

Boom . The thump of ice sent the whole world deaf.

Memories scattered through Mance's head - broken shards left scrambled along with his brain. His life was fractured all around him. He remembered taking his vows, his red cloak, the first time he saw Dalla…

"Samwell!" Mance screamed. "Samwell!"

"Mance!" the cry came through the cloud of white. "Mance, where are y-"

Five feet away from him, the ice shattered apart. The precipice was falling backwards. Mance tumbled downwards, but then there were arms clutching him. Yanking him up from the edge.

Strong hands were pulling him up, and Mance took deep, frantic breaths.

Samwell was dragging him backwards, shambling away from the edge. His body used to be so strong, so hard, but now all he had left was a ruin. Ever since his imprisonment, Mance had been left gaunt and weakly, with fingers that couldn't even play a harp. Or hold his own wife's hand.

"We have to run!" Samwell hissed into his ear. "There's nothing more we can do, the Wall… !"

Mance could barely hear the words. All around him, he saw free folk and sworn brothers. He saw them wearing black, he saw them pushing through the snow, clinging to the ice.

He saw his family; both the family he was born to, and the family he chose.

Beneath him, he felt the rumble of another wyrm quaking forward. The big one, the one the Others kept at the rear. The final monster was coming through, and it was huge .

He could see grey scales rippling in the white, wading through the army of the dead like an elephant through a sea of ants. Its body was crisscrossed in injuries eons old. It was long and lean, its body swaying backwards and forth, but so large that it might reach half the way up the Wall. Its jaws were open - revealing teeth that could swallow a ship. Blue fire was sputtering in its black throat, and its dead beady eyes gleamed like dull blue moons.

The Others fought strategically - they had sent the smaller wyrms in first to clear the way, and then kept the largest one to come through last. It is the end of the world, Mance thought numbly, staring. There was no fear, only realisation.

Mance knew what he needed to do.

"Go," Mance croaked, pulling himself upright and forcing himself to talk through the vague dizziness he felt. His eyes were unfocused, but his voice was strong. "You go, Samwell. Run, Eastwatch."

Samwell looked ready to object, but Mance pushed the boy out of the way.

Qhorin, give me strength. I must be as strong as you were. I must be oak . "Brothers!" Mance boomed. "On me! On me !"

Eyes stared at him, men mad with fear. "Mance… !"

"Get another fire burning, that's an order!" the lord snapped, his voice stronger than he felt. "Now, pickaxes on me, any man that can still break some ice." Mance was pointing, hands flailing with wild movements. "From the stairs and outwards, start hacking away. Whatever rope we still have, we need it!"

There were frighteningly few men left. Most had already fallen away when the Wall shattered, but some were still clinging to the broken ice. Crows are stubborn birds . We can still peck .

"On me!" Mance cried. " On me! "

Samwell clutched at his shoulder, hissing in a high-pitched squeal. "Mance, you have to run!" he snapped. "The Wall is falling!"

I know it is. That doesn't mean it has to fall quietly . "What I have to do?" Mance motioned backwards, looking at the snowstorm writhing to the north. "Any moment now, Tarly, that big wyrm is going to jump up at us again, they're going to try to finish us off. And when it does, I'm going to be here ready to hit it in the face with the biggest fucking chunk of ice in the history of chunks of ice."

Samwell gaped at him. Mance raised his voice higher, shouting at the black cloaks around him. "Get pickaxes and fire, start hacking. We need hammers to break those supports!" he yelled, motioning to the wooden structures that lined the southern side, and the broken lines of timber that still clung to the Wall's structure. "We need those ropes - fasten them to the heaviest object you can find and prepare to push. On my signal, when that beast is beneath us! We drop the bloody Wall on it!"

Men didn't know how to reply, they were jammed in stunned fear. Samwell's mouth was still stammering. "Who are we?" Mance shrieked. "Who do we fight for?"

"The living," Hairy Hal gulped, but it wasn't loud enough.

" Who do we fight for? "

"The living!" they shouted, and more were turning towards Mance.

Just a bit longer, Mance begged of his body. Just a bit . He could not end like this, he needed to stay upright just a bit longer. " Who do we fight for?! "

" The living! "

"Then get to work!" Mance bellowed, and his voice left no room for doubt. "We'll rest when we're dead, but our Watch ain't over yet."

Bodies started to move. They were scrambling, men racing across the treacherous ice. Seven hundred feet in the air on an unstable structure, but they knew their duty. Mance was screaming with everything he had, summoning every ounce of strength they had.

They had to work quickly. Any moment might be their last, but they had to be ready for it. Mance's heart had never pounded so fast.

"Axes on me! Axes, axes!"

"Spears!" Bearded Ben shouted, as the ice spiders hissed. "Spears, keep those beasts off us!"

Mance heard the clicking of ice spiders scuttling up the shrieking ice straits, and beneath him the darkness was writhing. Battles above and below, but even in the dark of night they were still fighting. We are still fighting, against all odds .

Mance had never felt prouder of his people. Both his people - the sworn brothers and the free folk.

Samwell tried to cling on to him, but Mance pulled himself out of the Lord Steward's grip. "You go Tarly," Mance insisted, lowering his voice. "I can do this."

"Mance, I can't…" Samwell gulped.

"Head to Eastwatch. Get as many clear as you can, rally what you can," Mance hissed. "Lead them. That's an order. Quickly now - while you still can."

For a heartbeat, it looked like Samwell wanted to say something. Maybe the boy wanted to protest or apologize or argue. His mouth flapped, the way it always did when Tarly never knew what to do. Mance saw the unspoken dilemma squirm across the boy's face.

Then, the fat boy just turned and ran. He never made a noise, he never drew any attention to himself. Samwell just turned tail and ran away.

They needed working bodies to break the ice, but there was no place for Samwell here, Mance knew. They would all die in the collapse, but Samwell's sacrifice would contribute nothing. Right now, they needed Samwell's cowardice more than they needed bravery. There have been enough sacrifices already, Mance thought, as he took adeep breath. Perhaps there was none better than a craven at spiting death.

Mance couldn't run. Mance needed to stay to keep the last dredges of the black brothers in line. If Mance ran, the rest would run too and they'd lose their final chance. This is where I must be .

They chose to follow Mance. That was his duty.

Dalla and his boy were down there, somewhere. His wife and his son were relying on him. Most likely they had already fled, but the Others would catch up to them if nothing was done. There was a trail of refugees that would be crushed by those monsters. Mance would happily give his life just to improve his son's odds.

All around him, the groan of breaking ice was deafening.

"Light the fires!" Mance boomed over the unholy pandemonium. "Get the torches burning - I want hammers and pickaxes, and lots of fire!"

The air was crazed. Smoke and steam, screaming and slashing. The stairs were broken and tattered - the men could not climb down - but the wooden structures were still fastened precariously onto the flat of the Wall. Huge joints of oaken timbers, hammered into the Wall centuries ago and fastened by thick hemp ropes anchored into ice.

They were screaming at him, but Mance knew how to keep command. He was staggering, half-blind, shouting through the panic.

"Get those supports loose!" Mance ordered. "Tie those ropes to something heavy. On the signal, we drop them and we break the ice."

Behind him, Bedwyck the Giant clenched his jaw. "We're standing on the ice."

"Aye." Grim eyes stared at him, but Mance just nodded. "Aim for the monster's head."

Mance half-expected someone to challenge him, but they didn't.

Weary faces just nodded, and set to work.

They were scared, but they were fighting. They were moving quickly, hacking and lashing ropes.

He felt the shiver beneath him as a warhammer cracked through a wooden support. "Hold!" a man cried. "Not yet, not yet… !"

Mance stared out into the endless white, and he wondered what it would feel like to fall.

"Is this how you want to end?" Hairy Hal muttered to him. He was a shaggy, bearded man with a face lined like stone. Mance had known Hairy Hal for over thirty years, both alongside and against on the battlefield.

"Aye." Mance nodded. "It is."

Mance knew the men around him; Hairy Hal, Bearded Ben, Rory, Young Henly, Mawney, Ketter, Garth Greyfeather, Garth of Oldtown. Quort Harlesson, Wulf, Ivar the Restless, Red Rox, Kyleg of the Wooden Ear, Yvon of Whitetree and Big Asta. He saw men that he had known back when wore a black cloak. They were men that Mance had abandoned and fought against, men that he had shared cups with and laughed beside. Men he had betrayed or joined with. Men he had trusted or hated, bickered and conciliated with.

They were his brothers.

Across the Wall, the wyrm roared like thunder.

Suddenly, there were tears in his eyes, salt blurring his vision. Without warning, Mance was laughing - and the sound broke over the storm. The drumming of the howling wind felt like the chuckles of the laughter. Mance's laughter was so sudden that they all jumped and stared at him.

Mance was watching the end of the world, and he was laughing.

"You see a jape?" Bearded Ben shouted at him.

"Perhaps." It wasn't really funny, but Mance was laughing regardless. It was all he could do to laugh. "All my life, I hated this damnable Wall. I wanted to tear it down. I became 'king' to break through it." He took a deep breath through the wheezy chuckles. "And now it seems that I must die fighting to protect it."

To the north, the wyrm was coming closer. It was moving slow and unstoppable, like a looming storm. They saw the blue thunder of its breath, the dragonfire thrashing through the Wall.

The Others were nearly through, the Wall was wobbling beneath them.

"Why not die for your people instead?" Bearded Ben asked finally.

Mance chuckled. "Aye." He nodded. "That might work."

He had a long life. A good one, all things considered. Mance had loved a beautiful woman and he had fathered a gorgeous son. He had worn his red cloak, he had tasted the Dornishman's wife.

All around him, he heard the sounds of hacking and burning. Mance clutched a torch in his ruined fingers, holding it tightly. His fingers couldn't grip properly, but he squeezed the wood with both hands like paws. The fire blazed in front of him, and Mance held it like a club.

Mance heard the echo of the monster's roar, vibrating through his bones.

Behind him, he heard the hammers and axes breaking into a frenzy. Mance stood like a sentinel, burning torch in his hands, looking down at his death below.

"It's coming! It's coming!"

"Get those ropes fastened, get them-"

"Hammers! Hammers on me!" Bedwyck boomed, his voice like a giant's. "Torches to the edge!"

Mance stepped towards the cracking edge. It was coming closer, an impossibly large beast snaking forward. The other wyrms had borne large crests of horns, but this one was hornless. It had grey scales spotted in yellow streaks, a giant gaping mouth filled with teeth as large as trees. It had to be at least a fifty-foot-wide at the shoulder, and easily over four-hundred-foot long. Before it, men were less than insects.

Mance was standing above it, with his pathetically small torch in his hand, standing side by side with his brothers.

The roar of the world was drowned out by his own heartbeat. "Push! Push! "

"We need more, we need more-"

"Ready! Ready! " There was hacking, frantic tearing. Hammers bashing wood, pickaxes against ice. Like insects tearing away, termites eating through a structure.

The wyrm was slithering up over the mount of ice, rearing its head backwards. It was coming upwards. And we are going down .

The sight of that beast looming in the dark sent his heart fluttering. It was beyond huge, it was mountainous. That one moment seemed to last forever - the fire before him, staring down at the unending black hellscape of ice…

"Make peace with your gods!" a shaggy voice boomed - Mance never knew who it was. "For we will dine with them soon!"

The Wall was already hanging by a thread, it wouldn't take much. "Push!" Bedwyck was screaming, while teams of men rolled immense chunks of ice over the sagging slope. " Push! "

They were chanting all around him, stomping feet and beating weapons as they pushed. Men were heaving anchors off the edge, snapping supports, or hurling fire down into the abyss. He could feel the trembling beneath him, could feel the ice straining…

Just a bit more, Mance begged. Just a bit more .

The wyrm was rearing upwards, coiling and ready to lunge. Mance saw his whole life flash before his eyes.

"For the Watch?" Bearded Ben asked with a deep sigh.

Mance shook his head, his gaze flickering upwards. The clouds were thick, but the stars were there. The night was dark, but it would be morn soon enough. Mance knew it would. "For the dawn," Mance muttered. "For the dawn."

Around him, men echoed the cry. The tears froze in his eyes, but Mance never let go of his torch.

"For the dawn!" they screamed. " For the dawn! "

Mance saw the blue light, its immense jaws were opening.

Hammers swinging madly, then crash . Huge chunks of ice fastened to ropes, tumbling down the slope. The ice beneath him lurched. It groaned, shuddering…

" For the dawn! FOR THE DAWN! " The whole world collapsed beneath him.

Mance had his torch in his hand, and he was running forward. Even as it all came crashing down, the Lord of Castle Black was jumping off the precipice, swinging his torch like a madman. Two dozen pinpricks of light were falling through the black, and the monster was rising up to meet him.

He felt cold air rushing around him, he felt the roar of the earth. Aim for the head .

The Wall fell with him, an iceberg dropping from above.

There had never been a greater avalanche.

In that brief, timeless moment, Mance wished he had his harp.

Mance had always dreamt of playing a song as the Wall collapsed.

Jon

"Stand fast!" Jon howled over the shriek of falling ice, yelling at the top of his lungs in the dying of the light. "Stand fast!"

Fighting was everywhere. Their ranks were scattered and the battle was spread across the ruins of the castle, as the Wall tumbled

around them. Great slabs of ice were twisting and falling, and dead bodies were sprinting through the gaps.

Jon's voice was lost in the chorus - the cries of a thousand men trapped in pure, primal panic.

He saw a swell of flailing, grasping bodies clawing its way over the rubble. The wights were met by swinging torches and axes, and a flimsy wall of shields bashing like rams. The soldiers embedded themselves with their backs towards a broken stone wall, trying to fight off the dead.

The flames were sputtering around him, smoke searing his face as torches swung…

Stand fa- " Jon boomed, but then his voice was cut off by a sharp horn. Behind him.

There was no thought involved, only instinctive reaction. The horn blared and men dropped everything to run. Jon felt the rumble of the huge shape behind him, and he was already dropping behind broken rubble. He huddled for cover in the debris that used to be the Lord Commander's Tower.

Behind him, the world exploded into tainted ice.

The wyrm. Jon couldn't even see the beast through the white mist hissing around him, but he felt it. Everything was blanketed white, but he felt the rumbling above him; it was slithering over the tatters of the Grey Keep.

Jon's heart was beating so, so fast - staring upwards at the shadow of the dragon.

There were two of them now, both larger than the first. The wyrms were dragging themselves over the ruins, and there was naught that the men could do but run for shelter. They couldn't fight them, they could only hide. The battle was changing and the men had to adapt.

They had to follow both monsters' every move, and every time the horn blared it meant that somebody saw blue dragonfire swelling in their throats. Each time, they had mere heartbeats to scramble for cover before the ice fire obliterated them.

For many men, the horn was the last thing they heard. Each breath of dragonfire threatened to destroy them all.

Frozen broken bodies littered the grounds, like grotesque ice sculptures sticking through the snow.

Jon's hearing had returned slowly, but the sounds were still distorted. Muted, somewhat. The sounds made everything feel weirdly numb, like he was watching all of the visions pass him by in a dream. A nightmare.

Even as the stones were still crackling with cold, the dead were pushing on the assault. Dozens of men were slaughtered before they even had time to stagger upwards. The ground was so cold it was hissing - even just walking across it would bite off a man's feet.

Half the wights weren't even armed - but Jon saw a shrivelled, blue-eyed corpse tear off a man's limbs with its bare hands.

Jon was crawling, struggling to stand. He needed to pull himself up with his arms from the enclave of rubble, hobbling on one foot. His ankle was broken. They had rapidly made a splint from a broken table leg and wrapped it with torn wool. He could see flesh bruised black, the joint knobbly.

Two wyrms. His relief force couldn't hold them. They had fought with the fierceness of dying men, but Castle Black was already overwhelmed. They had been overwhelmed from the moment the Wall broke.

Jon was panting for breath, barely able to scream as strong hands pulled him upwards. A bearded man - Jon didn't know his name - was lifting Jon backwards towards shelter. It was a man with frost on

his beard, his ears lost to frostbite. A gaggle of defenders were still grouped around Jon, still trying to fight.

The slabs of ice were as large as buildings, while the men huddled for shelter in the valleys of white.

The wights were everywhere, and growing thicker with every moment.

These were wights were different to the earlier ones. They were so old and decayed they seemed mummified. Their clothes had rotted off them, their skin was browning and tattered like parchment. They were frozen like hunks of meat that had been buried under ice. Most of them, Jon couldn't even tell if they had been man or woman. Their fluids had drained away, their hair and skin was lost to frostbite - they seemed more like skeletons with padding than corpses.

Still, they were shockingly fast and ferocious, and they moved with no restraint. Blue eyes and mutilated bodies were everywhere - they were pouring out of the cracks in the Wall like an unending tide.

Vaguely, Jon wondered just how long these wights had been serving the Others. Centuries, at least .

He didn't have Dark Sister, instead Jon clutched a chipped, iron axe he had snatched up from a frozen corpse. In his other hand, he cradled a wooden staff under his elbow, using it to hobble on a single foot. Jon's leg screamed with every loping step, but he was moving. The adrenaline hadn't worn off; he was so high with frenzy that he could barely even feel pain.

The dead were flooding through. They were coming through half a dozen tunnels, clawing up out of the ice. Half the wights must have been crushed crawling through the collapsing tunnels, but the Others had no shortage of soldiers to spare.

Once, there had been defensive lines - but the wyrms had shattered those in a single breath.

"To me!" a voice cried over the jagged rocks. "To me, to-"

"It's turning, it's turning-!"

"Breach!" a man screamed, so high-pitched it could have been a girl's shriek. "BREA-!"

The sound disappeared under another flash of blue. Jon couldn't even think as the wave of cold washed over him. Rational thought failed him.

Yet still the soldiers were clinging to the ruins, still fighting. There was nothing they could do but fight. They were ants hiding in the broken slabs of rubble, digging deep into the trenches.

Yet they were fighting. Every man had to fight or die.

"More coming through!" another cry came - a voice nearby. "To the east, east! It's another one, another-"

Crash.

Across from them, an iceberg collapsed downwards onto the fields outside Castle Black. The white snow whooshed.

Jon was gaping upwards through the swirling mist, and he saw the bulge against the Wall. Another monster, a large one, coming straight through.

The Wall had fallen.

The other two wyrms were already pushing on ahead, leaving the castle behind them and heading towards the kingsroad. They are hunting down the fleeing men, Jon realised. Any soldier that tried torun was massacred in blasts of dragonfire. The Others didn't want any to survive. Jon's army was scattered with the snows.

Strong arms were grabbing him, heaving him towards shelter in the debris of the underground wormwalks.

"How many?" Jon screamed, barely audible over all the noise. "How many?"

"Another breach to the east, a third one!" that was Rattleshirt's voice. The scrawny man looked crazed with fear as he ran towards them. The wildling had lost his plated giant's skull helm somewhere in the battle. "Coming through! It's coming-"

Jon saw it. He saw the flash of its icefire, he felt the quaking of its tail. Three of them, Jon thought with panic. There are three wyrms now . Their odds were falling with every heartbeat.

Then, Jon saw the smoke from men standing atop the Wall, he saw the ice rippling. There were men up there - standing seven-hundred feet off the ground, as the wyrm came rumbling through.

And then crash .

The whole world washed away as a tsunami of white dust flooded outwards.

The ground quaked so fiercely it was like the earth was jumping.

Standing next to him, three men were splattered under a chunk of falling ice. Another had his skull crushed by icy hail the size of boulders. Jon heard the sickening squish as red blood and gore spurted.

Jon's mind went blank.

The mountainous heights of the Wall were collapsing. Even the deafening roar of the wyrms was being drowned out by the earth-shattering boom of the Wall.

He felt it. He felt an impossibly large chunk of ice falling against the great wyrm's skull. It crunched.

Most of the ice was toppling northwards, but even the backwash of rubble threatened to swallow them all. They were caught on the very

fringes of the collapse and it was still immense beyond words.

Jon was staring upwards, and suddenly he could see sky. Where once the Wall had blocked out the sky, suddenly Jon could see the horizon.

He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He could barely even describe it… the dread, the awe, the panic. The moment when even something as huge as the Wall fell apart.

All around him, ice was avalanching. Maybe men were screaming, but Jon couldn't hear them.

Above him, half the wyrm's body had been crushed by the falling Wall. The gargantuan beast had been left buried beneath a glacier's worth of ice.

They didn't run, Jon realised numbly. The thought was so sudden it stunned him. They didn't run .

Jon had been watching from below; the standing men on the Wall hadn't ran away. There had been time to flee, but they didn't. It had been deliberate; they saw the wyrm coming, and they had chosen to drop everything on it. The men of the Night's Watch had been standing atop the Wall to the very end.

They didn't run .

Jon's hands clenched.

"Blow the horns," Jon said suddenly. Nobody heard him, so his voice broke into a scream. " Blow the horns! Rally the survivors! Find the breaches and block them!"

Frantic eyes, his feet hobbling. Men tried to grip him, but his voice… "Now! Stop the breaches, ignore the wyrms!" Jon screeched. "Hold the line! Hold the line!"

Men banging on drums, a chorus of frenzied screams and war cries.

He heard a cry - a Thenn warcry in the Old Tongue. Sigorn of Thenn must be nearby with his warband, Jon had to rally them. He was already hobbling as fast as his broken ankle could take him. The ruins of ice and stone felt like a maze around them, a labyrinth of haphazardly fallen rubble. "To me!" Jon screamed. "To me! To me!"

"Snow!" Rattleshirt was staring at him in disbelief, voice wheezing through frantic sputters. "We have to retreat, we have to-!"

"Retreat?" Jon snapped around to glare at the man. " How? If we leave these ruins, we're easy targets for those monsters. They'd cut us down running." Wide eyes were fixed on him, even seasoned warriors were scared out of their minds. "No, maybe we are going to die, but I'm not dying easy."

Nobody replied, but they were all looking at him. Pupils were dilated, their faces gaunt. Jon had never known, never imagined, so much raw terror soaking through the air.

Jon could barely walk, he had no sword, but he knew what he had to. The broken ankle didn't matter, he still had to be strong.

The Lord of Bones hesitated, but Jon gave him no chance to object. "Go left," Jon ordered. "Go block that hole. Avoid the wyrms, just focus on stopping the wights." His voice rose, turning into a cry. "Collapse the tunnels! Block the breaches!"

The cry was spreading, even as the waterfall of ice cascaded down around them. "Hold the line," they cried, a chant of desperate voice. "Hold the line, hold the line… !"

Jon met Sigorn of Thenn as he was digging up survivors from the wreckage. Three dozen wounded men were trapped in the barracks where a slab of ice had fallen on top of them, but there was no way to get them out. Undead corpses were everywhere, fighting across the ruins. It was all they could do just to stick together.

"Rally the men!" Jon boomed to the Magnar. "As many as we can. On me, on me! "

The wyrms were large and powerful, but slow. They could retreat from the wyrms and take shelter from the dragonfire. It was the wights that were everywhere; swarming through the holes in the Walls, clawing over the ice. Jon's forces needed to choke them, needed to pull together a defence.

His mind was reeling, trying to think of a plan.

There are only two wyrms, he realised. Maybe the Others had more, but he couldn't feel them. Perhaps those two were the only ones left. Jon's men were scared out of their minds, but he could only hope that fear would channel into desperation. Two wyrms - and they could be killed.

As soon as the Other's army came through and became fortified, they would lose all hope. Still, right now the dead were vulnerable. This was the only chance to maybe cull the tide. There was no choice - Jon had to hold on, he had to keep fighting.

" Hold the line! Hold the line! "

All around him, snow swirled on the wind, the shrieking blowing out from the north.

They had to fortify. They had to hold for every single hour they could.

They had to pray that a miracle would come with the dawn.

Jon had seen battle before, but around him… it was like witnessing the end of the world from the front lines.

The wyrms were already over five hundred yards away from the castle, moving in unison through the snows. They were swimming through the snowdrifts, already at the base of the kingsroad. Each beast was huge - as large as Sonagon, well over a hundred foot from head to tail. One of them bore four jagged horns, the other

hornless, but they were both husks of frozen flesh and immense dragonfire. A single one could torch an army.

Two. Just two .

Jon could only scream for order, trying to pull the frenzied lines together.

A giant's club knocked the skulls of three wights straight off, but the headless corpses were still crawling, still groping blindly through the snow. Jon's axe whacked downwards into their spines, limping on his splinted ankle.

The wights are clumsy, Jon thought through gasped breaths. More clumsy than usual, even - they seemed to lack the dexterity to even clutch a weapon. Perhaps the Others were having trouble controlling their puppets? Perhaps some shredded remnant of the barrier was interfering with them? Whatever it was, it was the only reason the defenders had a chance.

Jon pulled himself out of his skin, using his mammoth to clear a chunk of ice out of the way. He was headbutting the debris with huge tusks, trying to clear the way. The mammoth trumpeted and reared back, rallying the rest of the herd towards him. Giants and mammoths were going mad with panic, he had to recover them.

He heard the screams in the Old Tongue, as Sigorn of Thenn jumped off the rubble straight down onto a huge spider's back. All around him, the Thenns were rallying around their Magnar - hacking at the spider's limbs.

"Hold the line!" the voices screeched through the wind. " Hold the line! "

"They're coming over!" Rattleshirt screamed to him. "They're coming over the Wall!"

Jon could see the shadows moving in the dark. A two-hundred-foot stretch of the Wall had collapsed in on itself, leaving only a pile of debris standing a hundred-foot high. The first of the wights were already climbing over it, coming down upon the defenders from above.

Endless legions were pouring out from the crack.

The end of the world .

Defenders were running. They were piling rubble up to form makeshift walls, pushing broken ice as barricades. A dozen brave men stood on the turrets of the Silent Tower - the only structure still upright - shooting flaming arrows upwards. The lights flew overhead like shooting stars in the black, but they were men blowing against a hurricane.

Then, Jon felt something in the air. He felt his mammoth shiver, he felt the tremble down his spine. A sickly cold mist was oozing over the battlefield. Jon could feel it, he could feel it growing stronger.

He gasped, shaking himself back to his own body. The hairs on the back of his neck were tingling, he could feel the shift in the battlefield.

Instinctively, Jon's head turned across the devastated courtyard, and the ruins of the keep. He could feel it coming.

"The tunnel breach?" Jon called to Rattleshirt. "To the centre?"

The Lord of Bones shook his head. "I got fifty men holding it."

Jon was already starting to run, limping on his splinted foot. His leg screamed with every staggered step, but he didn't stop. "Your men are already dead."

He could feel it, he could feel its power. The cold, eerie power was forcing its way through the last tatters of the barrier.

Jon didn't have Dark Sister - there had been no chance to recover the sword from the wreckage - but he held a stubby obsidian blade under his furs. The dragonglass was a short, stubby blade attached to a crude wooden pommel, slightly larger than a dagger.

Rattleshirt was cradling a dragonglass-tipped spear, and Jon saw another man holding a mere dragonglass arrow like a stake. All of his elite had carried obsidian weapons with them once, but Jon couldn't even guess how many of them were still alive.

Obsidian. We need more obsidian .

The cold was coming closer, Jon could feel it oozing from the ruins of the castle. From the half-collapsed tunnel, he heard screams.

He saw what used to be the main gates of Castle Black. There was naught left of them but the debris of a gatehouse crushed under a frozen slab. The nine-inch-thick oak gate had been torn to splinters. The tunnel had collapsed earlier in the battle, but the wights had dug their way through with inhuman efficiency.

The crevice was as wide and as dark as the throat of a beast, a cold wind like an ice dragon's breath sweeping through it. The debris had collapsed over the old entrance, and now they could only squeeze through a gap towards the ice, skittering down into a cave.

Jon heard shouting from the tunnel. "Fire!" a man screeched. "More fire!"

The inner gates had fallen, but the soldiers had set rows of sharpened spears as barricades. They had rolled heavy barrels to use as barriers, they had set flaming torches to burn the tide of the wights. The fifty men had been trying to collapse the ice, even as the tide of dead surged through.

The half-collapsed tunnel was a choke point. Jon was staggering around the corner, wheezing, staring through the flickering firelight

reflecting across the ice. Ten good men might have held back a thousand wights from here.

But then he saw blue eyes shining in the dark, and his breath froze in his lungs. A white walker itself had entered the battlefield.

The defenders didn't stand a chance. "Retreat!" voices screamed. "Retreat!"

The battle was already over. It moved faster than any wight, Jon could barely keep track of it. They launched arrows, but the walker parried them with lazy strikes. It was coming through; it bounded over the barricade in a single leap, and then its white sword was flashing…

Jon saw them die. A dozen men, two dozen, three… it made no difference to the white walker.

It was fifty feet away, casually carving a bloody path through the defenders. They were screaming for reinforcements, but the Other was stepping closer. It was flanked by half a hundred dead shapes, following it through the long tunnel.

Men tried to pull Jon backwards to safety, but he shook them off. His eyes were wide, taking in the scene. They couldn't stop the white walker; it was too strong, too fast, too…

If we lose this tunnel…

Jon turned, focusing on the Lord of Bone's weapon. He kept his own dragonglass blade hidden under his furs. "Give me your spear," Jon ordered to Rattleshirt.

The man bristled. "I need this-"

" Give it! "

With the briefest of grimaces, Rattleshirt threw Jon the spear. Jon snatched the obsidian speartip from the top of the weapon and broke it from the shaft. The jagged edge bit against his skin through his gloves, but Jon didn't care. He was already crushing the chunk of dragonglass against the wall, grinding speartip into dust. Behind him, Rattleshirt groaned.

The tunnel was filled with fleeing men trying to run away, Jon had to shove his way through. Jon dropped his walking stick, and scooped up a handful of broken glass shards instead.

In the tunnel, the last defender died weeping, his head parted by a casual slash of the white blade. The white walker turned around and stepped down the tunnel.

Ahead of him, Jon saw light crackling in the black tunnel. They had broken a barrel of oil and lit a wall of flames as a last resort. Not even fire could stop it; the flames were being extinguished beneath the white walker's footsteps. Cold mist crept through the tunnel, suffocating all warmth.

Jon hobbled on his broken leg, taking another step. Men tried to follow, but he turned and snapped. "Stay back!" he growled. "Stay back!"

The white walker was coming through, flanked by the dark shapes of wights. It walked slowly, tauntingly. It swung its sword with one hand, weaving slow circles through the air. This is a game to it, he thought. They play games. Like children .

He remembered the games that he and Robb used to play when they were young. The thought flashed before his eyes.

Jon took a deep breath. So let's play .

"Snow!" a man shouted. "Snow, don't-"

"Stand back," Jon ordered. "Everybody keep back ! Stay back!"

Jon was staring straight into the Other's eyes. Those eyes were like the heart of winter itself.

He limped forward into the shattered tunnel. The white walker was watching him, while the rest huddled at the mouth of the tunnel, watching in shock.

The cold… it was so cold it hurt to breathe. Every gulp of air felt like it was searing his lungs. It took everything that Jon had not to fall to his knees.

If I'm wrong, I'm dead . He kept on limping forward, forcing himself to meet the Other's blue gaze.

The Other cocked its head, looking at him curiously. Jon's hand gripped his axe so tight it hurt. He held a useless iron axe in his left hand, and a chunk of broken glass cradled in his right. The obsidian blade was hidden beneath his furs.

His head was spinning, trying to count the steps. The Other walked slowly, prowling like a shadowcat.

They stopped ten feet away. Jon knew that the Other could cover the distance before he could even blink. His heart was beating so fast he felt delirious. If I'm wrong…

And then Jon bowed. He lowered his head and swung his leg forward. His splinted left foot moved forward, pivoting on his right heel. He pulled his right arm to his chest, his left swinging wide. A full regal bow, every motion exaggerated.

The silence was deafening. He held the position so long it hurt, heartbeat raising…

And then Jon straightened and flourished his axe, challenging it to a duel.

The Other stared, and then a strange crackling sound emanated from it. It seemed to laugh. It was laughing. Somewhere behind him, he could feel the stares of his men from the edge of the tunnel, watching with bated breath.

The white walker could have cut him down without a second glance. Jon was in no state to parry it - neither his body nor weapon would hold against it. The Other stepped forward, teasingly.

Come on, he begged. Come on .

Two knights meeting for a duel on the battlefield, bowing before each other. A duel; like when Aemon Targaryen met Cregan Stark in trial by combat - Jon and Robb had re-enacted that duel a hundred times. The white walker didn't react. Jon took a deep gasp of air, and then lowered his head, bowing again.

Blue eyes inspected him. They were eight feet away. Every heartbeat felt like a lifetime…

Then, after the briefest pause, the Other bowed too. The white figure was smooth and graceful; left leg forward, right arm to chest, head bowed low. They were bowing to each other. It copied his actions, like a child mimicking the acts of a monkey.

And as soon as its head lowered, Jon threw a cloud of dragonglass shards into its face.

Tiny pieces of broken glass shimmering in the air, each one sparking against the walker's icy skin. The white walker's crystalline armour hissed, then it thrashed. The sound shrieking through the tunnel, resonating through his bones. The axe dropped out of Jon's hand, and his fingers were groping for the obsidian dagger.

Burning. Its white flesh was smoking. Even the tiniest shard of dragonglass burnt them.

It was howling, thrashing, and Jon lunged like a madman. His dagger slashed upwards in a wild arc, and Jon lunged himself forward on his good leg.

The dragonglass shattered in his hands, and hissed in a billow of steam…

The Other fell and suddenly a thousand wights stopped.

Jon crashed to the ground, landing face first in the steaming pool of melted Other. He was wheezing for air, whole body trembling.

Take them by surprise. Their arrogance was their greatest flaw. Children . The thought bounced around his skull. They're like children .

Footsteps running for him. It took three men to pull Jon up off the floor. He was a shaking wreck, and the Other was a smoking outline on the ice. He couldn't even stand, they had to hoist him over their shoulders.

"Block this tunnel," Jon wheezed. "Block the tunnel!"

All around him, the wights were shambling, their coordination lost.

The men could hack them down, and they didn't resist.

Rattleshirt was staring between Jon and the dead white walker, eyes wide with shock. "How did you…?" he stammered. "How did you know…?"

It was hard to breathe, he couldn't stop shaking. "Saw it… saw their weakness…" His words were slurred through his breaths. Jon had seen their vulnerability at the Frostfangs; the very first time he had killed an Other. "… They like… they like to play…"

Behind him, men were burning wights by the droves, while they carried Jon backwards. His vision was blurred, feeling the rumbles shaking through the earth.

The battle was changing. Jon could feel it in the air, he could feel the wights shifting at once. It happened nigh-simultaneously; the legions of the dead were rippling.

The white walkers. Jon felt it in the storm, he felt the wind shuddering. They felt their comrade die.

He heard a screech.

They didn't like that. They didn't like it when one of their own died. The legion of wights semed to falter, but then the moment passed. Something in the air shifted. As one, they seemed to change direction. Pushing forwards straight into the defenders. Then the ground shook.

Jon knew what was happening from the rumble in the earth, he knew it even before the scream split the battlefield.

"The wyrms!" a voice cried. "The wyrms are coming back around!"

"Take cover!" Rattleshirt shouted. "Take-"

The world tremored. They noticed, Jon thought with a gulp. The white walkers controlling the wyrms finally took note of the defenders holding the ruins.

The monsters were returning. The great wyrms jerked with startling speed, lunging backwards like snakes. Jon couldn't make sense of it, but he felt the crash of the beast's tail, he heard the geyser of snow spurting as they hissed.

As soon as the Other fell, the wyrms turned back around to avenge it.

His mind blurred. There was no thought, nothing in the moment but panic. He swivelled, trying to limp, and then there were men pushing him backwards into the corner of the tunnel.

He fell downwards, and cold air whooshed around him. It flooded through the tunnel and seared against the walls. The broken gatehouse shattered under a gale of cold fire. Right behind him, one of the men carrying him was swept off his feet by the surge of frost.

Jon's body collapsed behind a chunk of rock, and suddenly he heard the hissing of impossibly cold breath. Breath so cold it was like fire.

They were all running, scrambling for cover like mice in a hole.

He couldn't breathe. Noxious fumes choked his throat, the world swimming in the stink of cold rot.

Screaming around him, men with blistering flesh…

The dragon's breath reached a crescendo of fury. Jon heard fighting, men collapsing under the surge of the dead. The wyrms were right outside, they were scorching against the mouth of the tunnel.

He couldn't keep track of the battle, he could only crawl, face first on the cold ground.

It felt like there was ice in his lungs. He was screaming for air, but his throat could only sputter. His vision faded, his body going limp.

The first breath faded away, but then there was a second. And a third. He felt the crunch of ice, the shattering of stone. Frostfire danced around him, putrid mist billowing and ice twisting into jagged spires.

The two wyrms were above him, taking turns to pulverise the castle's ruins into ice.

There was nothing Jon could do but huddle beneath his broken chunk of stone, cowering for cover against the dragonfire spilling around him. Jon felt mammoths going mad, men screaming in agony, winds howling…

The ice above him cracked.

The air was so cold, like a knife in his chest. He couldn't breathe, couldn't…

The wyrms roared, crashing through for another assault.

His vision turned black.

…

And Jon felt air. He felt cool air whooshing around him, he felt power soaking through his bones. He felt… revitalised, like he was soaked in pure energy.

Jon felt wings. He felt white wings pounding furiously, he felt flying.

The sky roared.

Jon couldn't even breathe. His body was a broken husk clinging to the wreck of Castle Black, but his mind was soaring through the sky. He screamed out mentally, and a familiar presence answered. It felt like an old friend rushing to his cry.

Sonagon flapped even harder, breaking through the clouds in a fury of wings.

The dragon was flying again. It was soaring on a wave of power, like a swell of energy crackling in the air. Sonagon felt… overwhelmed. Rejuvenated. Images, memories, of steam rising through red leaves flickered before Jon's gaze, but he couldn't make sense of them.

Jon's vision blurred, and suddenly he was staring down through the dragon's eyes. He was breaking through the clouds, and he saw the broken Wall. He saw entire legions of wights trying to squeeze their way over the broken rubble, and monstrous wooden trebuchets lurched like the skeletons of giant birds. The wights were as small as ants, the castle was buried under lumps of debris. He saw all the things he hadn't noticed - like the watchmen still clinging to the Wall

either side of the breach, and the line of dead bodies pushing their way through. The Others had abandoned all formation to attack.

He saw the scene from above, and suddenly it all seemed so small. Sonagon! he screamed. Sonagon!

Sonagon was flying in fast, thundering a challenge. The sound of the dragon's roar echoed through the Wall.

Just like that, Jon's lips finally caught a gasp of air, sputtering through the mist. The barrage of dragonfire broke off. The wyrms were turning away, he could feel them abandoning their assault. Jon felt such unbelievable relief surge through his bones as he wheezed deep, deep breaths.

Three quarters of the men in the tunnel were already dead, but the ones that remained were staring upwards with wide, fearful eyes. Like rats cowering in corners.

"What's going on?" Rattleshirt's voice trembled. "What's happening, what is that…?"

Jon did not reply, he could not. He was shaking too fiercely. He closed his eyes, trying to reach out towards the dragon.

The wyrms were turning to meet the dragon. The army of the dead was shifting, abandoning the assault on the defenders without a moment's pause. The wights all changed direction at once, and the wyrms were rearing upwards. They were changing battle plans, converging to meet the dragon.

Wings swooped down, Jon could barely…

Jon didn't know what happened. He couldn't explain it, he couldn't make sense of the flurry of memories from the dragon. Hours ago, Sonagon had felt half-dead with sickness, but now the dragon seemed… revitalised. The dragon's muscles were screaming, its

body was trembling, its presence was burning. The white dragon felt more powerful than ever.

Jon saw the battle from the sky. He saw the shadow of a cold army, pushing its way through the Wall. Sonagon's wings swooped downwards, surging.

And white fire scoured over the rubble. Wights exploded into icy shards, corpses shattering in the cold.

One pass. Sonagon was swooping down over the breach - and searing through thousands, tens of thousands of the army of the dead. A few flimsy arrows tried to shoot the dragon down, but they were lost in the flap of Sonagon's wings.

It felt like an explosion rocketing above Jon's head. Around him, men were too afraid to even crawl out of their hole.

He saw shadows moving, he saw the Others willing their soldiers to react. The white walkers had planned this assault; they must have prepared for the possibility of the dragon. Sonagon could not allow them to surround him.

Take cover, Jon willed. The Others have ballista that might hurt you .

The dragon obeyed. Claws scrapped against ice, wings folded. Sonagon was gripping the southern face of the broken Wall like a bat, looming above them. The dragon burst out a roar, and then white dragonfire blazed. Sonagon was attacking from above, using the broken Wall itself to shield it from siege weapons at the rear.

Block the breach. Stop them climbing through .

Sonagon was all ice and fury. White breath arced, scouring spikes of ice across the debris.

Around Jon, men were screaming. Cheering. Jon was collapsed onto the floor, but he was struggling to breathe. His head was swimming -

his sight switching between his blurry eyes and a dragon's chaotic vision.

He heard the rumbles. The wyrms were moving, and Sonagon met them with a roar.

The sound echoed through the ruins, and the dragon saw pinpricks of heat crawling upwards. There were living men, still fighting, still holding the ruins.

Lure them away from the castle, Jon thought through ragged gasps.

Lure them clear of the survivors .

Sonagon responded. The dragon clung to the wall as it clawed backwards, forcing the wyrms to follow on the ground. Sonagon had wings, he had the advantage in manoeuvrability. Set the battlefield, control the flow of the fight…

Vaguely, Jon was aware of hands lifting his body off the ground, carrying him limply up out of the tunnel.

There had been five wyrms originally. Sonagon could see the corpses; one of them a burnt husk beneath the castle, another obliterated by siege at the base of the Wall, and the titanic third crushed halfway through the Wall.

There were only two left now. They weren't half the size of the largest one, but they were both big. One the monsters seemed about two-thirds of Sonagon's size, and the other was maybe the same size as the dragon. They were built differently; the wyrms were big and bulky - they were thick and stocky like engorged snakes - while Sonagon was light and lean. But Sonagon had wings, while they could only crawl.

The dragon perched on the broken edge of the Wall, its wings pulled in tight and its neck outstretched. The dragon roared, and mist burst from its throat. A challenge. The wyrms replied in kind.

One wyrm twisted left, the other turned right. They mean to surround you, to drag you down .

The smaller wyrm charged forward first. Its jaws opened, blue light swelling through greying flesh. Sonagon was dropping downwards, teeth snapping.

White fire blazed against blue. The wyrm was uncoiling, lunging upwards from the ground…

Jon couldn't see the impact, but he felt the crash as they collided.

Sonagon dropped out of the sky and straight on to the wyrm's back. Wrestling, wings flapping, claws gouging through dead meat, and its breath scouring against scales.

Men carried Jon into the courtyard of Castle Black, staring upwards. All faces were pale, eyes wide. Jon could feel the backwash of the cold breath even from here.

The second wyrm screeched as it jumped into the fray. Sonagon's hind legs were still perched on top of one wyrm, but it turned to meet the second with a flap of wings and lunge of claws. Great bodies wrestled and squirmed, tails whipping around to drag the dragon down.

Even two against one, Sonagon never gave an inch.

Crash. The wyrm tried to wrestle, but Sonagon's teeth clamped around the wyrms' throat. They were locked in a frenzy of teeth and claws, of tails and wings, rolling over the ice…

Bodies wrestling, but neither dragon backed away. Jon watched with his heart in his mouth.

There were two of them, he thought. Only two.

Then Jon heard the rumble, he heard crushing of ice. An avalanche shattered through the mount of the Wall, he heard the crash of a tail

whacking against the ground

Behind him, a wave of white soared down over the scene, blanketing the world of white. Another body was moving again.

Through the clouds, Jon saw the greying flesh streaked with yellow. It was writhing and clawing. Stubby claws shuddered, heaving itself free of the ice.

It was huge, a gargantuan.

No, Jon thought with dread. Two and a half left . The wyrm that had been crushed by the Wall was not quite dead.

The monster's skull was near gone, its neck and shoulders a splattered ruin, but its body was wriggling. The Others could animate even the headless corpse. Suddenly, the big one was thrashing again. The top half of its skull had been cleaved straight off, leaving only a useless bottom jaw hanging off its neck.

It had no eyes, no snout, no teeth, but it was massive - a hunk of mutilated flesh writhing blindly. The wyrms screeched.

Sonagon was fighting two against one, while the headless third writhed its way clear of the ice.

The dragon tried to pull itself away, but it couldn't. Dead jaws clamped down onto Sonagon's leg, holding it in place. Sonagon lashed outwards in fury, but the wyrms gave no quarter. Behind him, the ice avalanched as the huge dead wyrm wriggled free.

Sonagon met them tooth for tooth, but they were heavier, then were overpowering him. They lept at the dragon, trying to tear him down.

With no head, the big wyrm couldn't breathe dragonfire - instead there was only cold mist and eerie blue light pulsing from its open neck. It didn't need even dragonfire, it was big . Too big for Sonagon

to manage, the dragon couldn't claw free under the hunk of dead flesh.

Bodies crashing, spurts of dragonfire against scales and claws and teeth slashing outwards. And then the big one was wriggling forward, its tail coiling around the dragon.

He felt the wave of panic from the dragon, its movements becoming more desperate…

Jon's eyes shot open.

Suddenly, he was thrashing, pulling himself free of the men carrying him. Fighting all around him - they were trying to resist the wights, at the same time taking shelter from the dragon's fight. The immense beasts wrestling felt like a storm given flesh.

"The siege!" Jon screamed. "The siege - we need flaming arrows, now!"

Men stared agape, but Jon was lifting himself up with his hands. His feet hobbled, his eyes crazed, but his voice… " Now, while they are distracted!" he boomed. "Support the dragon, support Sonagon!"

They didn't react properly, not until Sigorn of Thenn repeated the screams in the Old Tongue.

Jon was already rushing - hobbling to the east where the dragon was trying to flap.

Sonagon didn't go down easy. The big one was clamped over Sonagon's lower body, while the dragon tried to claw its way free. Another wyrm lunged at its wings, but then Sonagon's teeth snapped at its neck, and icefire shredded through half its skull. Even with half its head cleaved open, the wyrm didn't stop.

They were wrestling, rolling over the rubble. The large wyrm had no jaws, it could not bite or breath, but it was so, so big. The headless

wyrm was over twice Sonagon's size, its body coiling around the smaller dragon. Choking the life out of the dragon.

"Support the dragon!" Jon screamed to the men. "The dragon!"

It was so frantic Jon could barely even make sense of it. All he saw were images flashing around him - teeth snapping, men running, voices screaming…

They nearly overpowered Sonagon, but then there were archers scrambling over the ice. Flaming arrows, falling like stars in the dark. They were firing, burning arrows sparking against the wyrms hulk.

Defenders atop the Wall - the remnants of the Night's Watch. They had the same thought he did. Jon saw the slithers of defence still holding.

" Support the dragon! Support the dragon! "

All around him, it felt like the Others' assault was faltering. Wights were staggering, their coordination lost. The men were rallying, pushing them back.

Men were rushing for spears or arrows, screaming for fire…

And then Sigorn of Thenn led two giants to hoist up a great length of broken timber from the wreckage like a spear, and men set it alight. The giants were loping forward with the timber raised, the men howling, and then they jammed it straight into the dead monster's scales. Both giants were crushed as the monster wriggled, but the burning wood was jammed into its hide.

The big wyrm was burning. Pinpricks of fire were scattered across its hide, eating away at its muscles. It was burning.

Sonagon was roaring, clawing its way clear…

One of the smaller wyrms was trying to hold the dragon down, the other was coming back around. Jon was screaming, wordless cries

breaking over the wind.

Thud. The crash of boulders launching down seven hundred feet. The defenders from the Wall - to the east of the breach. They had salvaged catapults; they were launching rocks, throwing torches.

The flames hissed against the frost, and then the dragon was breaking free.

All around him, Jon heard chanting. He saw men falling to their knees, a euphoria of voices washing over the ruins. " Sonagon! Sonagon! " they screamed, beating swords and stomping feet. " Sonagon! "

The great wyrm was a desecrated, mutilated corpse that was still wriggling. Sonagon ripped away from it, and then lunged down upon the smaller wyrm. It tried to breathe, but the dragon was faster.

The wyrm was shredded under a flurry of claws and white flames. In quick, clean and furious lunges, Sonagon tore its spine straight out.

The final one left tried to run. The Others were calling it back, trying to flee. With a single flap of his wings, Sonagon launched into the air… and then came crashing down on top of the undead wyrm.

The dragon roared so loud that the world shivered. A primal, victorious boom that would have sent a thousand lions running. The undead corpse was shredded by the icy blades of a single long breath.

" SONAGON! SONAGON! "

Even hardened warriors were on their knees, frozen tears trailing down bloody cheeks.

Jon felt his strength fail him, and then he was toppling face first into the snow.

The dragon was clambering upwards over the mount of ice, casually swiping through dead wights. It was wheezing for breath, but it was angrier than Jon had ever felt it. Sonagon was overflowing with fury, like a volcano erupting in its chest…

It was atop the ice staring down at the legions of dead soldiers trying to clamber upwards…

Sonagon breathed.

The world was consumed by ice.

Ramsay

Dead legs staggered through snow, and the snowdrifts were so deep his feet couldn't even touch solid ground. He was half-walking, half-swimming, with the snow swallowing his body below his waist and the bloody black cloak sweeping behind him. A normal man would have collapsed from exhaustion by now, but Ramsay couldn't even feel fatigue anymore. He couldn't feel cold, he couldn't feel a thing.

His tattered body just kept on going, pushing deeper into the wilderness beyond the Wall. The treeline of the Haunted Forest was before him.

Over the horizon, he saw the very first twinges of light, threatening dawn's arrival. He saw the battle amidst the white haze, and howling wind buffeting against the ice.

Behind him, a trail of black cloaks were forcing their way north. The Night's Watch's counterattack was already underway.

Ramsay had stolen a black cloak from a dead body, and in the storm nobody had even looked twice at him. He had torn the dangling intestines out from his own stomach and wrapped a heavy wolfskin shawl around his cheeks to cover his mutilated face. Ramsay could not disguise the loping, uneven stagger of a wight, but that was

easily mistaken for just another injured man among a crowd of them. There had been many in the motley bunch climbing down the Wall bearing battle wounds, frostbite, or even missing limbs.

Ramsay had snuck amongst the ranks of sworn brothers, and they had been too panicked to even notice the dead man amongst them.

It had been the fat one who gave the order - Tarly had ordered a raid party to climb down the Wall and target the Others. Ramsay had seen his chance and he took it.

It had been the dark of night, and they had all been unfamiliar, hooded figures atop the Wall. Ramsay had seen the parties as they assembled to head down the Wall. There had been two groups; one going east and the other west - Ramsay never knew the names of the wildlings that led either. Ramsay had chosen to go west.

The Wall had been in a state of utter devastation. They had trekked halfway towards Queensgate before making the descent, and Ramsay had seen the Other's army looming against the castle. The white walkers had launched simultaneous assaults against every castle on the Wall, but the bulk of their forces were concentrated against Castle Black.

Nobody had spoken. The men around him had been deathly silent. Ramsay had felt the hopelessness in the air; he felt it in the silence. They all knew that the raid was a feeble counterattack, a last desperate resort. Absolutely everybody climbing down the Wall had been prepared to die. Everybody but Ramsay.

There had been well over four hundred in the party of watchmen and wildlings that climbed down the wall, but only one in ten made it to the bottom alive. The winds and the quakes had shaken them off, and their bodies had bounced off the ice like ragdolls as they tumbled.

Ramsay himself had fallen over fifty feet as his numb fingers lost their grip. The wight landed roughly in the snowdrifts - he might have

broken every bone in his body, but Ramsay never felt a thing. He never felt pain, he never felt fear - there was naught but dull, persistent rage.

The first chance Ramsay saw, he broke away from the rest of the men and set off by himself.

Behind him, the party of wildlings and sworn brothers were huddled against the snows, slowly trekking towards the forest. Even despite himself, there was something… impressive about their desperation. There was no hope for tomorrow, no future - there was nothing but a singular desire to kill before they died.

Ramsay could understand the feeling. The only thing that kept him going was the hatred pounding through his dying veins.

They were revenants fixated on a single purpose, a final assault.

Do not let them control me, do not let them win .

The first clashes against the line of wights echoed around him. There were no torches, there was only a frenzied scrambling of clubs and spears in the dark snows. The men were as ravenous as wolves during the worst winds of winter. The dead were rallying, staggering to stop them as they broke through the trees.

He saw rushing blue eyes in the dark, but they passed him by. They're targeting the living, he thought. The Other's soldiers didn'tlook twice at a fellow wight, they didn't even notice. The wildlings were naught but distractions; meaningless pawns to allow Ramsay to slip through the perimeter.

Ramsay was trekking onwards through the trees, his unbeating heart screaming for Other's blood. Cold, dead fingers tightened on his axe.

The wight could feel them. They were growing closer, more vivid. He could sense their power in his air, he could feel their touch. The

wight was unchained, but Malvern had left its mark. He could still feel them.

Above him, blueish tendrils of the Other's power wafted through the night. It was vibrating; their concentration was focused entirely on the battle for the Wall.

In the distance, he saw the lights of Castle Black through the breach in the Wall - the entire structure had collapsed, leaving a jagged V-shape carved through the thick of it. There was nothing being held back; the legions of the dead were flowing through.

A phantom shiver went down his spine as he felt the white walker's power. The world around them was distorted by the rippling blue, they were radiating winter.

Ramsay could feel them, could feel their ice spreading over his skin…

Don't let them control me, can't let them…

Why aren't they falling yet? ' the Other's thoughts past through the air, brushing Ramsay's mind. ' They should be falling. '

Ramsay was so close he could feel them, much in the same way he had done with Malvern. It was fainter now, but it grew stronger the closer he came.

Any moment now,' another replied, ' surely they cannot last much longer. '

You said that hours ago, ' it whined. ' They were supposed to fall already, why aren't they? '

Ramsay focused on it, following it to the source. The wight was staggering woodenly, limping with crazed determination. His legs increased in pace, moving as fast as the snows and his stiff joints would allow.

Memories flashed through his dead eyes. Mother, Ramsay thought. Mother, give me strength…

He felt it becoming sharper. The white walkers were dispersed throughout the treeline, but they communicated via thought. He felt their auras rippling, their thoughts rising in pitch. He felt irritation. The white walkers were annoyed, he realised, they were squabbling like children. ' This battle is ours, their resistance means nothing .'

' Perhaps we should fall back. '

' Fall back? We're already through; they cannot last much longer. '

What of the beasts? Too many have been lost already, we cannot risk - '

Any moment now,' the Other insisted. ' They'll collapse any moment now. '

Do not fall back. Press forward. '

Fighting. Fighting all around him, the raid party were pushing through wights. He could hear the warcries rising in pitch, breaking through the night. The men were worn ragged, they were exhausted to the point of collapse, but they weren't stopping…

Brothers, be warned,' an Other said suddenly, from the east. ' The mortals are attacking; small parties of them coming north .

Attacking? You said that they would fall! '

An aura shimmered; it felt like the Other sighed in irritation. The white walker was stepping through the woods, and casually drawing its blade. ' How bothersome. Why must mortals always make matters difficult? '

He could feel it. A skeletal wight moved to block Ramsay's path, but Ramsay just barged straight through. Uneven legs broke into a loping sprint through the snow.

The wights were thick around him, but Ramsay was running. They were moving in the opposite direction, and Ramsay slipping by. Ignore the puppets, go for the source .

There was a battle behind him - the wildlings were being overwhelmed - but Ramsay didn't even care. His focus was ahead of him, his hatred fixated on the otherworldly aura of blue and white.

Do not let them… Do not let them…

He saw it. It materialised out of the gloom, obscured by an armour of shifting colours. He saw it in all its ethereal beauty and terror. It was shaped like a man, but it felt like a snowstorm given flesh. The white walker's eyes shone in the dark, focusing upon him. It felt like pure, raw winter - concentrated into a man's form. It was so bright it seemed translucent; a young man in crystal armour, clutching a blade of ice.

Ramsay nearly staggered, feeling icy needles pierce his skin. It was trying to seize control, trying to take his body.

Burning blue eyes focused on him. It saw him trying to approach it, and the white walker laughed.

The Other cocked its head and it stepped forward lazily. ' Thrall,' it mocked. ' What do you think you are doing? '

The wight nearly collapsed. It was all over him; the Other was trying to seize his body. Icy tendrils like needles pierced into his flesh, tearing him down.

Mother, Ramsay screamed. MOTHER!

The axe fell from Ramsay's spasming hands. The Other stepped closer to inspect him. The white walker's hand extended towards him, in the same manner one would reach out to grab a curious butterfly.

It tried to take control of him, but Ramsay was ready. The rage was burning through him, and his arm was lashing outwards…

The Other never even had time to be surprised. Ramsay's fist struck it, and there were shards of dragonglass embedded into his wrist.

It was from the fat boy's trap. The splinters of broken dragonglass had scattered everywhere, and Ramsay had been right in the middle of the shatter range. Ramsay still hadn't removed the shards from his skin.

Suddenly, the Other's arm was burning, and Ramsay screeched like a banshee.

The wight lunged forward, like he could tackle it to the ground. The Other tried to dart backwards, but the dragonglass…

Their bodies collided in the black.

He felt it screaming. It felt like winter itself was set alight, the shrieking filled the air. Ramsay's broken hand punched straight between the Other's blue eyes, and the dragonglasss smoked.

White icy flesh was bubbling around him, the broken dragonglass was hissing. It was burning and freezing all at once, but Ramsay couldn't even feel it.

It underestimated him - it did not expect a 'thrall' to challenge it. The Others believed themselves superior, and that was their weakness.

Ramsay howled like a demon.

"You don't control me!" he screeched. "Nobody controls me!"

The white walker was melting away beneath him. It evaporated into a smoking puddle, but Ramsay didn't stop punching downwards. Thrall, it had said. It called him a thrall .

"I am Ramsay!" he screamed. "I am Ramsay!"

All around him, the wights sagged to the ground. Their master was lost, the blue in their eyes faded away. He heard the victory cry from the raid party, and then the men were storming forwards through the dropping wights. At their very front, Ramsay saw a girl with red and white hair - screaming bloody murder with a spear in her hands.

The wildlings were pushing forward on a suicide charge.

All around him, the storm hissed. The other white walkers were screeching, recoiling. There are more of them. More to kill .

Ramsay staggered, staring down at the scorched patch of snow that used to be a white walker. There was nothing but furious relief through his body. If there had been any fluid left in him, he would have pissed on its corpse. You do not get to control me .

His body swayed, he forced his limp torso off the ground.

He heard a crack. He looked downwards just as his own right arm broke off with a frigid snap. His flesh had frozen and cracked apart from where he touched the white walker.

There was no pain, only surprise. He stared down at his own severed stump, cauterised by cold at the elbow. Oh .

He tried once more to stand, and then wobbled. He heard his own ankle crack - it felt like he had ripped off half his foot when he tried to move it. The leather hide boots that he had died wearing were frozen tatters. His own joints were groaning, his dead flesh was cracking under him.

Regardless, the one-armed wight set off again, hobbling so badly he could barely walk straight. He still had one more obsidian shard, a small dagger-like splinter he had pulled out of his own chest. One more .

Throughout the trees, the white walkers' thoughts reached a fever pitch.

' What is happening? " one demanded. " Where did our brothers…? '

' Finish them! '

' The tree-fiend, the tree-fiend -! '

They didn't understand what was happening. The Others were losing control of the battlefield, and they didn't know why.

"Free folk!" a girl's voice shrieked, clutching a spear as they charged through the dead woods. "Free folk!"

Ramsay only watched. Men were fighting tooth and nail, as the dead man dragged himself through the battlefield.

The Others had overcommitted themselves to the assault, he realised. They had ordered their troops forward too zealously, sending them to attack before the Wall had even collapsed properly. Now, their assault was being repelled, and the rear lines were pierced.

All around him, the screeching of Others filled the storm. The wind was trembling, the clouds reverberating with their will. They were caught off-guard, trying to react.

Suddenly, a wall of wights stormed out from the black trees. There were hundreds of them, so many the snow crunched under loping feet. The blue eyes were flooded outwards. Ramsay screamed wordlessly, and ran to meet them.

His fingers clawed, his fist lashed outwards and pushed through one wight, but then another knocked him down.

Undead hands pinned him to the snow. Tearing and clawing at him. Ramsay kicked and screamed. He howled and thrashed with everything he had, squirming on his back in the snow.

Ramsay tried to hold on, but the obsidian splinter was ripped out of his hand. He was flailing, fighting…

"Free folk!" the girl's voice cried. " Free folk! "

There were hundreds, thousands, an unending stampede…

And then the world quaked.

Even from the other side of the Wall, Ramsay recognised the sound. He heard the roar break over the wind, he heard the whoosh of wings.

The dragon had arrived.

For the briefest of moments, the wights seemed to freeze. Ramsay took the moment, his legs kicking out, clawing his way upwards.

In the distance, white wings flashed through the breach. It was too dark to see any details, only the brilliant flash of white light. The dragon swooped over the breach, scouring the world in icy fire.

The dragon. Ramsay didn't know how or why, but there was no time to pause, no moment to even think…

The wights were frantic, rushing around him. It wasn't a battle; it was a huge, crazed scramble in the dark.

The wildlings were howling, storming madly…

Ramsay couldn't make out any details, but he felt the Others' auras bubbling and writhing through the night's sky. It felt like the scramble was changing direction; the wights couldn't react fast enough, they weren't responding properly…

Around him, the white walkers were screaming so loud that Ramsay couldn't even make sense of them. Their voices were the shrill scream of the storm.

The wights were losing coordination, they were stumbling with each Other killed. They were faltering.

He saw fires burning through the breach - smoke and steam hissing against the snow. A haze of orange light was burning over the horizon. He could feel the rumbles in the ground; it sounded like the dragon was razing unholy pandemonium on the other side of the Wall.

Wights all around him, trying to drag him down. Ramsay writhed and wiggled through the snow, pushing through rotten hands and grasping fingers…

The wildlings fought fiercely, but they were being overwhelmed. Another white walker was coming closer, carving through the battle with every step.

Behind him, the shadow of wings rose over the haze of the fire. The dragon was atop the rubble, climbing up over the breach.

Ramsay could only stare as the white light hissed over the battlefield. The dragon's breath scorched over the no-man's land, tearing undead bodies into frozen husks.

All around him, there was screaming. Howling. Cheering.

The hooded man told us that greyscale would kill a dragon . Ramsay and that Humfrey man had spent months plotting for the dragon's death, they had been assured that the poison would work. How is it still alive?

There was no time to wonder. The Other's push was broken, and the hordes of wights were flooding backwards into the woods. Rushing for cover against the dragon's rage.

He saw the red-and-white-haired girl finally collapse to her knees into the snow. She dropped with a man's arms around her, holding her tightly. There were frozen tears dribbling down her cheeks.

The last of the wildlings fell against the swarms of the dead.

Across the no-man's land, entire legions of wights were being scorched into ice. Not even wights could survive the ice dragon's breath.

Ramsay was finally overwhelmed by dead bodies piling on top of him and pinning him to the ground. A living man would have died a hundred times over already. His clothes were tattered, his skin was ripped bloody, the only thing left was the shredded black cloak draping off his shoulder across the snow.

All around him, the wights were retreating. The sun was rising, and they were falling back from the dragon. The white walkers were running away.

The battle in the trees was lost, but it had done its job. The Wall had resisted.

I killed them. I killed them…

The memory of the look in the Other's eyes before it burnt made him giddy.

He felt the Other before he saw it. He felt it stepping closer, he felt its power bubbling. Finally, he saw the white walker materialising between the trees, easily cutting through the last tatters of wildlings. The white sword was hissing with blood, the Other's eyes were blazing.

It surveyed the field, and paused slightly before turning to stride towards Ramsay. The undead corpse was pinned to the ground, staring upwards at scorching blue eyes. Its movements were purposeful, vengeful.

Anger, Ramsay thought, this is what anger looks like .

The Others were losing . Ramsay's mutilated face twisted into a mad grin.

There was no mockery this time. The white walker just raised its sword to sever Ramsay's head.

And a spear plunged straight through its back.

Black smoke hissed, the white walker's white body was burning into nothingness. All of the wights around Ramsay suddenly turned limp.

One amazing spearthrow - Ramsay never even saw the thrower, but it was a master's strike in the dark. The spear was white wood with a black tip; it pierced straight through the Other's spine and jammed into the snow. The white walker had disintegrated into smoke and steam before it hit the ground.

Suddenly, there were ravens cawing madly, black wings sweeping overhead. From the trees, the woods were rippling. Shapes moving, materialising out of the trees. The sound of birds echoed around him, and hidden fighters were appearing from the shadows.

They are cutting down the Other's retreat, Ramsay realised. The wights were scattered, and without warning inhuman shapes were attacking from the woods.

To the south, the dragon was raging - burning its way through the fields of wights left behind.

Hooves crunched over snow, the sound of a beast panting in the cold. An elk, Ramsay realised dumbly. A great antlered elk pushing through the trees, with ravens flapping madly around it.

Ramsay saw the black-cloaked figure knocking through the wights, and then pulling its spear out from the Other's charred outline. At first, Ramsay thought that the men of the Night's Watch were pushing on the offensive.

That spearthrow, Ramsay thought, no human could make a throw like that . It wasn't human, Ramsay could just tell. There was no breath from under its shawl, its face was hidden by a dark hood. All

Ramsay could see were emotionless black eyes looming downwards.

There was fighting and dead men all around them, but the mounted man turned to focus on Ramsay. It paused, before dropping off its elk. It kicked a wight away with a heavy boot, pushing through the snow.

"Come with me, brother," the stranger said hoarsely, extending a cold hand downwards.

Sansa

The steam was still rising upwards in the air as the morning sun rose. The sluggish light shimmered through the white, smothering the godswood into a dreamlike haze. Sansa could only stare in shock and wonder.

It was suddenly so warm . It felt like a sauna - so swelteringly hot that she had to throw off her furs else she might cook. The steam caused her head to swim. The earth was drumming with heat, and all the snow was evaporating away before her eyes.

Sansa was running, heels squelching through the tepid, mushy earth of the godswood as she stared through the mists. The hot springs were bubbling so fiercely they were like geysers in the pools.

She wanted to call out, but the words jammed in her throat.

Her brother was lying by the roots of the weirwood. Meera had her arms around him, struggling to carry him upwards. Bran was unconscious, his eyes closed and his skin pale and sweaty. Sansa was running.

"Bran!" she shouted, but the boy didn't reply. "Bran!"

"He's breathing," Meera said with a gulp, "he's breathing, he's just…"

Meera didn't seem to know how to finish that. Above her, the red leaves of the heart tree were rippling in the billows of steam. The white bark of the weirwood was coated with dew - it seemed like the tree itself was glowing. The red had never seemed so crimson, the white had never seemed so eerie. The tree's normally melancholic, twisted face looked like it was weeping with emotion.

So many questions spun through her head, but she could only… "What happened?" Sansa gasped. "What just happened?"

Meera couldn't reply. She carried Bran out of the steaming trees, and three of the guards gingerly picked up the king between them.

All of Winterfell was stirring. The entire castle was filling the courtyards, stirring with shock and awe at the billowing steam. The castle was bathed in heat.

The sun rising from the east, spilling light over the white stone walls. Sansa was suddenly so warm she was suffocating - she had to pull off her jacket and strip down to her undervestments just to keep herself from burning. Sweat and moisture was slathered over her skin.

The dragon was gone. It had felt like an explosion - a huge burst of warmth. Sonagon had flapped away with an almighty roar, leaving the entire castle stunned in its wake.

The dragon flew north, she realised. It hadn't even paused; it had just flown north with fury.

In the morning light, the godswood seemed like a totally different place.

Above her, she could see the blue sky. Where once the skies had been dark grey with stormcast clouds, now it was like something had punched a hole straight through to the heavens. There was no wind; the air was still and stifling.

Even as she stood and watched, the snows were disappearing. The trees of the godswood were already completely free of frost, burnt away by the heat swelling from the earth. The leaves were cracking, brownish earth and humus appearing from under the snow. The weather was different - the winds were gone, the clouds swept away.

It felt like a dream. It feels like spring, she thought. It felt like the warmth of spring had been unleashed all at once.

Sansa could only gape. All around her, she saw men trekking into the godswood and dropping to their knees.

As the sun rose higher, the mist started to clear but the heat didn't fade. The whole castle seemed to be glistening in the morning light. The air was so warm, the skies were clear. It felt like the trees were rippling around her.

The flowers, she realised with shock. The flowers in the godswood were blooming. Mere hours ago they had been buried under snow, and now they were blooming ?

Her head was searching for some rational explanation - some way to make sense of it - but she found none.

What did Bran do? How?

Leagues away, the fields were still buried by snow, and yet Winterfell seemed to be caught in its own micro-climate. A little bubble of summer. Sansa even climbed the walls so she could stare out at the snowstorms on the horizon, but those winds didn't come near the castle. Winter was all around them, but it didn't pass the castle's walls.

As morning stretched onwards, it was so warm that men were walking across the courtyard barechested and barefoot. Every face she saw seemed stunned, confused and struck by awe. The murmurs were so loud she could hear the entire castle whispering.

There were whole crowds of wildlings and northmen milling outside Bran's chamber, vying for a sight of the young king. Sansa ordered the doors sealed and the staircase patrolled, but the crowds weren't aggressive, they were just… stunned. Sansa couldn't even imagine what the rumours must be saying.

She didn't understand what was happening. She felt as lost as a little girl.

Her brother was unconscious, but Bran's eyelids were flickering. He was whispering in his sleep, but she couldn't make out the words. Sansa kept by his bedside, but she couldn't manage to calm herself. She found herself pacing uncertainly, glancing out the window much too often.

It should have been winter, but outside the skies above Winterfell were as clear as summer.

I cannot panic, she thought with a deep breath. I must act . She had to wipe the sweat from her forehead and dress herself in the lightest cloth she could find, before summoning a few of the lords and captains in Winterfell.

"What is the state of the castle?" she asked Lord Forrester eventually, as the lord bowed before Bran's bedside.

"Out of its damn mind." The large man sounded so lost. "They want to know what's happening… by the Others, I want to know what's happening.

"Any unrest?" Sansa insisted. "Any violence?"

"Not as such, no." Lord Forrester grimaced, then added, "There's a big bunch of wildlings that looks too much like a mob to me. They're flocking to the godswood, chanting gods know what." The lord shook his head, wiping his forehead. Even inside the castle, the heat felt suffocating. "I don't know, they're all…"

His voice trailed off. They're stunned, she thought. Stunned out of their minds . "Report, my lord. Any danger?"

"There's smoke rising from the crypts, my princess," Lord Gregor admitted. "It smells like burning coming from the lower levels."

"Smoke?" That caused her shoulders to stiffen. "Where?"

"I don't know - the heat is coming from underground, and the crypts…" He shook his head. "It's so hot down there that you can't even get into the tunnels. Might be the stone itself is burning."

"Put together a guard," she ordered. "Assign patrols through every inch of the castle and grounds. Clear away anything that might catch light, and move our stores away from the lower levels. I need you to search the area for flames, and I want a full report concerning any risk of fire."

Lord Gregor blinked. "Is that… is that likely, Your Grace?"

I haven't the foggiest, she thought silently. "Due diligence, my lord. I hereby appoint you as Commander of the Guard." She paused. "And stay alert for any discord in the castle. Any violence, any tempers flaring - watch and defuse whatever you can. Report to me directly."

The lord bowed and then left, still blinking repeatedly. Sansa could not shake the fear that there might be a mob outside the door at any moment. How long will it take men to start sharpening pitchforks and muttering of witchcraft?

This weather… it wasn't natural. It was unreal, it was…

She remembered those rambling words that Bran had told her, she was replaying them in her mind… They could do more too. They could dream of the future, they could travel through dreams. They could move themselves to distant shores, even travel through time too. It's not just the birds and beasts either, not at first… it's like everything. There's a man who can control the trees, Sansa, or

possess the weather. The Others - they're using the same powers. And I've had these dreams; I see men singing to the earth and the world shifts. It's all power, magic…

It was impossible, she had thought to herself at the time. And yet now spring was all around her and the castle was swollen with heat. How could she ignore what she saw with her own eyes?

There were ice creatures that could raise the dead. There were shadows that could travel through walls and kill people. Beings that could control the weather or possess animals. Her half-brother could command dragons, and her younger brother could summon spring. It was wondrous, it was terrifying, it was nerve-wracking, it was beautiful. Sansa's hands couldn't stop trembling.

It was magic, she thought with a deep breath. Real magic.

…

The Battle for the Wall, the Battle of Ice and Fire

Conflict: The Long Night, the War for the Dawn

Date: 301 AC

Place: Castle Black, the Wall, the Gift

Result: Draw?

Combatants:

The Others

The living:

The northern coalition,

The Night's Watch,

Free folk,

Northern houses,

Northern mountain clans.

Strength:

The Others:

Roughly a dozen white walkers,

Over a million wights?

Several thousand ice spiders,

Five undead ice wyrms; Jorumgandr, Nighogg, Fafnir, Ragnar, Norfi.

Approximately five thousand imprisoned wildling slaves.

Exact numbers impossible to discern.

Malvern's minions:

8,000 wights. The Night's Watch:

3500 sworn brothers,

Some thousand allied free folk clans.

Several thousand refugees sheltering at the Wall.

Prince Jon Snow's forces:

• 3000 men,

500 giants and fewer mammoths,

Allied clansmen and northern houses,

Sonagon.

Over twenty thousand living men and women total.

Prelude:

The white walker Malvern forced its way south several months previously, and spent its time recovering strength and waiting for an opportunity. Meanwhile, a lull appeared in the conflict beyond the Wall as the Others halted their assaults and mustered their forces at the Frostfangs.

As the free folk exodus made its way south, the white walkers used their slaves to unearth the bodies of several ice wyrms left buried underground in a fossilized state. The wyrms were unearthed, and then raised one by one.

After a tumultuous civil war in the north, Prince Jon Snow retook Winterfell in the name of House Stark, but many corpses were left behind from the Battle of the Snows. Tensions in the north remained high, and the land was ravaged by severe snowstorms that originated from the northern mountains.

The dragon Sonagon was left in a critically ill state after Bolton sabotage and poison.

As roads and holdfasts became trapped by the heavy snows, Malvern emerged from its hiding place. The white walker travelled south, to resurrect several thousand bodies of northern soldiers left behind in the battlefields outside of Winterfell.

Alerted, Prince Jon Snow hastily gathered a relief force to give pursuit, but his efforts were delayed by an unknown magical assailant. The being of uncertain origin appeared in the throne room,

and targeted the prominent lords of the northern coalition. Many grew to suspect Stannis Baratheon.

Battles in the South:

The first conflicts emerged across the kingsroad and the Gift. Malvern's army rapidly targeted holdfasts and villages to build up its numbers. Severe fatalities, especially among smallfolk, were inflicted across the north. The white walker headed northwards, focused upon Castle Black.

The defenders were severely hampered by the heavy snows. The wights grew in strength quickly, and cut a bloody trail.

Sigorn, Magnar of Thenn and Lord of the Shadow Tower, collided with wights on the kingsroad. The Thenn forces were defeated and forced to scatter.

Jon Snow led his relief force north from Winterfell, headed by giant clans and free folk warbands. However, the northern coalition forces were delayed by Malvern's, and forced to retreat.

As the trail of destruction left by the wights widened, Jon Snow rallied more allies from the mountain clans and the northern houses.

Assault from the North:

While Malvern was heading north, the white walkers beyond the Wall marched their own forces south. Black rangers provided warning of the dead's coming, but the Others emerged with a vast army against the Wall.

The northern assault happened slowly, with a show of intimidation from the Others. The defenders under Mance Rayder, Lord of Castle Black, mustered to resist.

However, due to the weather and Malvern's own presence, Castle Black received insufficient warning of the second host approaching

from the kingsroad. The ravens carrying such warning had been torn from the sky. The sworn brothers were caught off-guard by the large host of wights attacking their rear.

As Malvern's forces assaulted the castle and made to capture the gates, the main bulk of the Other's forces besieged the entirety of the Wall. They deployed heavy trebuchets and enslaved wildling captives to bypass the Wall's barrier.

The Others launched attacks on every castle simultaneously to distract the defenders, but the brunt of their forces was targeted against the centre of the Wall and the sworn brothers' stronghold, at Castle Black.

The commander of Castle Black, Mance Rayder, took a fall early in the battle and was knocked senseless, leaving command of the Wall to the Lord Steward, Samwell Tarly.

The initial assault provided opportunity for the Others to safely move their trump cards - five undead wyrms - against the Wall.

Assault on Castle Black:

The refugees sheltering at the Wall were hastily recruited to help defend Castle Black from the south. Nevertheless, the wights overwhelmed the defence and pushed through the castle.

Castle Black resisted for near an entire day, but the defenders grew weary and the wights remained relentless.

With no other choice, Samwell Tarly chose to surrender instead. The wights captured the castle and the gate, and the white walker itself was lured into the courtyard. However, Malvern was then ambushed by a barrage of dragonglass, and the Other was slain from siege weapons atop the Wall.

This marked the first confirmed death of a white walker.

With Malvern slain, the battle for the castle was won and its minions lost all control. Despite severe casualties, the sworn brothers withstood.

Counterattack:

The white walkers released thousands of poisoned slaves captured beyond the Wall to climb the Wall for them. However, due to the efforts of Samwell Tarly, and the presence of Mance Rayder, the slaves were persuaded to defy their masters.

These slaves were recruited into the defence instead, and forces were rallied to climb down the Wall and ambush the Other's attack. Many free folk and sworn brothers chose to sacrifice themselves in this counterattack.

The Night's Watch rallied the defence atop the Wall, resisting the Others. Siege weapons opposed the Others' attack.

After Malvern's defeat, the relief force under Jon Snow arrived at the Wall and reinforced the castle in good time. Castle Black was resecured amidst the battle.

However, despite this unexpected resistance against the Others, the undead wyrms could not be stopped.

The Battle:

The battle reached its culmination as the wyrms broke through the protective barrier of the Wall, and the forces of the dead flooded through.

The Wall's structural stability was undermined, leading towards its collapse. The ice fractured and fell northwards, leading towards a wide breach and a great deal of debris.

Emboldened by the break in the Wall, the white walkers committed their forces into an unreserved assault.

The undead wyrms burrowed through the Wall, allowing the dead soldiers to follow. The defenders under Jon Snow rallied to hold the line at the base of the Wall, while sworn brothers commanded by Samwell Tarly struggled to hold the top of the Wall.

The defenders successfully destroyed two of the undead wyrms. The remaining three overwhelmed them, and the battle appeared lost. Castle Black was reduced to ruins in the Wall's collapse.

It is the author's firm belief that never, in the entire recorded history of man, has there been a more climatic and pivotal battle.

Despite the defender's greatest efforts, the battle was only won due to the appearance of the ice dragon Sonagon at the brink. The King in the North, Brandon Stark, performed a magical ceremony before the heart tree of Winterfell to restore the dragon's strength. Revitalised, the dragon flew north to its rider's aid.

As the raid parties ambushed the Others' rear, discord spread through the Others' assault. The white walkers grew overconfident in their success, and they were caught off-guard by the defenders' stubborn resistance.

With the death of multiple white walkers, the command of their minions was lost and their attack faltered.

The dragon, with the support of defending armies, successfully defeated the remaining wyrms. With their trump cards lost, the battle turned against the white walkers. The ice dragon's breath helped to seal the breach through the Wall.

Unopposed, Sonagon took to the skies north of the Wall, reigning devastation against the army of the dead. Bloodied, the white walkers chose to withdraw.

As they retreated, the Others were harried by minions serving the 'three-eyed crow' of the far north. The ambushes were quite successful, inflicting further losses against the Others.

Casualties:

At least three white walkers.

Uncountable number of wights.

Extreme fatalities among the Night's Watch, including Mance Rayder and the majority of the Wall's command.

Extreme fatalities among the refugees.

Severe fatalities among the relief force.

Trail of devastation across the north. The north will not recover.

Aftermath:

Samwell Tarly takes command of the Night's Watch.

Several hundred unchained wights are captured south of the Wall, some of them still moving.

Winterfell experiences a freak weather anomaly.

Marks the beginning of the evacuation of the north.

The Wall is breached.

Extracted from 'Notes upon the War of Change', as recorded by Archmaester Marwyn in 301 AC. Assembled from witness testimonies. Unpublished .

Chapter 49

Chapter 49

Jon

The long, jagged shadow of the Wall loomed over him.

Jon stood in the wreckage, staring out over a field of devastation while horses and donkeys toiled through the Breach. Axes and hammers chimed to clear the path, while the bone-carts were sluggishly labouring back and forth. Huge chunks of ice littered the horizon, and the corpses were strewn out over the snow as far as he could see.

The air was still, cold and musky. After the heart-crushing anxiety of the battle, after all the screaming and the desperate chaos, after all the fighting and dying… it felt unreal to be standing here mere days later amidst the desolate battlefield.

I will grant a knighthood to every single man and woman who fought through that battle, Jon remembered thinking. There was no doubt in his mind that absolutely everyone who lasted in the battle of Castle Black until morn deserved a title.

Jon had known more than a few battles now, but none of them even compared to the fight for the Wall.

The charred black skeleton of a giant wyrm loomed over him, skull half-crushed under a block of ice the size of a farmhouse. Its vacant eye sockets were staring right at him. Nobody had figured out what to do with the wyrms' corpses, or how to even clear them.

Men worked in regiments to clear the no-man's land. The sound of bells filled the air - every man kept ringing bells to stay in constant contact. No group dared to move away from earshot of the rest - the fear that the Others were lurking in the woods hung over them all.

Instead, there were teams of mules and donkeys, and they had to refit ploughs into platters to drag the corpses clear.

Occasionally, buried amidst the snow and the ruins, they would find bodies that were still moving - dead men with pale eyes, left behind. Even days later, the undead were still lingering in the snows, or shambling aimlessly through the woods. When convenient, the unchained wights would be clamped in irons and taken away for study - but otherwise the wights were just beheaded and hacked apart out on the field. Gruesome frozen gore filled the bone carts, some of it still wriggling.

The bells clattered around him, as the teams moved methodically through the no-man's land. Despite the clamour, the air still felt grim and quiet.

They were gathering bodies, and throwing them on a giant pile to burn. The pile already stood twenty-foot-high and near fifty-foot-long

a veritable hill of tangled limbs and cold faces. Jon had seen many horrific sights, but that pile of corpses was one of the most stomach-curdling.

Jon just stared hollowly at it all.

The world was grey and bleak. The snow had been stomped into a muddy slush that reached his ankles. His walking stick sloshed through the frozen mud as he staggered painfully on a broken ankle. Every step hurt.

Behind him, they needed giants to pile the bodies upwards, while chain gangs of mammoths were trying to drag the larger chunks of ice away. Someone was talking to him, asking orders or giving reports, but Jon couldn't even hear the words.

He wondered vaguely how many had been crushed when the ice came down. In the castle, they were still searching for survivors in the rubble.

It was all so numb. There was nothing to be done but clear the wreckage and burn the bodies. It was bloody, gruelling and vaguely soul-destroying work.

Another cart rattled back, the mule straining to drag the overloaded cart of bodies. The men just worked in detached silence as they started dropping corpses onto the ever-growing charnel pile.

Then, Jon saw a flash of red amidst the white and grey. The hair of another corpse freshly dropped on the pile. He didn't quite know why, but suddenly he was stepping forward and calling out to the men. "Wait, wait…"

His steps were staggered, limping heavily on a spear he held as a walking stick. The men looked shocked at Jon's presence, wiping the frozen gore from their gloves onto their chainmail. "Your Grace?" a man gasped.

Jon didn't have the time for them. His eyes were drawn to that coil of pale red hair, barely visible under the frost. Jon pushed forward to see it.

The body was unceremoniously dropped behind the mules. He saw her, half-buried under the pile of bodies. Her pale eyes were staring absently at the sky.

It had been so long that Jon's memories of her had faded. He hadn't been sure if he would, but he still recognised her in an instant. Her hair was much paler than he remembered, streaked by white, and her face was gaunter and grimmer. She looked older.

Her mouth was parted slightly, and he could still see the familiar crooked teeth. Her smile used to make her beautiful, but she wasn't smiling now.

His hand tightened around his cane. I didn't even…

Ygritte's eyes were open, her face slack and pale in death. Jon couldn't even see the wound that killed her.

Men were staring at him. "Your Grace…" a distant voice said nervously. "Do… did you know her?"

Jon did not reply. Words fell short, they felt so wholly inadequate and hollow. There was only a silence, and then Jon turned and limped away.

He never said a word as they dragged Ygritte's body away, dumping it onto the charnel-hill.

He stood and watched as they finally set the fires, making a funeral pyre out of the hill of corpses. He saw the flames hissing over the flesh, rotten meat bubbling and sizzling. It was a slow fire, a difficult one - there was too much flesh and not enough kindling. As dusk fell, the men needed to constantly throw sticks over the fire just to encourage the weak flames to spread. The stink of charred meat stained the air.

Through the pyre, it felt like Ygritte's eyes were staring straight at him. He saw her hair in the whispers of the flames.

Kissed by fire, he thought with a silent prayer, closing his eyes.

The memories hurt him. He could not stay.

As the morning rose, Jon found himself naked in his room, staring at his scars. The dappled light of dawn filtered through the shuttered windows. His quarters had formerly been a groundskeeper's hut for the lichyard of Castle Black and now it was one of the few buildings still standing. It was cold and cluttered, and filled with the musky smell of damp and cold rot.

The men were camping amongst the broken gravestones, still trying to salvage what little remained of the castle. Jon knew that he needed to get up, but he struggled to stand.

He ran his fingers over his body, inspecting his pale skin. The lines of old and new scars were strewn across his skin.

He felt the old scars from when he had first ridden Sonagon, the cut from the Weeper's fists, and the knife wound from the Battle of the Snows. There was the ugly wound from an ice spider's teeth, like two curved hooks that had jammed into his upper leg, and the muscles on his thigh still felt knobbly. He saw the burns on his palm, from a lifetime ago where he had once thrown a lantern at a wight to save the Lord Commander. On his wrists, he could feel the blistered flesh where the cold winds of the far north had swept past his gloves and seared his skin.

Around his neck, he could still trace the razor thin scar where the assassin's garrotte had nearly choked him to death.

Other scars were smaller. A scratch from where he had cut himself making fire in the north. A thin line where a wight's blade had grazed him. A scarred rash from where his riding leathers had cut into his flesh.

His skin was crisscrossed in wounds. He traced them all, and then stopped to pause over a faded cut on his shoulder. He couldn't even remember that one - it was either from Hardhome or from the Frostfangs. There had been so many battles and so many wounds that he struggled to remember them all.

Scars on top of scars, Jon thought with a sigh, as he stared down at his feet. His seven pale toes were spread out over the wood. The stumps were smooth and pale.

There were more injuries that were more recent. His left torso was left bruised black and yellow from where he had fallen against the wyrm, and his ankle was swollen and knobbly at the break. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to stand. His right shoulder had dislocated when he fell, and it still ached painfully. His left arm was numb and swollen - he didn't have the same feeling in his hands.

Then, his fingers touched the misshapen wound over his chest from Malvern's blade. The Other's sword had been so cold that the flesh sealed quickly, but the wound itself had never faded.

Jon sighed. It felt like he had aged ten years in the last one.

It wasn't healthy, he knew. A long year of hard living, travelling and fighting had stripped away every inch of fat. He could see every tendon and vein running down his neck and limbs, like craggy rope bulging out of a scarecrow. His bones creaked when he moved, his joints ached. His flesh felt dangerously gaunt, like muscles wrapped around bare bones and withered skin dragged across them.

You're a fighter, Jon Snow . Those words echoed back to him. Jon sat on his bed in silence for what felt like a lifetime, and did not move.

His only company was the great direwolf curled at the other side of the cabin. From time to time, it reminded him of Ghost, but Summer had different eyes and different fur. The direwolf felt like Bran; Jon could see something of his brother in its amber eyes. Summer had taken to spending the nights curled up next to Jon in the cabin, for protection and companionship. Jon couldn't say who was protecting who.

He wondered how many fights he had left in him.

Morning stretched onwards. He could hear the bustle outside, but he didn't move. Eventually, there was a cautious knock at his door. "Your Grace?" a voice called nervously.

They would be wondering where their commander was, he knew. His duties never stopped. "Enter," Jon replied curtly.

Two free folk in chainmail entered nervously, keeping their heads bowed. Jon did not recognise either of them. If not for their tattoos, they could have passed for northern men-at-arms. They kept their gaze lowered, while Jon sat naked on the dusty mattress.

"They are calling for you, Your Grace," the man said with a grimace.

Of course they are . It was a hard thing to finally admit, but there was no choice… "I cannot dress myself," Jon said stiffly. "Help me stand."

Jon didn't even try to hide his nakedness. It took two soldiers to dress him, and to support him on his broken ankle. They tried to be respectful and hesitant, but Jon still had to sit bare-buttocked on the bed while the man pulled his breeches up his leg, yanking them over his swollen ankle. Jon grimaced as another man jerked the straps of the hauberk tight over his chest.

They also had to pick up Dark Sister from where it lay. Jon strapped the sword onto his belt, but the leather grip had burnt away, the sheathing had been lost, and the pommel's great ruby was gone. The blade itself was intact, but everything else was burnt and filthy from the fire. He still hadn't even managed to wipe away all the stained ash and gore. All the ornament and decoration was gone; nothing remained but dirty grey and black steel.

It had taken two days to recover Dark Sister from the wyrm's corpse, and the sword didn't feel the same.

With his thick furs and armour around him, he didn't look so gaunt or vulnerable, at least. Still, even after they dressed him, Jon needed a man to half-support, half-carry him out of the cabin.

The injuries had stacked up, and Jon couldn't even walk by himself.

Still, Jon refused to feel any shame.

Outside, all heads bowed deeply as he hobbled out of his quarters. Amidst the graves stood scores of grim-eyed men, all camping on the snows and the rubble of the lichyard. They flocked around him; many were bowing, a few were praying. Summer followed him, the great direwolf's snout nuzzling at his back.

Even at the battle's end, there had been no celebration. This didn't feel like a victory.

In the morning light, the sight of the Breach through the Wall never ceased to take his breath away. It was a jagged groove straight through the collapse - entire layered strata of ice were glinting in the light. Ice that had not been seen for millennia; Jon could see the different shades of ice going back in time, gleaming blue and white.

The gale from the north buffeted against the Wall, and the northern winds were forced and concentrated through the gap. The wind through the Breach was so cold that it could bite flesh clean off. It sounded like the Breach was constantly wailing. The army of men was camped in the ruins of the castle, and they were still trying to clear the mountain of debris.

It felt less like a war camp, more like a refugee site.

Jon remembered talking to Othell Yarwyck of the Builders a few days ago, one of the very last survivors of the old guard. Even the most optimistic estimates said that it would be the work of lifetimes to repair the Breach. How many lifetimes do we have left? Jon wondered.

The battle was over, but it felt like the strife was just beginning. Jon hobbled precariously through the muddy slush, looking over the makeshift fortifications.

Behind him, he heard a voice calling for him. A warhorse was forcing its way through the crowd, heavy hooves trotting through the snows. "Your Grace!" a voice called for him. "Your Grace!"

Jon didn't turn around.

"News from the Shadow Tower, Your Grace!" Andrik Knott called, as he pushed his horse towards Jon's side. "The messengers from the west arrived during the night - Soren of Thenn is in command at the Tower."

Jon didn't break step, or even look at the man. "Its status?"

"They came under attack; white walkers used captured wild- free folk -" The man gulped "- to attack the Shadow Tower. They claim that giant ladders were used to bridge the Gorge at night, while the dead were pulled across the Bridge of Skulls. They report significant casualties, but the castle held."

His eyes flickered. "'Held'?" Jon repeated. He could scarcely see how those ruins could have endured for so long.

"The Others abandoned the assault," Andrik admitted.

At the same time they abandoned the attack on Castle Black too, Jon suspected. As soon as one assault was broken, the white walkers abandoned the attacks on all the other castles. They had been trying to capture the entire Wall all at once. "What of Eastwatch?" Jon asked.

"No word yet, Your Grace."

That was the more concerning. Everyone was disorganised, but they still hadn't heard from Eastwatch or any castle east of Rimegate. Jon gave orders to send scouts to find out, and Andrik bustled off. I must travel to Eastwatch soon.

There were too many urgent issues. Rattleshirt had already gone south into the Gift, leading his warbands to hunt down the lingering undead and to search for survivors. Every day, more weary men were returning to the ruins of Castle Black, but they numbered too few. Jon suspected that that hundreds, if not thousands, of deserters had succumbed to the elements. It felt like half of Jon's army had broken and fled somewhere amidst that horrible battle, and now he had to rally whatever was left of them.

He had also sent out scouts both west and east to search for other breaks in the Wall - Jon prayed that no other wyrms, no other white walkers had made it through, but he had to be sure. The Wall was still in a state of confused chaos.

Castle Black's underground food stores, already critically low levels, had been collapsed by the wyrms. He'd sent out a hundred hunters to secure game, but only one in thirty had returned with any success at all. The Others had sent every bird and beast in the forest fleeing for the hills.

At Castle Black, their focus was on the Breach, and what could be done concerning the great notch through the barrier.

More were demanding his attention. Jon was already being pulled into discussions on how to defend the Breach, or how many forces they could recover. He had already sent Duncan Liddle to the northern mountains to secure food and aid, while Red Jack wanted to collapse and blockade the Breach, despite Sigorn's insistence that they should push forward and hunt down the Others.

Sigorn Spiderslayer, he was styled now - in the battle, Sigorn had slain the largest ice spider in the Other's army, a white spider so large that it brought down a mammoth. Sigorn had pulled out its fangs and now held them as daggers.

Jon knew that they wouldn't be able to march anywhere. They had too few supplies, and far too many wounded; the men were starving, near all the dragonglass had been lost, and the losses to wounds and desertions were uncountable. It was all they could do to try and pick up the pieces.

Ser Endrew Tarth was leading the recovery efforts and searching for surviving watchmen - but frighteningly few were left.

Jon had once known everyone on Castle Black by name, but now there were barely a handful that he even recognised.

Above him, he heard the flutter of Sonagon's wings across the castle, and then a crash as the dragon landed on top of the Wall. Sonagon wasn't hungry, at least. The dragon had been gorging itself eating the dead, wights and all. After the battle, Sonagon had

developed quite an appetite. After the battle, the dragon had been ravenous. Any corpse they didn't burn, Sonagon had devoured.

Most of the time the dragon roosted up on the broken edge of the Wall, but it came down frequently enough to feast on the charnel pits.

Sonagon had taken its own battle wounds - bite marks from the wyrms' jaws trailed across the dragon's legs and wings, but they seemed shallow and Sonagon was recovering well. Jon still didn't understand how Sonagon had recovered, but there had been little chance to investigate. He was surrounded by wounded and hungry men, and the threat of a second attack hung over them all like a headsman's axe, waiting to fall…

Then, he was shaken out of his reverie by a bugler's horn, and of footsteps pattering towards him.

"The party from Oakenshield has arrived, Your Grace!" a voice called, and Jon saw Dolorous Edd running through the muddy slush. "Lord Shieldbreaker and the Lord Steward have arrived!"

Jon stopped in an instant, and turned to the east.

"Take me to Lord Tarly," he ordered. He kept his hand on the charred hilt of Dark Sister.

The ruins of Castle Black were jutting out of the avalanche of white. There was not a tower still whole, instead there were only lumps of stone broken by ice. They were still trying to excavate the wreckage and wormwalks; the last survivor had been two days ago, but the men still held to the hope of finding more.

Eddison led the way east, across the castle through a twisting pathway in the wreckage. Above them, a falling slab of ice had formed a precarious archway leaning over the collapsed Guard Tower - they had to crouch to make their way through the icy debris hanging overhead.

Even as they approached the shattered keep, men were still trying to break apart the huge slabs of ice into moveable chunks. He saw the trail of black cloaks walking forward.

Jon was surrounded by weary men trekking into Castle Black, their black cloaks stained white with hoarfrost. The ice stairs at Castle Black had been destroyed, and there had been no way for the men stationed atop the Wall to descend. Instead, the surviving garrison had to travel to Oakenshield to use the stairs to descend again.

A familiar broad-shouldered figure was walking with them. "Grenn!" Jon shouted, allowing himself a quiet sigh of relief.

There was no joy in Grenn's gaze. There was nothing but silent horror as he gazed upon what little remained of the castle. "Jon. By the Gods, Jon…"

He glanced around the figures. There were so few left - all that remained of the men that held the Wall. But one is missing .

"Where's Sam?" Jon demanded. Grenn met the eyes of one of the others, then grimaced.

Grenn pointed towards the broken Grey Keep, and the vaults beneath the shattered rookery. They had only just cleared the stairs to the lower levels. And the library, Jon thought. He should have known that Sam would retreat to the library.

Jon saw Lord Shieldbreaker calling for his attention, but Jon brushed past Grenn and the others. Shieldbreaker could wait. He limped down towards the vaults, grimacing with every step of the stairs. He had to be supported by two men-at-arms, else he would have collapsed.

These chambers once belonged to Maester Aemon, Jon thought with a twinge of sadness. There was barely anything left of them; the upper levels had collapsed, and only the vaults were mostly intact. Even the library was dark and half-collapsed, with chunks of ice

scattered from the ceiling and books strewn over the floors. There was still no sign of Sam.

Jon passed an old, charred desk and collapsed shelves. This was where the assassins tried to kill me, he thought, as his fingers movedto his neck. Even months later, they had not cleaned up the mess.

A few steps later, he noted Mormont's raven, silently perched atop a broken shelf. Somehow, despite it all, the bird yet lived. It stared at him through one eye as he passed, head slightly tilted.

They eventually found the Lord Steward at the far side of the vaults, over a chamber pot and puking his guts out.

Jon limped into the gloom, clutching the wall to support himself. He heard the heaving before his eyes focused in the dim light. Sam looked a weeping, broken mess. It had been a long time since Jon had seen his friend, they had parted ways months ago. Sam was still a big person, but he could no longer quite be called fat. He looked starved and sleep-deprived. His eyes were red and lined with tired shadows.

The sound of quiet, choked sobs echoed in the air of the ruined library. In the light of day, Jon realised, this was the first time Sam had seen the ruins of Castle Black. The sight had caused Sam to vomit. His friend looked ill - physically ill with grief.

Jon was not surprised. The air between them was tense as Jon stepped into the underground room. There was no greeting between them, Sam didn't even turn around. "Leave us," Jon ordered to his guards, and the men who had been helping him walk.

With a nod, the guards turned and marched out of the room. Jon clung to a shelf for support, and then shut and barred the door behind them.

The chamber was left silent.

"I killed them," Sam muttered finally. "All of those men and women, I killed them."

Jon took a deep breath. There was nothing he could say that would reassure his last friend, so he didn't even try. Jon had heard about what happened in the castle - it had been a gamble, a gamble that paid off.

He hobbled on one leg towards a dresser, to pour a mug of water. Then, he realised that the water in the jug was frozen solid. "You did what you had to do, Sam," Jon said simply.

Sam only choked. "All those people…"

"If not for you," Jon said slowly, "the Others would have broken through the castle long before the relief arrived to help."

"Maybe. Or maybe we would have held," Sam gulped, dropping backwards onto the ground away from the pot. "Maybe they could have taken shelter in the vaults, maybe we could have blockaded the tunnel. If I had known how close you were, I could have done something, maybe I could have even bought more time…"

Jon hesitated. "Maybe," he admitted.

Sam would spend his entire life thinking 'maybe'. Maybe if I had been faster, maybe if I hadn't been scared, maybe if I had known…

Jon knew those thoughts. He'd been thinking them ever since he'd first left Winterfell nearly four years ago. They were the surest way to damn yourself.

Sam finally turned around. He was sitting sprawled out on the floor, staring up at Jon. His eyes were desperate, half-crazed. His mouth stammered, trying to force out the words. "Dalla…?" Sam croaked. "Mance's son…? What of…?"

He spoke like a man on the edge. He seemed afraid to even ask the question. Jon didn't know how Sam would have reacted if he had to give the bad answer. For that moment, Jon whispered a silent thanks to all the gods that there was no need to lie. "They're safe, Sam," Jon said softly. "They're safe."

They had found Dalla and her unnamed son hiding in the treeline, taking shelter beneath an old oak near the castle. The child had a bad cough from the cold, but he was healthy. She had spent the battle screaming and weeping, clutching her wailing babe as the ice wyrms writhed through the trees.

Dalla had been red-eyed and trembling as they brought her in - but nobody had even needed to tell her what happened to Mance. She had just known.

At that, his friend broke down into tears. Sam scrambled up off the floor and lunged for Jon in a mad, weeping bearing hug. Sam hugged him so tight it hurt, sobbing madly into Jon's chest.

Jon didn't cry, but he didn't resist the hug either. His hands rose slightly out of reflex, then stilled. He was unsure if he should put them over Sam's shoulders or not. After a pause, he chose not.

For a long time, they just stood there. He waited until Sam's sobs slowly started to fade. Then, Jon cleared his throat.

"Tell me everything, Sam."

Sam did. They dropped onto old, wooden chairs and started to talk. Sam started at the beginning of the battle and the first sightings of the Others beyond the Wall. They spoke in hushed voices, occasionally broken by a strained sob.

At the mention of the wyrms, Jon's gaze darkened.

"Where did those wyrms come from?" Jon asked finally.

"The Frostfangs, I think. We knew that the Others were active there, we just never knew what they were doing…" Sam shook his head. "Those beasts might have been, what? Eight thousand years old…? Did the white walkers dig up their bodies?"

"They woke the dragons up, and they raised them." Jon's hand absentmindedly ran down the scar on his chest. "Sonagon was not the only one slumbering."

"They were…" Sam muttered. "They were like something out of the stories. Ice wyrms . But I've heard of no records of them, I never knew such things could truly…"

His friend's voice trailed off, while Jon's mutter was low and quiet. "We forgot. Somewhere in the thousands of years, we just… forgot about them," Jon continued distantly, as he thought of the stories Furs had once told him. "But there were tales, the free folk remembered."

Sam didn't know how to reply. His friend seemed lost for words. Jon hesitated for a time, then spoke. "That wight you mentioned?" Jon asked eventually. "The one that talked? Are you sure it said the Horn of Joramun?"

Sam nodded. "It did. It told me of the wyrms, that there were five of them."

A wight that could talk was unusual. They had captured plenty of unchained wights, but only a very few showed signs of remnant intelligence. "What happened to that wight?"

Sam could only shrug. "I lost sight of it, I don't know."

Jon paused in quiet consideration. The Horn of Joramun - the Horn of Winter - was a dragon horn. Jon had suspected so for a long time. Bran the Builder must have blown the horn, and used the breath of the ice dragons to first build the Wall. Somewhere amidst the passing of the ages, the Watch had forgotten its own history.

Jon glanced around at the wreckage of Aemon's library. Eight thousand years, Jon considered. Just how many times had the records and libraries burned, how many books had rotted in all that time?

The Others must have the horn of Winter. That was what they had been doing at the Frostfangs. How many more monsters could be buried up there? Why were they buried there? How much more history from the first Long Night had been lost to the ages?

Jon wanted to curse out loud, but he couldn't. Damn it all.

The silence stretched outwards. "We beat them, though? The wyrms?" Sam eventually said. It wasn't a statement, more a question. "Those monsters? We won?"

"And how do you know they were the only ones?" Jon replied darkly.

Sam didn't reply. He only fidgeted uncomfortably, looking away from Jon.

We don't know enough, Jon considered. We don't know anything about the Others, or what they're capable of. That uncertainty felt tormenting.

The memories of that night raced between them. That sheer, utter desperation. They had fought on a cliff's edge, but they had clung on…

Jon sat with his head in his hands, replaying it all over and over again.

"What are you thinking?" Sam asked finally, with a gulp.

Jon was slow to reply. "I'm thinking that this winter might last for years, Sam. Half a decade, maybe more." Easily more . The storiessaid that the Long Night lasted a hundred years. "Can you imagine

trying to fight this battle for years? I'm thinking that the north is already starved and strained, and that we're not going to last.

"I'm thinking that the white walkers are still out there, and that they'll try again. They haven't been rushing, their invasion has been planned. They're overconfident, but with good reason." Jon shook his head. "They have all the time in the world. The Wall nearly fell today, but tomorrow? How long can we keep this up?"

"Jon…"

"I cannot pretend that we have a chance. We're fucked."

Sam did not dispute it. The air turned heavy and silent, surrounded by the gloom of frozen books.

We must prepare, Jon thought. This cannot happen again .

"We must begin evacuating the Gift," Jon said finally. "We start from the north downwards, and we move them all south. Evacuate everyone."

Sam didn't look convinced. "Evacuate?" Sam repeated. "Where?"

"Anywhere that isn't here. Look at what happened with Malvern - that was one white walker. One . We cannot risk that happening again. All of the smallfolk, all of these people, they're just more bodies for the Others' army. We need to clear the battlefield. Maybe then we might hold them."

"You mean to evacuate the entire realm?"

He nodded. "If that's what it takes. I will do everything in my power to hold this Wall. But we have to start thinking of what might happen if we can't."

First the free folk had to flee south, and now the northmen had to flee further south. But what happens when we run out of south? How long can we run?

Sam looked like he was about to object. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. There was a pause. "You don't think we'll be able to stop them, do you?"

"They hurt us. I think that we barely held them with the Wall," Jon said grimly, "yet the Wall is now broken. The next time? They'll walk up, and they'll only need to knock."

Sam sagged in his chair. "We need…" Sam muttered. "We need a new Wall."

"We need allies. We need all the allies in the world."

There was a long, long silence. The only sound was the whisper of the torches, and the scuttling of distant rats in the dark.

"Wipe your eyes," Jon eventually said, but softly. His friend had withdrawn into himself, like he was thinking, or remembering something. "Clean yourself up before stepping outside. It doesn't do to let them see weakness."

Sam sniffled. "I know… I know…" He took a deep breath, and then rubbed his tired eyes. "So what happens next? If we can't rely on the Wall, then what else is there?"

"We need an army," Jon said, and then hesitated. "The Others can keep on throwing dead bodies at us until the end of the days - the only way to really beat them is to destroy them. Find out where they're vulnerable, and crush it."

Sam nodded. He looked like he wanted to say something, but then hesitated. "In the stories…" Sam muttered, glancing around the shelves of books and tomes. "Some of the stories say that the last hero ended the Long Night by challenging their king to single combat?"

Jon only snorted, a humourless bark of laughter. "I wouldn't stand a chance."

There was a quiet. With a pained grimace, Jon gripped the bookshelf and then pulled himself up. Sam dragged himself to his feet as well, extending a hand to support him. The Lord Steward took a deep breath, trying to centre himself.

Sam doesn't look like the same boy I once knew either, Jon thought quietly. Sam was scared, but he wasn't freezing with fear.

"Start the evacuation, Jon," Sam muttered, his voice so low and numb that Jon could barely hear it. "Broken or not, the Night's Watch will hold the Wall for you. Whatever we have left, we'll hold."

Jon believed him. "You have your duty, Sam. And I have mine." Jon wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulder, as he staggered back towards the door. "Lord Commander."

There was no immediate response, but Jon knew that he heard him. Perhaps in normal circumstances, there should be an election, but there was hardly a moment to spare and it felt pointless regardless. A choice needed to be made, and Jon felt comfortable making it.

His friend only grimaced. He didn't ask for this, Jon knew, and he probably didn't want it. But still it was not a choice, it was a duty - Lord Commander Samwell Tarly.

Sansa

"Are you sure that this is suitable, Your Grace?" Wynafryd asked, her hands fumbling slightly as she pulled the laces as tight as they would go.

"It's quite alright, Wynafryd," Sansa replied. Princess Sansa Stark of Winterfell, she mused as she looked out the tower window. What a queer name. They all called her 'Your Grace' now, but the honorificbrought no pleasure.

Once upon a time, she had dreamed of that title. Back when she'd been but a girl, when she dreamt of being the wife of the prince, or even dared to dream of being the queen. But now I am the sister to a king instead - the Lady of Winterfell, of the Kingdom in the North, Sansa mused, silently weighing the heavy words on her tongue. They still didn't feel natural.

The dress had come from White Harbour, but her handmaid had to knot the laces twice just to get it to fit. The silk dress had been tailored for a woman stockier than Sansa - a woman more like Wynafryd's build; not fat, just with a rounder figure. It was far too loose on Sansa. Or more likely I am underweight, Sansa considered. The recent stress had caused havoc with her diet, and Sansa's ribs felt reduced to the bare bones. She made a mental note to request more fatty foods at the table - it felt like she had been living off bread and turnips for far too long.

"You look do gorgeous, Your Grace." Wynafryd Manderly said, stepping backwards and tilting her head slightly. "Silk looks good on you."

"That's very kind, Wynafryd," Sansa said with a smile. To her, the dress was a horrid thing - silk and pearl and silver lace, with far more curls and loops than she preferred. Their kingdom was war-torn and poor; Sansa couldn't shake the feeling that it sent a foul message for the princess to be dressed so richly.

And yet the dress had come as a gift from Lord Manderly, when he sent his daughters to Winterfell, and there had been no polite way to deny it. Still, the dress was suitable today. She would just try not to lift her legs.

"Please, could you prepare some wine in the solar?" Sansa asked. "I feel it would be good to share a drink with our guest."

Wynafryd frowned. She was years older than Sansa, the image of a highborn woman, polite and respectful to a fault. "Forgive me,

princess, is that appropriate?" she replied. "I thought the Council wished to speak with the envoy?"

"Oh, I have no doubt the great lords will talk at length to this banker. But before they do, I would like to offer Winterfell's hospitality." Sansa smiled. "I only mean to share cups with the man, Wynafryd."

"But should we not wait for Prince Snow?" Wynafryd said. "Or my lord grandfather… I just feel it is presumptuous to make arrangements without…"

Her voice trailed off. Without permission? Sansa wondered. She tapped Wynafryd on the shoulder gently. "It is only a casual meeting, Wyna."

She curtsied. "As you say, Your Grace."

Wynafryd quietly finished Sansa's dress, and then went to fetch her shoes - dainty, satin heels tipped with pearls. Wynafryd wore blue and green wool with the symbol of her house on her overcoat, while Sansa chose lighter white silk. After a few attempts, she wore her hair upwards in a widow's knot, but left it unadorned. It would not do to appear a young girl today, she decided.

"I shall not need you during the meal," Sansa said gently. "You are excused for the rest of the day."

"Are you sure? I do not mind -"

"Go to your grandfather," Sansa insisted, placing a hand on her shoulder. "He comes to mourn your father and mother, you must be there for him. Your sister needs you too."

Wynafryd hesitated, but nodded. Wynafryd had rarely let her grief show, though there had been times when the lady had emerged red-eyed in the morn, as if crying all night. In all the frenzy of Winterfell it had been hard to arrange proper funeral for any of the dead, even

the highborn. Sansa was sympathetic, but the Manderly girls had been left to mourn their mother alone.

The youngest sister, Wylla, had taken their mother's death even worse. Wylla had locked herself into Arya's old chambers and scarcely ever left. By contrast, Wynafryd seemed to be trying to stay busy, to keep herself distracted.

She is several years older than me, Sansa considered. Wynafryd was nearing her twentieth nameday. Once, Sansa had looked up to her, but so much had changed. More recently, it felt as if Wynafryd was the younger of them.

As Sansa stepped out onto the balcony, she saw the column of horses and carriages on the horizon, trodding up the muddy slush of the kingsroad. The banners of White Harbour and half a dozen other houses fluttered in the distance. Lord Wyman and company had finally arrived in Winterfell for the coronation of King Brandon Stark.

Wynafryd held the door open as Sansa walked out, holding herself stiff, stoic and composed. The silk lace drifted against the stone as her dainty shoes clipped over the corridor. She wouldn't be able to walk outside in this garb, but it would do. A dress was to a woman what armour was to a knight.

I have to play the part now. The Royal Family of Winterfell; the lost princess, the crippled king, and the dragonlord bastard. Prince Jon Snow had not yet returned from the Wall, but Sansa had no intention of being window dressing as the rest of the kingdom fought for their lives.

In the distance, behind the banners and the wagons, she could see a column of downtrodden figures stretching over the horizon. The smallfolk were left to walk on foot, she observed. The Manderly knights were at the head of the line, being followed by uncountable figures - a mob of unorganized bodies, all of them flocking towards Winterfell, towards shelter. From so high above, it reminded her of cattle; dirty and brown and bedraggled,

They had been receiving more and more refugees recently. Even a week later, the warm weather around the castle was only just starting to fade - the air was still hotter than it had any right to be. It was no longer as swelteringly hot, and the geysers of steam billowing from the godswood had faded, but the frost was only just starting to creep back in. The scouts reported a bubble of heat spreading two leagues, and gradually fading away.

As the smallfolk flocked back towards the winter town, Sansa knew that they whispered of magic and the old gods.

From the north, Winterfell was still receiving more and more refugees flooding downwards along the kingsroad - all of them with haunted looks and whispering of cursed things. By the tell of it, the white walker had mauled half the villages between Winterfell and the ruins of Last Hearth, and now thousands - tens of thousands, even - of the refugees were making the long trek to Winterfell.

Sansa had wasted little time in summoning as many as possible to Winterfell, where they might protect them. The smallfolk in the fields were too vulnerable to the roaming dead.

So many petty lords and militias had been mustered to fight the white walker's forces, and yet they had still had scarcely any word from the Wall itself. The battles to the north had lasted for near a week, amidst a fierce snowstorm that was only just settling. Winter is here .

Vaguely, Sansa wondered what Jon was doing right now. Any moment now, they expected to see the dragon flying over the horizon. Sansa prayed to all the gods that he would bring good news from the Wall, but she could not allow herself to hope. No, I must prepare for the worst .

The Winter Suite felt unusually warm and stuffy as Sansa trotted through the doorway, and plopped herself behind the stone table. The men-at-arms - each wearing white stones over direwolf sigils -

bowed to her. The men were sweating under their boiled leather and chainmail. The whole castle was sweating.

A personal guard of the most seasoned and well-disciplined soldiers remaining had been assigned to both Sansa and Bran, to follow them at every moment. Tensions remained too high; they rarely left her side. Even when she slept, she had to leave the door open and two guards stationed by her bedside, to raise the alarm at any assassin in the night. She had not slept comfortably for weeks.

Sansa took a deep breath, gathered herself, and looked over the mess of parchments and letters strewn over the table.

Lord Forrester arrived before Sansa could even pour herself a glass of wine. Lord Gregor was wearing riding leathers under a thick white cloak, sweat beading over his forehead. It was barely dawn, but he must have just returned from meeting the party on the kingsroad. "Report, Your Grace." The Captain of the Guard bowed. "Lord Wyman arrives with four score mounted men and knights, and a full baggage train."

"Thank you, my lord. Who comes with him?"

"The lords of the White Knife. The envoy too, and various merchants. They also bring the prisoners and hostages you requested, as well as that pirate admiral." Lord Gregor's face twisted slightly. "And one 'Mother Mole' - she supposedly leads the column of wildli- of free folk and converts."

Yes, Sansa mused. The Cult was growing drastically, and it was little surprise they were flocking to Winterfell. Many lords were already becoming uneasy with their numbers.

"And riders from the east come with Lord Manderly's party," Lord Gregor continued. "I met with them this morn. They claim that the Dreadfort has surrendered."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "Truly?" She poured a goblet of wine. "Surrendered?"

He nodded, passing her a grubby yellow letter from his pouch. It was written on charcoal by a rough hand, and stained by the elements. "Ser Marlon Manderly writes that the castle is in good order, it fell to a successful siege," Lord Gregor explained. "He negotiated a surrender with a serjeant named Steelshanks. I'm told that the Bolton loyalists lost all will to resist after news of Winterfell's fall reached them. The Dreadfort is ours, with very few casualties."

Ser Marlon? Sansa mused, before recalling. Ser Marlon was of the Manderly branch family from White Harbour, and the new heir to Lordsport after the death of his brother Ser Mardrick. Jon had spoken briefly but favorably of him.

"Capital. Have Ser Marlon garrison the castle, and then move his men west."

"As you will, Your Grace." If he bore any disdain towards being ordered by a fifteen year old girl, Lord Gregor did not show it.

"And arrange word to Castle Black at all haste," she added, "a rider, alas; we have no ravens to the Wall remaining."

"I will, Your Grace."

Jon would want to be told quickly, she thought, but the snows will delay any movement . And yet still… the fall of the Dreadfort? They had received word only a few days ago that Moat Cailin had fallen to the crannogmen under Lord Reed, and now the Dreadfort followed. Its fall marked the total defeat of Bolton loyalists in the north. "Any word on the hostages in the Dreadfort?" she asked after a pause.

"None so far, I shall enquire."

"Do so, but you must see to Lord Wyman's party foremost, and clear rooms in the castle for his men," Lord Gregor nodded. "Offer Lord

Wyman our hospitality, and alert me as soon as this emissary arrives."

"He already has, Your Grace," Lord Gregor admitted. "He rode back with me, ahead of the lord's wheelhouse."

Sansa blinked in surprise, but perhaps it was to be expected. Lord Wyman's convoy moved at a snail's pace, and from what she had heard the envoy from the Iron Bank was an eager man. "Then invite him up."

Lord Gregor bowed and then left. Sansa paused, taking a deep breath to collect herself. There were two dozen letters and tasks that lay before her, but the envoy felt like one of the most urgent. They were planning for Bran's coronation within the week, as soon as the great lords arrived, but theirs would be a short-lived kingdom unless they secured the Iron Bank's patronage.

Enemies on all fronts, she thought. What would Littlefinger do?

She had heard of the battles to the north, and the swell of refugees brought word Prince Snow's victory and little else. The snows had subsided somewhat, but they were still struggling to even take stock of the dead and the damaged. They needed allies and they needed support.

But the Dreadfort has fallen, Sansa told herself. The last of the Bolton sympathisers had withered away or bent the knee, and finally House Stark was unchallenged in the north. If ever there was a time that the Iron Bank could make a deal, it was now.

She met the Bank's envoy at the entrance to the Winter Suite, his head low and waiting by the stone doors. The guards were all suspicious and watched him closely, but the tall and gaunt man kept his eyes downwards, almost like a servant. Still, he was a servant wearing as much wealth as she was - he wore high-collared purple robes trimmed with ermine, and a brimless three-tiered hat. His tunic

was gossamer with gold trim, and his beard was so long it almost reached his waist.

With her approach, the representative of the Iron Bank of Braavos bowed so deeply that his hat could have touched the floor.

"Princess Sansa," Tycho Nestoris swooned. "The word of your beauty was not exaggerated - you look radiant."

"That's very kind, my lord." Sansa smiled, extending her hand. "May I thank you for coming to Winterfell to talk, I am sure it couldn't have been an easy journey."

"Oh, not at all. The sights I have seen alone have made this journey worthwhile." His face didn't flicker. His voice was kind, but his eyes were calculating. Sansa recognised that look. "And I am not a lord, Your Grace. I am but a humble servant of the Iron Bank."

"Nevertheless," Sansa said, "Winterfell is glad to have you here. Please, do you care for a drink?"

"It would be appalling of me to refuse, Your Grace." The guards opened the door for them, but nevertheless they stopped to search his robes for hidden weapons. Sansa smiled apologetically, and yet not a hint of affront reached Tycho's features. For all he must have spent the last several days riding through heavy weather, the banker looked absolutely immaculate and composed.

Sansa nodded to a servant, who produced two glasses of wine forthwith, while Tycho stood back to let her sit down. "I do believe the Lords Manderly and Umber invited me to discuss terms at their council?" he noted. "It was Prince Snow that reached out to the Iron Bank."

And you refused him for months . "Indeed they have. I was just hoping we could have a talk beforehand."

"But of course." He sat down opposite her across the heavy stone desk. "Should I consider this a personal talk, or a negotiation of state?"

She raised an eyebrow. "It cannot be both?"

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I prefer to be clear," the banker replied smoothly. "In many lands, it would be a grave offence to discuss such matters with someone outside of governance. You are the young king's sister, but I am not aware that you hold a rank within his court?"

Perhaps that was meant to be a slight barb. It didn't feel malicious, though, more probing. There had been no official rank assigned to Sansa - not yet, at least. "Then you may consider me the king's advisor," Sansa replied, without a flicker. "After all, what boy does not heed the suggestions of his elder sister?"

"But of course. I apologise. I must admit, though, I am uncertain of the hierarchy and customs within your kingdom. It is such a newly-declared country, after all." Tycho smiled.

"We all serve my brother, King Brandon Stark of the North," Sansa said, with a sweet smile of her own.

"As you say, Your Grace." He dipped his head. "And what of your half-brother? What position does he hold?"

There was the briefest of pauses. "Prince Jon Snow leads His Grace's armies. He is the commander of their ranks, the champion of the North."

"And outside of the field? What role does the Prince Jon hold in your politics?"

"You are very curious about Jon Snow, my lord."

"Well, it is curious, is it not?" He took a sip of the wine from the goblet, but Sansa didn't touch hers. "Jon Snow; proven commander, famed warrior, eldest child of Eddard Stark, dragonrider and perhaps the most famous man in the north, if not the whole of Westeros. The White Dragon - the country has been aflame with whispers of him, such talk has reached even the Free Cities." Tycho Nestoris glanced around the empty Winter Suite. "Why, if he had taken the throne for himself, I do not believe many would have objected, or that any would have been surprised. And yet, Jon Snow decides to raise his younger brother up instead - a crippled boy, no less. Now that is surprising."

"Jon is not a trueborn son."

"Nevertheless." That single word hung in the air.

Sansa reached for her wine, holding the goblet but not drinking it. "Jon cares deeply about the customs and laws of the north, my lord. It would have been improper for him to be king, and he loves his family so. Brandon Stark is my brother Robb's heir, and Jon would never take that from him." She took a small sip of wine. Thick mulled wine - strong and sour. "There is no conflict within my family, my lord. We have naught but the best interests of House Stark at heart, and Jon was appointed the Protector of the North."

"And the heir apparent to the throne?" Tycho pressed. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I do hear rumours that Bran Stark's injury will leave him childless."

"King Bran is still a child." Her voice turned slightly icy. She would not mention the possibility of Rickon, not here. "And we have nothing but love towards our brother."

"But of course." He lowered his head again, in quiet apology. "I only wish to understand the lay of the land, so to speak. This investment from the Iron Bank requires due diligence, after all."

"How much has Lord Manderly petitioned your bank for, my lord?" Sansa asked, feigning ignorance. She already knew, but she wished to gauge his reaction.

"A loan equivalent to seven million gold dragons, Your Grace, or the value equivalent in gold or other hard specie." Tycho took a sip from his wine. "The sum of the principal is to be paid across two years, but the majority must arrive quickly in time for winter. Lord Wyman was quite adamant on that point. All assuming that an agreement is forged, of course."

"That is a lot of money," Sansa agreed. More coin than Winterfell could take in twenty years of summer taxes, even without sending the Iron Throne its own dues. "And your terms?"

"The Iron Bank does not accept devalued coinage, nor any alternate payments outside the breadth of the contract. The loan comes with a grace period of five years or until the first harvest of spring - whichever comes sooner - with interest of seven percent per year adjustable with winters. The bank is to be granted a designated portage in White Harbour to which quarterly repayments will be made; we shall manage its transport towards Braavos ourselves. Too many previous customers have blamed their failure to pay on delivery, you understand." He gave a soft smile. "And in addition, until the next state contract is officiated, there is a designated point five percent rate to be made in perpetuity."

She raised her eyebrow. "Perpetuity?" she repeated.

"Forever." He nodded.

Yes, Sansa considered, the Iron Bank was not one to slacken the noose. The rate of interest… it was hideous, almost double the rate at which the Bank had lent to the Targaryen dynasties.

If the Others don't destroy us all, she mused humourlessly, the interest rates from the Iron Bank just might .

But the north needed a lot of money right now. The Boltons had left Winterfell's treasury barren, and to try to gather levies in the middle of winter was the height of folly. The land was devastated, there was already so few resources to spare. All the wars and the poor preparations for winter had left the north in dire straits. And perhaps the biggest war is yet to come, she thought with an internal grimace. A war in the winter.

Still, the joke was on Braavos - it appeared that they would be facing an endless winter, and so the North might never have to make a repayment at all. Vaguely, Sansa mused on just how much 'ice demons' would affect their premiums.

"I understand the Iron Bank has made no commitments," she said coolly, without letting her expression change. Perhaps we can use the Dreadfort's treasury, if there's anything left.

"The matter is still under review, Your Grace."

"By yourself?"

He shook his head. "By the archons of the Iron Bank, and in consultation with the Sealord of Braavos. The Iron Bank deals with countries, it is beyond any one person. My assessment of the north has only a minor rule to play in the proceedings, truth be told."

Sansa didn't believe that. You did not send a representative through a war-torn land with all haste for a 'minor assessment'. "But you are here to review?"

"Simply to take stock of the situation - my superiors expect a first-hand account of the state before any commitment can be made. I am trusted to represent the Iron Bank in such… delicate matters."

"I understand. We all have parts to play, do we not?"

"Of course." Tycho nodded. "And you must understand the irregularities we are dealing with here. In any other circumstances, I

do not believe we would have even reviewed your case as far as we have."

"I see no reason why you wouldn't. Ours is an old and strong kingdom."

"But not rich. You have no great wealth of gems, or minerals, or metal. No vast farms, orchards or groves. If we were to lend the north such a vast amount, well, we must ask… how would you ever be able to repay it?"

"We export timber, stone and furs."

"Very true," Tycho said. "The north does have many trees with strong wood, and such fine furs and hides too. Your waters are bountiful with fish and lobster, and your silver and iron mines have been productive for a thousand years. But even in summer half your kingdom lies empty and fallow, and too much of your springs and summers are spent simply recovering from the winters. Yours is not a strong economy. You lack the gold to even mint your own coinage." He shook his head. "It would take you a hundred years to repay the Iron Bank's loan."

"Is that not good for you? From what I understand, the Iron Throne is still paying off the debts made in Maegor's time, but who cares? We need not pay the debt, we need only pay the interest on them. A long debt is only more profitable for the banker."

"Only if your kingdom lasts a hundred years," he said grimly.

"Ours is the oldest kingdom in the realm, my lord. The Kingdom of the North was ancient long before there even were seven kingdoms. Winterfell has survived the last eight thousand years."

"Perhaps." A single non-committal perhaps, the man could have shrugged. "But the matter goes beyond finances. To say nothing of the contractual difficulties… understand that it is a great taboo for me

to even be here. The Iron Bank is in contract with your enemy - we do support King Aegon Targaryen, after all."

She had expected this. "And how many dragons does King Aegon have?"

For once, a grin split the banker's face. "Indeed," he conceded. "But nevertheless, a deal was made, and King Aegon is fulfilling his end of the bargain admirably. The revived Targaryen regime has accepted the debt of their predecessor, they have restored political and fiscal order, and they have already paid their first instalments towards Braavos. There is no reason for us to break our contract with them. For us to ally with their enemy is a severe breach of trust."

"I feel like that is a short-sighted approach, my lord. Or perhaps it is too long-sighted." She took another sip of wine, and then leaned over the table. "You are aware that my brother's dragon is well over a hundred feet long, yes? Larger than Balerion the Black Dread."

"So I hear. I would very much like to see it myself."

"You will," Sansa promised. "Tell me, if my brother flew south and demolished King's Landing in dragonfire, then would Aegon still be making his interest payments?"

Tycho didn't immediately react. His eyes did not widen, but his lips thinned. There was a long silence as the atmosphere turned icy. Sansa kept her gaze steady. "Is that…?" Tycho paused, then spoke lowly. "Should I consider that as a threat, Your Grace?"

"Not at all. I'm merely speculating on hypotheticals," Sansa said smoothly. "For instance… consider this version of events; winter comes, the north is poor, and the north starves. All men need to eat, and I imagine that my countrymen will become quite desperate. And, of course, with no other choice available… the only place where we could survive is the south, is it not? Thus - if matters continue without aid - I fear that a conflict with King Aegon may become inevitable.

"It makes me think of rats in a pit, actually," she mused, as Tycho stayed quiet, "so long as the rats are well-fed and safe, then they'll be content. But if you starve and rile the pit, then those rats will tear each other apart."

The representative of the Iron Bank didn't reply, but his eyes were sharp. Sansa's lips curled up at the edges, but it wasn't a smile. "Let us work through that scenario," she continued. "I think that a winter's war against the south might become quite likely. Nigh unavoidable, alas. And perhaps we would struggle to conquer the south, but I rather think that we could do a good job in destroying it. I mean, could you imagine the devastation if my brother were to set his dragon loose? Like he did at the Twins, perhaps?" She said the words like they were a little jape, but there was no humour in them.

Tycho turned very stiff. He was looking in her eyes, and she was smiling like she'd just made a girl's jape, but she really, really wasn't jesting. "I was hoping this would be a calm, rational and civilised negotiation, Your Grace."

"So was I, my lord - believe me, so was I," Sansa replied, letting her smile drop slightly. "But I'm a realist."

"Tell me, how old are you, my lady?"

"Oh no. It's impolite for a lady to discuss her age," Sansa chuckled. "But besides, you already know, don't you? You just want to weaken my position by pointing out my youth. Would you rather dismiss me as a pretty face in a low-cut dress, rather than taking my threats seriously?"

"You said that they weren't threats."

"Forgive me. I slipped," Sansa lied. "I am just trying to make sure you are aware that the north could really use the Iron Bank's patronage. Elsewise, can you imagine the steps that we might be forced to take without it?"

"Spare me the doubletalk." The banker's voice stayed calm, low, but his tone turned cold. "What are you suggesting?"

"Keep the pit well-fed, my lord." Do not fuck with the rats . "The Iron Bank has a vested interest in Westeros staying secure. Now, whether this King Aegon likes it or not, the north is part of Westeros. We do desperately need your patronage, lest the alternatives we might resort to are grim."

Make a contract with us, or we might destroy your contract with the Iron Throne . She could think of no clearer way to say it.

"Now then," Sansa said, as she leaned back in her seat. "Later today, I am sure Lord Manderly will invite you to his solar, where, along with many other great and noble lords, they will present an attractive offer in return for the Iron Banks patronage. The North is the closest neighbour to Braavos after all - I know that Prince Jon is even willing to vow that his dragon will be readied to protect the Free City, should you call upon it.

"We want your trade and your bank; Winterfell is very eager for an alliance with Braavos, and I am sure Lord Manderly will try to convince you of the benefits. Still, I know that you will be sceptical." She gave another smile. "And so, I would like you to remember this conversation as well. Consider what might happen if the Bank refuses to support us."

There was silence. Their wine cups were left near untouched; Sansa had been drinking only the smallest sips. Sansa counted the heartbeats. After a dozen, Tycho spoke. "You should know," he said grimly, "the Iron Bank of Braavos does not respond well to threats."

"It's not a threat," Sansa lied. "Just a hypothetical. Please, listen to Lord Manderly - I'm sure he will make a better case than a silly little girl like me."

"Indeed," he muttered under his breath, before slowly clasping his hands together on the table. He wasn't looking at her like she was a

silly little girl. "The Iron Bank understands war, Your Grace. We have a motto; war is business, and yet peace is profit."

"Then we are complete agreement. The north is in no state for more war, we only want peace."

"The Iron Bank will not support a warmonger."

A loan can only be repaid if a country is at peace, Sansa mused. "I understand."

"And perhaps we could convince the archons to support the independent Kingdom of the North," Tycho said slowly. " But, if there was another condition added to the negotiations, well, I feel confident that that could improve the outlook."

She leant forward over the table. "What do you have in mind?"

"A peace treaty," Tycho said firmly. "Between the Throne of Winter and the Iron Throne."

Sansa paused. "Do you expect the north to cede its new independence?"

"That is between you and the Iron Throne. But if you were to make peace between your state and the Seven Kingdoms, then the Iron Bank will happily support both. I would then stake my life that your loan and alliance would then be approved. The full market of Braavos will become available to you."

"Ah."

There was nothing more to be said for a while. Sansa set her lips into a line and considered it. Yes, she decided, it makes sense from their perspective . The Iron Bank could only support both the Northand the Seven Kingdoms if there was no conflict of interest between them. King Aegon would have to acknowledge the north as an independent state, to agree to their respective borders at the Neck.

It was… something to consider. The North would not kneel to the Iron Throne again, not now. The entire north had wanted to separate itself with Robb, and even now it held the same desire. Too many lines had been crossed by the southerners, too much bad blood had simmered.

Perhaps that left only two options; the Seven Kingdoms would have to conquer the North again, or the North would have to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. Or mayhaps there could be peace .

The silence in the suite stretched for near too long, as they both silently considered the future. "How much do you know of King Aegon, Your Grace?" Tycho eventually offered, tilting his head in a slight curious motion.

Sansa had to think for a moment. Events in the south had been hectic, and Winterfell was too removed from most ravens. There was too much she did not know - which she would never admit here. She pursed her lips, then spoke. "I have been kept up to date on his exploits. I know that Aegon is young, supposedly brave, and seemingly fair. He leads an army of mercenaries, he is very well-supported, and he claims to have come back from the dead. He has conquered the realm - well, a third of it." Not including the bits that Euron Greyjoy and Jon Snow had conquered first, she added to herself. "And yet they also say he's a pretender, a mummer's dragon."

"Words are wind. What is undoubted, however, is that King Aegon has achieved vengeance for your family by toppling the Lannisters."

"That is true," she admitted. And I pray thanks to the gods every night for that . Cersei Lannister was most certainly dead - and forthat Sansa was grateful to Aegon. The Lannisters were ruined, and the whole realm was thankful. "But from what I understand of this Aegon, the Young Dragon," Sansa continued after a while, "he is a man who considers himself the Conqueror come again. He will not be happy to accept only two thirds of his kingdom."

"That may be so, Your Grace. But even Aegon the Conqueror was forced to concede Dorne's independence during his lifetime. It is my hope that this Aegon may be practical himself."

"And I trust that - in order to accommodate such a deal - the Iron Bank will throw their weight in approval of peace as well?"

Tycho nodded. "I believe that many of his colleagues will be very open to the idea. There are representatives in King's Landing that will be urging the same. With all the difficulties that Aegon is dealing with on other fronts, yes, I think that peace between you could be very viable."

Sansa scratched her chin in thought. She held nothing against King Aegon Targaryen, although she had no real vested interest in him one way or another. Some called him brave, but his alliance with the Imp and all those rumours of assassinations gave Sansa pause.

Tyrion Lannister - my technical husband . Just the thought of him dredged up too many memories, too many things she'd rather forget. Sansa was loath to even see him again.

Yet the north has no real reason not to ally with Aegon, she considered, so long as he's willing to tolerate our independence . The more she deliberated the notion, the more attractive it seemed.

Still, she let none of her thoughts show on her expression. Across the table, Tycho cleared his throat. "I can think of many reasons why the interests of the north and south align. For instance, there is the matter of the ironborn."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "Euron Greyjoy has proven himself a very dangerous man," Tycho continued. "A man without conscience or restraint. The ironborn invade both your realms."

"Not ours," Sansa replied. "The reavers have been cleared from our western shores, there are none left but a few rogue bands on the

Stony Shore." Which they are welcome to reave, Sansa thought in silent bitterness, they might even find a couple of sheep left.

"Nevertheless," he insisted, "the Iron Islands are a common enemy to Winterfell and King's Landing both. They speak of the Crow's Eye in hushed breath - they whisper of unholy powers at his command."

Sansa allowed a smile. "Words are wind, are they not?"

"That is hard to say. Too few witnesses survive even to tell tales about him." Tycho shook his head, beard swaying, his eyes grim. "But there have been far too many disasters to Euron's name for me to dismiss them. Most certainly, the fate of Oldtown is the greatest calamity to befall Westeros in millennia."

Sansa paused, carefully inspecting the banker's gaze. He showed no sign of exaggeration; he was not taking the talk surrounding the kraken king lightly, no matter how fanciful. Tycho slowly cleared his throat. "Now, if the North were to assist the Seven Kingdoms against the ironborn, then that would go a long way to secure a happy resolution for all. It is to both your interests to see justice done against the ironborn, is it not?"

Ah, how all the pieces fall. Dragon or not, there was little doubt that Aegon would be far more concerned about Euron than he would be about Jon. Euron was expanding aggressively against Aegon, while Jon had made a point to leave the south alone, the Freys aside. And peace was profitable for the Iron Bank.

Sansa spent a long time in consideration, her mind racing through the possibilities. They couldn't survive with enemies on all fronts. If they made peace with the south, destroyed the enemies in the west, and allied themselves with the east… yes, then they'd be able to focus solely on the true threat to the north. That could work.

Still, what will be the best deal for us?

"Tell me about Stannis Baratheon, my lord," Sansa said suddenly.

Tycho blinked in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"You suggest to make peace with Aegon," she said innocently. "But wouldn't Stannis Baratheon be the true heir to the Iron Throne?"

"I would… I would not recommend such. The Iron Bank reached out to Stannis at one point, and we found him to be wholly unsuitable. A fanatic." Tycho shook his head. "He is not a man that could bring peace to a troubled realm. And this realm is extremely troubled."

"And yet Stannis sits on Dragonstone, does he not?" she asked, and Tycho nodded. "And how long will it take King Aegon to remove him from that seat?"

He shrugged. "A year, maybe more."

"A year," Sansa repeated.

"That is about how long it took Dragonstone to fall the last time," During her father's rebellion, she recalled, Stannis had been the one to capture the isle. How things come around again . "King Aegon will have to raise a fleet to besiege it."

A year. The thought of those bloody bodies strewn before the Winter Throne flashed before her vision. The great hall stained black by ash. Sewing the Greatjon's guts back together. A year isn't fast enough . A day might not be fast enough.

Sansa pursed her lips, and leaned across the table. "Well…" Sansa mused. "I admit, that the offer you make is attractive, but Stannis stands as a severe concern for us."

The banker looked off-guard; he hadn't been expecting this turn in the conversation. "Perhaps you could relay a suggestion to Aegon's ears?" Sansa suggested. "The north will be much more willing to negotiate, so long as Stannis Baratheon falls faster ."

Tycho blinked. "Yes…" he said with uncertainty. "That could be arranged." He paused. "May I ask, what is Stannis Baratheon to you?"

Corpses before the Winter Throne… "A disturbance, my lord," she replied simply.

"I had heard rumours that Stannis collided with Jon Snow beyond the Wall, but I was unsure of their credibility."

"Stannis is simply an obstruction that I would see removed." Her face gave nothing away. "Quickly, preferably."

"I am sure that King Aegon shares your concern." He smiled, slightly wooden. "Another common interest between north and south, it seems."

There was a silence over the stone table.

"Thank you for your offer," Sansa said finally, with a smile as she stood up. "I will have to speak with my brothers about it. In the meantime, I do hope you enjoy the feast Lord Manderly will throw."

"I'm sure I will." Tycho stood up as well, and then bowed. "This was… most helpful, Your Grace."

"Likewise." Sansa gave a sweet curtsying. "Oh, one more matter, my lord," she said, as if she forgot, "what have you heard concerning Daenerys Targaryen?"

"Daenerys?" Tycho frowned. "She has set herself up in Slaver's Bay, I believe, she is ruling from Meereen as queen. Her intentions regarding Westeros are unknown, but presently she is not a concern."

The banker had a very good poker face, Sansa noted, but he wasn't perfect. "I understand." She nodded. "But do keep me informed. And please give my regards to your colleagues."

"As you will, Your Grace." He gave another bow, and Sansa sat back down in her seat.

The representative of the Iron Bank turned towards the door. Sansa paused at the table. "Oh, and Tycho?" she called suddenly, just before he left. The banker froze. "The loan required from the Iron Bank has just gone up to a straight eight million. That is the cost of adding a peace agreement into the terms, and peace is profit, after all."

Tycho Nestoris paused, but then left without another word.

Once he was gone, Sansa took a deep breath. There was much to consider.

Stannis Baratheon. If they were right, and if it had been Stannis who summoned that shadow, then presumably he might do so again. What if another shadow assassin appears during Bran's coronation? she wondered. Or during the council? The guards in the castle all held weirwood stakes, but that might not be enough. They might not survive another one.

No, they could not risk another shadow like it - both Stannis and the witch that served him had to be destroyed with all haste.

A servant came into the suite to clean up. Sansa eyed the neglected wine on the table, then raised a hand to halt him. She drank her cup in a single gulp. Jumping at shadows, she thought distastefully as she swallowed and then took her leave. Her eyes flickered over all the hectic activity happening outside in the courtyard, but her mind was elsewhere.

Personally, she couldn't shake the suspicion that Stannis had allied with the white walkers. The thought of all those unholy powers apparently at his call had caused her many sleepless nights.

Magic, she thought as she rubbed her eyes. Cursed magic . The armies she could understand, the people she could deal with, but the

magic caused her head to spin. Magic made Sansa feel scared; it felt like a whole different game, one which she didn't know the rules of.

What has the world come to - that I must try to plan for living shadows and ice demons?

Stannis had to be removed. The easiest way would be if Jon and his dragon razed Dragonstone from the air, with the support of Aegon and his army, Sansa considered. It would even be a good way to secure a peace between them, and to remove a threat. So long as King Aegon agrees to such.

"Tell me," Sansa asked Lord Gregor Forrester curiously, some time after the banker had left. The former Glover bannerman was now serving as the captain of Winterfell's guard, and had been reporting to her on the refugees outside Winterfell's gates. "What is your opinion concerning Aegon Targaryen?"

The lord frowned. "The most recent one? Good for him, I say. I lost family and good men fighting the Lannisters alongside Robb, and this Aegon has naught but my thanks for avenging them."

Sansa was not so easily convinced.

She would have to write some letters, put some wheels in motion. Sansa looked down at the pile of parchments before her. Another sleepless night, it seemed.

There were more who wanted her attention. The knights from White Harbour were pouring through the gates, to say nothing about the 'dragon cultists' filling up Winterfell. There was news of Lyra and Lyanna Mormont heading from Bear Island for the coronation, but Sansa was more concerned of Lord Reed's journey north from the Moat. From the dungeons, Sansa was also told that Barbrey Dustin had demanded to see her, but Sansa had far more pressing concerns.

Outside in the yards, a short and leathery woman in furs, almost a dwarf, was preaching before the castle. Sansa could not make out the words, only the shrill, fanatic screams. The sound of the pagan sermon was an unpleasant backdrop to her morning.

Sansa was halfway through drafting a letter for King's Landing when she heard the voices from outside. At once, her guards jumped.

"I wish to speak to the king, he is…"

"No entry," a man-at-arm's voice commanded. "Step back now."

"It is I, Admiral in His Grace's service, you do not… ! Keep your hands off me, you grunt, I demand… !"

"Move away from the -"

"I insist on seeing… Salladhor! Salladhor Saan!"

It sounded like a scuffle rising in the corridor. Sansa looked upwards, just as her guard stepped into the room. The belligerent guest was not leaving, it seemed.

"Let him through, ser," she ordered.

The man relayed the order, and she heard an indignant scoff from outside. There was the beat of heavy guards' boots, and the tapping of leather high heels.

Lord Salladhor of House Saan stepped before her. Sansa had seen the man before only briefly, but there could be no mistaking him. The former pirate was eccentrically dressed; he wore sealskin pantaloons, a thick cotton shawl, and a wide-brimmed floppy hat with a ludicrously colourful feather sticking from the tip. He dressed himself in bright purples and greens. He was a blustering figure, with a swagger in his steps. He was an older man with sun-tanned skin, white hair and laughter lines creasing his skin, but still spry and lean.

A pirate. Sansa had heard much concerning the man. Her hands were folded across her waist as he stepped into the suite.

He grinned brightly, showing teeth. The guards kept close to his side, watching every movement.

"Princess Sansa, I believe?" He bowed in Lyseni style, sweeping his hands low. "It is an honour to make your acquaintance. Why, you are as beautiful as the tales tell."

"So I'm told, but I'm also very busy, my lord," she replied curtly. "You have business?"

"Alas, I have travelled many leagues to be here, I come with urgent news for the crown. I wish to speak to the King Snow?"

"Prince Snow, rather," Sansa said, and a frown flickered across Salladhor's face. "And the prince is not present."

Salladhor froze, with a waxy smile. "He assigned me my task, I must discuss matters with him…"

"Prince Snow is fighting a war," she replied. "His task is to defend the kingdom, and it is mine to keep the kingdom running."

The lord paused, and measured her eyes, before his gaze flickered around the empty chamber. Then, Salladhor smiled, and bowed again. "Forgive the intrusion, princess. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, I am but your humble servant."

There was no shortage of 'humble' servants, it seemed. She didn't return the smile. "I know of you - Lord of the Bite, I hear."

"Aye, and I serve as an admiral in His Grace's fleet. Whatever the need, I am at your disposal."

"Really? Did you offer Stannis Baratheon the same service?"

At that, his eyes darkened. His lips pursed, the fake joviality draining from his voice. "I assure you, there are none who will wreak worse vengeance against Stannis than I."

"So I've heard." She was cautious, inspecting him. "Tell me something, my lord - why did my brother spare your life after you fought against him?"

"So I could travel the Free Cities in his name. From Braavos to Lys, I have represented his interests. I have flown the flag of the northern coalition most proudly, oh yes." He smiled again. "Have I not been a devoted servant to King Snow?"

"That remains to be seen." Still, with a nod, she motioned at Lord Saan to take a seat. "But I find it hard to trust a man who earns his position through betrayal."

"Betrayal?" He even looked confused. "Why, who has known the sting of betrayal more than I? I have not betrayed, I have suffered betrayals - Stannis betrayed me and stole my ships. He lied to me with false promises, tricking me into supporting his folly. It was Jon Snow that offered me a chance for justice, and which I eagerly accepted. I have given him naught but grateful loyalty ever since."

"You backstabbed the fleet that attacked White Harbour, did you not?"

"Never! I was loyal to the north all along! I was docked in Braavos when I heard of Aurane Waters and his plan. I wanted to stop them - but alas I had only one ship against their half a hundred, how could I?" He shook his head dramatically. "So I had to join up with them - as a means to forewarn the north. I joined their ranks and I waited for an opportunity to cripple them."

That he did, Sansa admitted. The attack on White Harbour had failed and the north had captured several large dromonds thanks to the pirate's actions. Salladhor had ransomed his deeds to earn his new title. Still, that didn't mean she had to trust him.

He leaned back confidently in his seat, with a smug smile. "You were the one that arranged the deal with the Iron Bank?" she asked.

He nodded. "That and more. I spent many months scouting out opportunities for the north. My family in Lys is most prepared to do trade with the White Dragon." He reached out and extended a scrap of parchment over the table. "And I think the most promising of my efforts…"

Sansa slowly looked at the parchment. It was marked by a blue rose on white. A winter rose.

That is a writ securing the services of the Company of the Rose," Salladhor said proudly. "I met with their representative in Braavos, I made the necessary arrangements on your behalf."

She frowned and unfolded the parchment. "The Company of the Rose?"

"One of the most formidable in the Free Cities - the Company of the Rose dates back to the days of Torrhen Stark and the Conquest. They were founded by northern lords who chose exile over kneeling, and yet now they are quite eager to return to their homeland. Upon reaching Braavos, my first instinct was to seek them out."

She inspected the writ, marked with small letters transcribed in a smooth hand. The ink was faded slightly, but it was still legible. It was a list of names and numbers. "They're sellswords?" Her voice was doubtful.

Old sellswords," he clarified. "Sellswords with history and honour to them. They still bear the names of northern houses," he added after a pause. "Their commander bears the family name Frost, and his second-in-command is a woman named Greystark."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. Those were old houses that had reigned large in the north's history, but it was doubtful that the exiles had any real lineage of note; in the Free Cities, any could pick their own

name. Little doubt they had simply chosen a name with meaning. She looked over the parchment. "How many?"

"Four thousand, a fourth of those mounted cavalry. They have made their name in northern Esoss, as far as Ib. The Company of the Rose have spent many years fighting territory disputes between Lorath and Norvos, but - for the right coin - the sellswords are ready to abandon their contracts and return to their homeland."

"'For the right coin'?"

He shrugged. "Exiles they may be, but they are still mercenaries. They are interested in a free north, but they still need coin to move. Yet I promise you, there are none finer. I made the same offer to Lord Wyman; if the north can front the bill, my ships shall bring them to your shores."

She worked over the writ, at the offer made. The Company of the Rose put a high price on their services, it seemed. It was a lot of coin, and they had also demanded their noble houses restored as well. The sellswords had supposedly quoted them a discounted price, at least, but Winterfell would still struggle to pay such.

And yet four thousand capable men could do much good. Winterfell had already introduced enlistment, but the north was still feeling the strain to fill their ranks. Too many good soldiers had been lost recently. Sansa was of the opinion that they should be looking for as many more as possible.

But it all comes down to coin, she thought with a quiet grimace. We need the Iron Bank .

Lord Salladhor was looking at her expectantly. There was a sigil of a shark on his cloak clasp, she noted.

"Four thousand," she said finally. "Tell me, how many more mercenaries and sellswords could be hired?"

Salladhor scratched his whiskers. "That depends on how much you will pay for them," he said. "If the coin is right, then Braavos has a thousand captains that might sail for us. I could easily recruit pirates from the Stepstones, and Lorath has no shortage of mercenaries, warbands and cultists. We could reach out to the bearded priests of Norvos and the sworn axes that they train, or even to the Hairy Men of Ib. In the past, we might have sailed to Slaver's Bay and bought soldiers in bulk, but alas that is no longer an option. If we were to buy every possible cutthroat and mercenary from Essos? Easily tens of thousands."

"Provided we have the coin."

"Provided you have the coin," Salladhor agreed, with a large grin.

If what Jon said of the Others was true, then the north would need all the manpower it could get. Eight million gold dragons might buy a lot of men, however. "You speak of the northern Free Cities," Sansa noted. "What of the southern ones?"

Salladhor hesitated. "Many sellsword companies from Lys, Tyrosh and Pentos have already signed on with 'Aegon', and he is recruiting more every day. This Young Dragon has no shortage of coin, it seems." He shook his head. "Still, there are many who have not been signed, and I have connections with most. If you are looking to bolster your numbers, then the Company of the Rose is a very good place to start."

"And the matter of finance arises," Sansa said after a moment. Her eyes narrowed, inspecting the pirate. "Tell me, what do you know of King Aegon Targaryen?"

The pirate snorted distastefully with the name. " I am likely more Targaryen than he." He shook his head. "He is a fraud." Salladhor paused, with a gleam in his eyes. "Are you looking to wage war against the fake dragon?"

"No. We must come to accords with the Iron Bank," she said simply. "And the Iron Bank demands peace between north and south."

"Ah. I would not trust Aegon Targaryen." The pirate shook his head. "And peace will be difficult, princess - for there is a fleet mustering in the Bite. The ships of the Vale are moving north."

Sansa straightened in her seat. "Excuse me?"

"I heard of it from a fisherman as I passed the Sisters, it was what prompted my return. Your friend, Lord Borrel, sends word." He gave her a sly wink. "The lords of the Vale have been mustering their sails, and the Sistermen were forewarned. The first of their ships are likely already in the Bite by now - I believe the Vale means to establish a blockade over White Harbour."

She had not been aware. Her first thought was; can this pirate be trusted?

Lord Salladhor met her glance. "Another thing that this Lord Borrel relayed for you - did you know that one Petyr Baelish has been named the king's master of ships?"

She did not. Sansa could have cursed; Winterfell didn't have enough ravens left, they had been painfully removed from such news. They were relying on riders and messengers, but the snows hindered such. The north was always the last to know, it seemed.

Littlefinger . "What does Aegon want?" she asked quietly.

"Is it not obvious? He wants you to be weak, and trade might make you strong. Aegon will not be so keen to allow you to deal with the Iron Bank, I think."

Has Baelish allied with Aegon? Sansa could believe it. Still, Littlefinger didn't make alliances - he made stepping stones. What will Littlefinger do next?

"This blockade," Sansa asked quietly, "how keen will they be on dragonfire?"

He chuckled. "Oh, they mean to harry the dragon, not oppose it." Salladhor shook his head. "If pressed, Aegon will make peace, I have no doubt - but only as long as he intends to marry Daenerys Targaryen. He means to join his forces with hers, to take her dragons, and then to reconquer the north with her during spring. In the meantime, it is to his benefit if the north suffers a long and poor winter."

We will see about that . "You speak poorly of him, my lord."

Salladhor Saan shrugged. "I hear things. The tides rise and fall, the moon rises over the western sea, the captains conspire against the sealords, and the Free Cities scheme." He paused, tilting the feather in his hat slightly before continuing. "There are whispers of Aegon's backers; men of the highest wealth and power donating heavily to his cause. Many magisters in Pentos, Lys, and Tyrosh - some of the most dangerous and well-connected men in the east." The pirate grinned broadly. "The king might as well be a cloth doll; it is his puppetmasters that are his true power. The Imp among them - the Lannisters were felled by conspiracy and assassination, not by might. They say the Imp used some Dayne bastard to kill his own maiden niece, to secure Casterly Rock for himself." He leaned across the table conspiratorially. Sansa's eyes flickered again to the sigil that Saan had taken; a shark stamped into the silver of his clasp.

"Did you hear that Nymeria Sand is to be executed for Prince Doran Martell's murder?" Salladhor Saan continued loquaciously. "There was a coup in Dorne, all for the benefit of this king. They whisper that the Prince of Dorne was murdered at Aegon's orders, that the Dornish lords were fooled. Oh, Aegon denies all knowledge - but that is the nature of Aegon's reign. He is fool's gold layered over bitter steel."

Sansa let a few seconds pass in silence. Sansa clasped her fingers together, keeping her own thoughts hidden. She had heard of Nymeria Sand, but the reports were vague. Too many whispers and rumours, not enough facts.

And yes, the Imp was troublesome. The dwarf she had known had not been as obviously evil as Joffrey, but Sansa of all people knew how men could conceal their wickedness. Tyrion had killed his own father, and then most of his own family afterwards. If we ally with Aegon, Sansa couldn't help but wonder, might Tyrion Lannister insist on upholding our 'marriage'?

Aegon Targaryen seemed attractive, but her thoughts kept returning to those by his side; the Imp and Littlefinger.

Salladhor was leaning across the desk, looking at her intently. Despicable though he may be, the pirate had staked his status to the north, that was certain. And despicable men had their considered him again, in more detail. Hmm, perhaps this man might be useful .

"What do you know of Daenerys Targaryen?" Sansa asked after a long pause.

Salladhor did not seem surprised by the change in topic. "Ah, yes . The 'Queen of Ash', they name her - after what she did to Yunkai. The war in Slaver's Bay was a violent one, and this Daenerys is reportedly not one for mercy against masters. Afterwards, she flew against Volantis, raising a slave uprising in the city. The Triarchy promised her that the city would be ash before they let her 'conquer' it, and she took them up on that offer." He smiled, with a light chuckle. "In Braavos and the northern markets, they hail Daenerys as a champion of the oppressed - but to the south and the slave markets they curse her name and shiver in their boots. The Breaker of Chains, the Stormborn, the ' Azor Ahai '." He tutted. "The slave trade may never recover."

"Really?" Sansa cocked her head. "Tell me, does your family keep slaves?"

"Not anymore," he laughed. "With news of Daenerys' coming, the head of House Saan, my cousin, chose to be proactive. He released all of their slaves early. I feel like many in Lys will be doing the same.

"Not that it's done much good," Lord Salladhor added after a moment's thought. "The slaves in Lys were well-treated and cared for. But now instead of shelter, warm meals and soft collars, they have disease-ridden slums outside the city, filled with freedmen begging to be taken back by their masters. This campaign against slavery seems baffling." The pirate shrugged, and shook his head. "But it is no matter to me; I am a northman now, after all."

"Indeed." Sansa mused for a while. "And this is the woman that Aegon intends to marry?"

"Oh yes, but only because he thinks that three dragons will be her dowry. He has made no secret of his intentions - Aegon wants word of his offer to reach her."

Yes, that was Aegon's weapon. His publicity . He wanted to be known as the brave and just king, back from the dead, while Jon would be seen as the evil bastard and the savage invading the realm. He wanted to be Daenerys' ally, while making Jon out to be her enemy. Sansa thought of all those romantic songs and heroic tales she had once loved. Vaguely, she wondered whether Daenerys loved such songs as well.

All Sansa knew was that Ser Jorah had believed Daenerys to be a good person. Jorah had thought that she would consider an alliance.

What would Littlefinger do in this situation?

"A thought occurs to me," Sansa said after a long pause, "that surely Daenerys would rather marry with a dragon than against one? Why would Queen Daenerys choose a mummer's dragon to wed, when King Snow the dragonrider would be a much better option?"

It was met by silence. Then, a long and slow smile crept over the pirate's features.

It was the start of a long talk with Lord Salladhor. Sansa could feel the makings of a plan falling into place.

Yes, she felt like Salladhor would be useful. The pirate gave her honest counsel when too many held their tongues. So long as she knew what Salladhor wanted, she could use him.

Sansa lingered and quizzed him on the state of the Free Cities and his travels. In turn, he suggested that she travel them for herself; he even volunteered to introduce her to the magisters of Lys, to which she gave a polite refusal. Towards the end, Lord Salladhor asked her of her intentions regarding Stannis. She replied that Winterfell had vested interest in ridding the realm of him. The pirate seemed quite pleased by her answer.

Even as she stepped out of the chamber, her head was still whirling.

She was sizing up alliances with every step down the corridor.

Daenerys Targaryen was perhaps the greatest, most influential figure in the world. The Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains, proclaimed to be Azor Ahai. If Daenerys Targaryen chose to refuse Aegon, then the Young Dragon would be left utterly toothless.

Sansa didn't know Jon's feelings on the matter, but they were irrelevant. She knew that Jon had refused to marry Wynafryd Manderly - but Daenerys Targaryen would be a more powerful betrothal than a hundred Wynafryds. There could be no stronger ally to secure the north against the white walkers.

But how to make Daenerys see that?

And if Jon steals his queen, then what does Aegon have left? Sansa considered. They could destroy him, but Sansa was loath to create yet another enemy. Could Aegon be pushed to accept a different bride, another alliance instead?

Her head spun trying to think of daughters that the north might offer, of which northern brides might be a suitable match for King Aegon. She considered Wynafryd only briefly, and then dismissed the notion. After a moment, she realised there was only really one.

Shit, Sansa cursed, it's me .

It was an unwelcome thought, but something to consider.

A plan was forming. She didn't have all the steps worked out, but she could feel it taking shape as she stepped out through the warm doorway. Across Winterfell, the great wheelhouse of White Harbour was rumbling through the gates, flanked by knights and followed by scores of hungry refugees.

Sansa could still vaguely hear the shrill cries of the witch woman, but the congregation of dragon-worshippers had moved towards the godswood. Sansa was grateful for the temporary quiet in the yards.

The princess met Lord Manderly in the courtyard, but only briefly. There was little ceremony; they only exchanged a few courtesies and fewer words. Somehow, the Lord of White Harbour appeared even fatter and redder than what she remembered; the travel had left Lord Wyman looking sickly. He was here to bury his son and his good-daughter, and Sansa did not wish to distract him from that.

Behind her, both Wylla and Wynafryd rushed to hug their grandfather. Sansa couldn't look, she had to turn away.

All around her, Winterfell was hectic. Everything had to be prepared for Bran's coronation, and Sansa had to see it done. Where am I most useful, what is most urgent?

Her decision was made for her when she saw a line of chained men being escorted towards Winterfell's dungeons. Despite herself, Sansa hesitated.

There was one task that Sansa still needed to do, but it was not one she looked forward to. Something she had been meaning to do for a while, but she had always put it off, like she would anything so unpleasant.

As the convoy unpacked, Sansa pulled up her dress and strode down towards the guardhouse of the lower levels. Her guards kept close by her with every step. Lord Salladhor of House Saan seemed to sense who was the most influential figure in Winterfell. The pirate kept close to Sansa, following behind her guards.

She met Ser Ian Poole and several White Harbour knights by the steps to the vaults, and they all bowed to her while the prisoners were escorted through. "Your Grace," the knight greeted, and Sansa just nodded.

As she walked down towards the dungeons, the stone still felt warm to the touch. The air was filled with a stale earthy musk, warm and thick. Ser Ian noticed her fingers lingering against the warm stone slabs. "We are still searching for the source of the heat," the knight said, with a hint of wonder in his voice. "It appears to be coming from below even the crypts - it is warmer the lower you go."

Sansa nodded absently. "And the prison cells?" "Serviceable, but swelteringly uncomfortable inside." Good, Sansa thought.

The rows of dank dungeon cells seemed quiet. Once these dungeons had been filled to the brim, but slowly, all of the prisoners taken from the Battle of the Snows had been dealt with, one way or another. Some went to the gallows, some had bent the knee, and some would be forced to take the black. Others had just been dismissed as unimportant. Only the most stubborn or suspicious remained. There were well over a hundred cells in the immense labyrinth of dungeons; but now there were less than a dozen still occupied.

Sansa stopped before a cell at the far end of the first level, and there she saw a tall and crooked old woman hunched on a stone slab behind iron bars. It was a large cell, but still rough and bare. The lady's face was creased with wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, and her hair was brown and grey. Once, the lady had dressed in cloth-of-black trimmed in silver and kept her hair tied in a widow's knot, the very image of a highborn widow, but after a month of captivity her hair was unkempt and her clothes were grey.

The Lady of Barrowton, Barbrey Dustin. She had once been a handsome woman despite her years, but now she was filthy and unkempt, every single one of her years plainly writ into the wrinkles of her face.

Sansa stared, and folded her arms. "Lady Dustin."

In reply, the old widow spat on the floor at Sansa's feet. A guard made to whack the prisoner through the bars, but Sansa held him back with a nod.

"Lady Dustin," Sansa said again after a moment, weighing her words. There was no point in smalltalk, she decided. "You were a Bolton supporter, you have held been as an accomplice to their treason. My brother offered a pardon if you bent the knee and pledge fealty. You refused such."

Lady Barbrey only scoffed, keeping her voice dark. "I will not bow to that bastard."

"My brother," Sansa said haughtily, "Brandon Stark."

Her lips twisted. "The little crippled puppet?"

Bitter old hag . Barrowton had lowered its banners, but its lady still remained defiant. Other Bolton lords had made concessions and returned to the fealty of House Stark, but House Dustin had been House Bolton's most prominent ally. An example had to be made and, by all appearances, Lady Dustin simply did not care. Sansa's

eyes narrowed, letting the silence stretch out. "I have but one last offer to make you," Sansa said. "You will renounce all titles and lands, and you will stay in Winterfell. In return for an indefinite stay of execution, we will allow you an honorary status and comfortable stay until your end of days. If trust is restored, we may allow you to return to your family in the Rills."

Lady Dustin only sneered at her. "What family do I have left?" The woman pulled herself up, scowling as she towered over Sansa. "Do you believe yourself in charge, little girl?"

"I believe that you're behind bars and I'm outside of them," Sansa retorted.

"That can quickly change." The lady shook her head. "I will not surrender to the likes of you ."

"You do not have to. You have no children, no progeny, and we have already have selected the new heir to Barrowton - a cousin of your late husband, I believe. One Arnold? Arno? Arnolf?"

Sansa honestly couldn't remember - all the names had blurred. The man was of petty Barrowton nobility - to call him a Dustin branch member would be gross exaggeration. Still, it met their purposes; a probably-loyal man with any link at all to the main line of the Dustins was enough.

At that, Lady Dustin scowled. Her fingernails clenched. "Arnold Sparrow. A household knight, one of petty birth."

Sansa only shrugged. The grand-nephew of the third son of a bastard, or some such . "Regardless, he secured Barrowton's surrender. He will be raised to become the next Lord Dustin. He was very eager to accept such."

Lady Dustin twitched. "Predictable," she spat. "Never did like that boy."

Sansa smiled thinly, but said nothing.

"So you have your next Lord of Barrowton," Lady Dustin growled. "So what now? Will you kill me in this cell too? Claim that I took my own life?"

Sansa smiled, but there was no humour in it. "Do you know what I think, my lady? I believe you've decided to become a martyr." She stepped closer to the bars, lowering her voice. "You still think that your own death might provoke House Ryswell into rebellion, so you've resolved to challenge us to kill you."

She met her eyes. The older woman was defiant. Sansa respected that, if nothing else. "You're wrong, of course," Sansa continued. "The late Lord Ryswell, your father, is dead, and your remaining brothers have already accepted Jon's deal. House Ryswell has had its rights and lands slashed - your family is a great house no longer. And you are useless to us."

Sansa's words were curt and cold, but Sansa had far too many other concerns over being kind. All she cared about was removing the last of her family's defectors.

Lady Dustin's gaze was murderous, she glared with quiet fury. "You cannot kill me," she growled. "You need me. You need me to keep Barrowton. And I know too much, I know about your sister."

"I need nothing from you." Sansa's voice turned frosty. The very mention of Arya made Sansa angry. This bitch stood by and let my sister be married to that monster. "You are a woman and a widow,my lady, and for that Jon might have spared your life. But I am not so kind. You will either bend the knee tonight or face the gallows on the morn. Goodbye."

Lady Dustin looked like she might have screamed as Sansa turned and walked away. The princess of Winterfell didn't look back. As he passed, Salladhor Saan gave the lady a lewd sneer.

Only two dozen steps down the corridor did Sansa take a deep breath. She was already counting up the cells, wondering at how many prisoners still remained. Sansa wanted as many as possible at Bran's coronation, and the rest would be either set free, sent to the Wall, or executed.

This is not a place for emotion .

This end of the dungeons was filled with new arrivals - the prisoners that had come from White Harbour. Sansa saw a heavyset man dressed as a lord being herded roughly into a cell. He was a fat, ponderous figure with a bright red face and dark blond hair. He wore a fine wool jerkin that was now grimy with dirt and mud. Sansa recognised the only lord from the ram's head sigil on his surcoat; Lord Malcolm Woolfield of Ramsgate. Another to face trial.

Sansa stepped forward, and the heavy footsteps of her guards followed her. The lord's eyes widened as he saw her. She wasted no time on greetings. "Are you a traitor, my lord?" Sansa asked.

"The only traitor here is you. You…" Lord Woolfield slammed in the bars, his voice breaking in rage. The guards around her flinched. "You murdered my sister! You and your bastard brother, Lady Lannister !"

"Your Grace, leave this fool…" Ser Ian Poole muttered.

Sansa ignored him. "Lady Leona's death was no choice of ours, my lord. And your treason is more than that. You are to be tried before the Winter Court and the regent."

"Tried? You dare to judge me, on puffed up charges?" His eyes bulged. "I have done naught, but every man who follows you ends up dead! Your brother is an oathbreaker and a bastard, you are Lady Lannister ! Did you scheme it together? I pity the 'King' BrandonStark, to be under the care of you-"

His voice was cut off as a man-at-arms slammed a gauntleted fist into Lord Woolfield's nose. Blood spurted, bone crunched. Sansa scowled, but didn't object. With a nod, she turned and walked away.

"Damn you and your brood!" Lord Woolfield brayed after her. "Damn you to-"

The guard hit him again, and the lord collapsed.

Sansa wondered briefly what Wynafryd would think to see her uncle treated so, but she didn't dwell on that thought long. I must be heartless .

There were other highborn that she visited in the prisons, to bring the same offer. Each one looked ready to curse, whimper or weep. There was Mors Crowfood, Kyle Cordon, Lyessa Flint, Harold Slate, Ondrew Locke…

Sansa walked deeper into the stuffy dungeons, feeling the sweat on her brow. The further down she walked, the smaller the prisons and the hotter and wetter the air. The lowest levels of Winterfell felt more like a smoking cave than a dungeon, like walking down the throat of a sleeping dragon.

She looked around the cells, at the pale faces hiding behind the bars. Lords, ladies and highborn sons of White Harbour accused of treason, as well as merchants and captains with ties to the south accused of conspiracy. They all believed themselves innocent, they all thought they had been justified. They felt victimised, even, and perhaps some truly were. But how to discern the true traitors from the unfortunate fools?

Some had plotted against them, while others had just been manipulated. Sansa had to steel herself; this was no time for pity or mercy. House Stark had suffered many betrayals, and Sansa wanted to put a close to them.

She turned a corner, strolling to another wing of the dungeons. The stone was earthy and pitch black, the corridor filled with flickering torchlight. It was so warm it felt like an oven. She heard the scurrying of rats in the gloom, scattering away from her guards' boots. The prisoners here were all wearing grey robes, with chains around their necks. Most of them were old, fat or balding. They were all scared, staring at her with pure terror.

Staring at me, like I'm a monster. Like I ruined their lives. Perhaps I did.

There were times when Sansa could understand how Cersei became the way she did. It was an uncomfortable thought. Why, in the name of all the gods, did I ever want to be queen?

"The prisoners from White Harbour." Lord Salladhor motioned to the cells as he stepped to her side. "Your will is my command - all maesters were removed from their duties and brought to Winterfell."

She frowned as she counted them. There were too few. "Are these all? Where are the other maesters that we restrained?"

Salladhor could not answer. After a brief search, they found a gaoler who could. "The last maesters were removed a week ago, Princess," the man said gruffly. "Executed. The Circle took them to the yards."

Sansa paused, staring at the gaoler. The Circle, she recalled vaguely, what the dragon-worshippers are calling themselves now . The goaler himself was a wildling, she noticed . He bore a white stone on his chest, and tattoos of swirling lines up his neck. A tall and gaunt, grey-haired man, with only a single hand. "Who gave that order?"

The man shrugged. "King Snow, I suppose."

Jon had not made mention of that to Sansa, although it had been a busy time and he left hurriedly. Why did they execute the maesters,

did the men confess? She had not been told such, and she never knew what had been done with them.

Sansa also made note of 'King Snow' - even despite Jon's decree, there were many who had not dropped that title.

She looked around the gloomy cells. There weren't many of them. Hovering besides her, Ser Ian Poole looked nervous. "Your Grace, what do you want to do with these men?"

"I'm told that I must make peace with King Aegon," Sansa replied stiffly. "But before I can do that, I need to know exactly who tried to sabotage us and how. These maesters have answers that I want."

Behind her, an old robed man wailed. "Please… you are mistaken… we did not, I never-"

The goaler slammed his boot against the door, and the maester squealed. Sansa turned back to the gaoler. "We will question them again, right here," she ordered. A few faces flickered. "I want there to be no misunderstandings, I will ask the questions myself."

The man nodded, but some of her guard looked uncomfortable. "Aye. But Princess, you do not have to be here yourself for…"

"I do." She wanted to know first-hand. Behind her, the gaoler was already preparing a set of sharpened knives. An iron poker glowed red in the nearby fireplace, she noticed.

Sansa walked closer to the cells. Somewhere further down the hall, she could hear a man's weeping. This must be done, she knew. I must be heartless, she repeated to herself, I must be stone . Thethought reminded her of being Alayne Stone.

"You will tell me of all letters and ravens you relayed," Sansa ordered to the cells. "Of all liberties you took without your lord's knowledge, of all instructions that you received from the south."

The doors groaned as the man forced the rusted lock apart. The sound of whimpers filled the cell. On a hunch, Sansa started with the maester who once served Ramsgate. He was a youngish man with auburn hair, a weeping mess, but Sansa made a point of not learning his name. She did not want to remember his name.

At one point, amidst the screaming, Ser Ian Poole excused himself from the dungeons, but Sansa could not leave. She did not trust the interrogators to ask the right questions.

Even under torture, the previous maesters had given them frustratingly little. The most they had admitted to was receiving a letter from Oldtown - a letter 'encouraging' them to think of the realm. The torturers had achieved little, Sansa noted; they had only extracted garbled messes from the prisoners.

And yet too many ravens had gone missing, too many letters had been misplaced. The maesters had sabotaged them. But which ones? And who guided their hand?

Ramsgate's maester gave more of the same. He admitted that a rider with an Oldtown accent had once visited Ramsgate at night to speak with the lord, but he gave nothing more useful than that. When the one-handed gaoler finally drew his knife, the maester only wailed louder. "I don't know, I don't!" he screamed. "If I knew I would tell you, but I don't know his name - he never gave it! I never knew his purpose! I don't know! "

Sansa's lips pursed. Eventually, she had to leave and move onto the next. The maester of Lordsport had fully retreated into the farthest corner of his cell, managing to knock over his chamber pot in his gibbering fear. Sansa's nose curled, and she hesitated. The dungeons were warm and swollen with fear and despair. It took deep breaths to focus herself. It was so hard to focus here. The air around her felt so desperate as the other maesters in the hall quivered and begged.

"You are wasting your time," a voice said suddenly, from somewhere to her right. "The grey sheep know nothing."

Sansa turned, looking at a prisoner in the opposing cell; a stocky, balding man. He was staring right at her with eyes that reminded her of a bulldog. He was wearing worn grey robes with an unkempt beard. His voice was rough and throaty.

She frowned. "And how can you say what they know or not?"

"Because most maesters are blind," he replied with a croak. "They are trained not to ask. The Citadel looks unfavourably on true curiosity, most maesters are taught to forge their links, do their purpose, and no more."

Sansa's eyes narrowed, and then turned to her escort. "I know this one," Salladhor said smugly, looking at the prisoner. "My men found him snooping around White Harbour, he had that chain hidden in his bag. Winterfell ordered the maesters to be clasped in irons, so I obeyed.

Sansa stepped closer to the man. "Do you know more than they do?"

"I do." There was a slight quiver in his voice, but he held himself strong. He was short, but beefy. "I am not most maesters."

"Then interrogate him next," Sansa ordered to her guards. "And bring me his belongings, I want to see everything he was carrying."

The maester grunted as the men-at-arms stomped through. He looked little like a scholar; he was thick-necked with a strong jaw, a heavy chest and a hard ale-belly. The man had huge, meaty hands, and fingers that looked more suited to breaking bones than gripping quills. And scabs and bruises on his knuckles, Sansa noted. It looked like this maester had been punching someone quite aggressively.

The guards did not let Sansa step too close. They were all being extra cautious, and the maester was clamped in heavy irons. After a quick search, they brought her the prisoner's bag; a worn leather satchel caked in mud. She quickly rummaged through it.

Sansa saw the man's chain on top of a pile of dirty clothes and travel gear. It was a long chain of many different metals, obviously how they had identified him as a maester. The air was quiet as she searched deeper through the bag; he had some blank parchments, a notebook filled with scribbles in some unfamiliar language, a pouch of silver, but then near the bottom she came upon a short metal rod wrapped up in an old blanket, along with a strange, plain mask. Then she found a ring as well; smooth and black, unadorned metal. Sansa held the ring in her fingers.

The others must have found the items too, but they hadn't realised their significance. It took a moment to click. The rod, the ring, and the mask - three pieces of artifice granted by the Conclave upon ascension. They were all smooth metal, and dark like polished iron.

"You are not most maesters," Sansa agreed finally, holding up the ring. "You hold the iron ring, sceptre and mask - you are the archmaester of warcraft."

The maester shook his head. "No, look closer. That is the Valyrian ring, that of the higher mysteries. I am the archmaester of magic. My name is Marwyn."

Valyrian? At that, there were mutters around her. From an adjoining cell, Sansa overheard a gasp of shock. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the Valyrian steel ring. She could see the ripples in the metal now, dimly washed in the faint light of the dungeons.

"Indeed." Her voice was a mutter. She stepped closer, inspecting the man.

The archmaester lowered his head, as if humble. There was a tremor of fear on his chin, and sweat down his forehead, but he kept

his voice strong. All of Sansa's guards stood poised and ready.

"And why is an archmaester of the Citadel in Winterfell?" she asked finally. She could think of many possible reasons, and all of them suspicious.

"I am seeker of truth, of knowledge, Your Grace," he replied. "I came searching for truth."

"Such as?"

"The dragon. Whispers of the white dragon reached Oldtown, and I headed north to see it for myself," he explained lowly. "That was many months ago. I wanted to reach the Wall, except at the time the ironborn were on the warpath - I could not travel up the western coast so near the Iron Isles. Instead, I believed that it would be faster to sail across the cape of Dorne and up the narrow sea, to Braavos and then to White Harbour." There was something in his eyes, he bore a haunted and fatigued look. "The journey north has proven… gruelling."

She did not reply, and in her silence he continued. "Alas, I arrived north during the blockade, and remained trapped thereafter. No ship would take me from Braavos to White Harbour. It was only after the battle that I finally found a smuggler to take me through. I arrived but a moon ago, where your… admiral found me."

"He claims you were snooping," Sansa said, glancing back to Salladhor.

"I was not. I wanted to come to Winterfell regardless," he retorted. "I would have preferred the journey without the chains, but I always intended to introduce myself. You are Princess Sansa Stark, yes? May I please speak to King Snow?"

"I think not." She stepped closer. "My brother believes that the maesters were part of an organised plot against him."

"I do not doubt it, Your Grace. If they received instructions from the Conclave, they would have obeyed and not questioned why. But I am not like most who wear the chain, my lady."

"We shall see." She kept her voice impassive.

Archmaester Marwyn grimaced. "I can be useful to you, my lady. I will answer any question you have, I have knowledge to share."

She looked down at his chain. Archmaester Marwyn had far more links in his chain than any maester she had ever known - Pycelle and Luwin included. She couldn't even identify the materials in half of the links; there were many strange and obscure metals, including some that looked like wood or stone, or even bone. But why would an archmaester travel so far into hostile lands?

"Yes," Sansa mused. "But that is the issue - how do I know you will answer truthfully?"

"I would not lie to you. I can…" His face was pained. "If only I could speak to King Snow? I would very much appreciate his company, I believe he will want to see me."

Sansa did not reply, but she tilted her head. "I have studied much on dragons, and on dragon lore and tendering," Marwyn continued. "I have read all the greatest scholars in the field - from Munkun and Vaegon, to Barth and Thomax. If King Snow requires guidance or aid with his dragon, I could assist…."

The last thing my brother wants is a maester near his dragon. "Neither King Snow nor his dragon are present in Winterfell at the moment."

At that, Marwyn grimaced. For a brief moment, he appeared flabbergasted. "When will they return? If you could allow me…"

"I think not." Sansa reached a decision, and stepped backwards.

She turned towards the gaoler. "Ser, please interrogate this man.

Compare his answers to the ones the previous maesters gave, search for discrepancies." She looked back at Marwyn. "Once we are confident he is telling the truth about his purpose, then we may talk further."

The guard frowned. "It was Rattleshirt that tortured the last ones, and he left with Snow."

Marwyn's face paled. "Then find another to do the task," she ordered.

"Please, Your Grace, you do need…" the archmaester begged.

I cannot afford to have a heart. What would Littlefinger do? Sansa turned and walked away. The guards slammed the cell door shut with an iron clank.

Behind her, Marwyn flustered. "Wait! Wait, don't… !" He gulped. "You saw one of them - a shadow ? A creature of smoke and ash?"

Suddenly, Sansa stopped.

What did he say? She never said a word, and she kept the shock off her face, but she turned around slowly.

The archmaester had a pained look. "I made the deduction," the man admitted. "There were rumours of such in White Harbour, and I overheard the men muttering of demons. And your guards each have weirwood stakes on their belts." He motioned at the men, at the white wooden weapons they kept close. "There is but one reason I can think of why you would need such weapons."

She didn't react, but she didn't walk away either. "I am right, aren't I?" Marwyn grinned, revealing reddish teeth stained from chewing sourleaf. "You saw one of them? Did it kill somebody?"

Sansa took a deep breath, and then stepped back towards the cell. "Explain."

"What would you like to know, my lady?"

"No." She shook her head. That was a tactic; asking questions to probe what the interrogator was already expecting. A way to discover what they did and didn't know already. " You tell me everything you know first."

"That would take a long time."

Sansa frowned. Marwyn hesitated, then took a deep breath. "Throughout history, there have been mentions of such. Beings of darkness, they come and go without a trace," Marwyn explained. "The very first texts named them As'ahad - the Dark Folk. Each culture afterwards has given them a new name; they are the Red Envoys, the Servants of the Goat, the Doomborn, the Sh'Ragnar, and the Moonless Children. In the Common, perhaps they are best described as wraiths ."

He looked at the look on Sansa's face. "Others might call them shades. Some old legends refer to them as the spirits of the cursed or the restless dead, but I cannot verify that as the truth. Some sources they take the appearance of the deceased or dying; they are like… reflections. Creatures of smoke shaped like men."

"And you just happen to know so much about these creatures? Should I take that as a coincidence that you arrive at the same time they do?" Sansa did not believe in coincidence.

"I am the archmaester of magic, I have studied everything unworldly. I have written books on lost books," he replied indignantly. "One very old text - a lost book transcribing the songs of the children - mentioned a weakness to weirwood. The wraiths supposedly could not pass through a weirwood seal. When I saw your weirwood weapons, I made the connection."

"Wraiths," Sansa repeated. "And where do they come from?"

"It varies. But in most texts? They are creatures born from a sorcerer

they are elementals given purpose. The Maeligor Aracana describes a pact created by the summoner, a bargain of sorts. As far as any can discern, it is a ritual of blood magic from a sacrifice. In return for being brought into our world and granted life, they are said to fulfil a boon for the sorcerer."

A boon . Sansa seized on the word, as Marwyn rambled onwards.

Somebody had sent that thing to Winterfell.

"The ancient Asshai'i spoke of them with dread, but so few of the texts from that period… The Bloodstone Emperor supposedly had an elite guard of 'warriors of shadow', and one cryptic tome mentions that they fell to earth on a falling star. The lore is not limited to the Shadow Lands either, such mentions crop up from Sothoryos to Valyria to the Jogos Nhai. Wherever men have walked, so have the whispers surrounding these beings. The lore has survived among the moonsingers, the first refugees of Braavos, the Church of the Starry Sky…" Marwyn took a deep breath, like to calm himself. "Forgive me, I am rambling, I… I did not believe that any still possessed the ability to summon the Dark Folk, I thought that the power was lost to the ages. But then again, with the ephemeralic convergence…"

Sansa frowned, struggling to keep up. "The what?"

"The Great Change - the ephemeralic convergence is a term I coined," Marwyn explained, while Sansa looked baffled. "I believe it to be an alignment of the seasons, a movement of the world. The red comet was not the beginning, merely a symptom. I do not know how or why - I'm but an astronomer looking at the heavens. I believe it to be a global phenomenon, a resurgence."

She didn't understand. Marwyn needed another deep breath after talking so fast. "The magic is returning to the world," he said. "Suddenly, things are possible that have not been seen for at least centuries. Or millennia. We are in the middle of a great shift, like the movement of continents."

Is the man mad? She wondered. He spoke with the passion of a mad man. Around her, the guards looked confused.

"Consider it, Your Grace," Marwyn insisted. "The Drowning of Oldtown, the Great Fire of King's Landing. The Doom of Slaver's Bay. You have seen it yourself; the dragons returning, the wraiths stirring, the cold winds blowing. Even look at this warmth in Winterfell." He shook his head. "These are not localised events - the alchemists of Qohor have once again begun to whet their steel with human blood, in Yi Ti they suffer plagues without precedent, across the Rhoyne the stonemen are mustering, and even as far as Qarth the warlocks are rising to power. Glass candles are burning again." The man looked like he could have laughed. "I have seen such things - things that never would have been possible even a few years ago. The magic is returning to the entire world, and with it comes destruction. The convergence ."

Sansa blinked. Part of her would have dismissed such as nonsense, but the other part… "And these wraiths?" she asked quietly.

"They are born of powerful magic. Very, very powerful magic - and thus have not been seen for centuries. They are something I have only read about in the oldest stories. The shadows live in their own realm - the Dark - but a sorcerer of sufficient power might grant them access into ours. Supposedly the Asshai'i shadowbinders once opened up a portal into the Dark itself, but…" Marwyn shook his head. His eyes gleamed, seeming entranced by the very thought. "I have studied such beings, but I never imagined I might see one."

He sounded excited. Sansa didn't speak, but she was measuring his expression. "The wraiths…" he continued, clearing his throat. "The moonlight makes them visible, and weirwood can harm them. They can fly during the blackest nights, and can move with great speed. They are unearthly deities granted human shape, capable of expressing themselves as shadow and flame. Such things are not easily controlled, or contained."

She still did not speak. He looked up towards her. "But I know of some wards - ancient spells that I traced from the foundations of Storm's End in my youth. Wards that supposedly grant protection against incorporeal beings. I might reproduce such, Your Grace; they can protect a location from malignant magic." The archmaester nodded. "If you have an enemy that summons wraiths against you, I have spells that might offer protection."

Sansa was suspicious. Marwyn quickly lowered his head, bowing as far as his shackles would allow. "Really?" She raised an eyebrow. "And what would you want in return for such aid?"

"Nothing, Your Grace. I only wish to help."

At that, Sansa snorted. She shook her head, and stepped backwards. "And that is the point where I know you're full of bullshit." The archmaester blinked. "Are you really such a saint, acting purely out of kindness? I was willing to entertain such talk of magic, archmaester, but do you really expect me to believe that you came all this way just to help ? Goodbye."

She stepped backwards, threatening to leave. At once, the archmaester jumped upwards. Guards flinched, pushing him back. "No… no! " He grimaced, frantic eyes looking around his cell. "I came for the dragon," he admitted. "I came to study it, I wish to harness its power. Such a thing has not been possible for centuries, and I will do whatever I must for that chance."

He wants power, Sansa thought quietly. She recognised that… that fervour in his voice. Power in knowledge, perhaps. And yet that was understandable, and so long as she understood him then perhaps he could be used. Perhaps he was manipulable, as long as she bore his own ambition in mind.

What would Littlefinger do?

The archmaester probed her face, seeming to search for any kind of a cue. She gave him none, and he grimaced, desperate.

Sansa let a few moments pass, counting to ten silently. "Indeed," she eventually said. Sansa paused curiously, letting her eyes see the man in more detail. He didn't look much like a maester, that was true. He looked like a village butcher or a portside dockworker. The way he talked, it reminded her of the Cult's fanatics.

Still, her instincts were warning her, suspicions tingling on the back of her neck. She didn't trust this man - she didn't trust any stranger that came into her home - but…

If the last week had proven anything, it was that they needed to know more of magic. They needed to know how to fight it. If this man truly had answers… Sansa couldn't afford to ignore such an advantage.

Still, it wouldn't do to agree too quickly.

"I will consider it," she said finally, and then turned to leave. "In the meantime, enjoy your cell. I will see about having you moved in due time."

As she left, her head was spinning. Marwyn shouted after her, but Sansa did not turn around again.

Magic, she thought. Magic!

There were so many thoughts scattered around her head, her feet paced over the dark stone. She was sweating - sweat patches stained down her back and under the arms of her silk dress.

Outside, the sun was so bright it was blinding. The whole courtyard was stirring, the gates churning with new entries; Winterfell was filling up with the convoy from White Harbour. Nearly all of them were wearing white stones. Sansa wondered vaguely just how many would be praying in the godswood tonight.

She would have gone to see Bran, but her brother was with Meera and Sansa didn't want to interrupt him.

Mere months ago, she would have dismissed such talk of magic as lunacy, but she couldn't anymore. She had seen a dragon in flight. An army of corpses had risen outside Winterfell's gates. There was warmth rising from the ground beneath her, and nobody could explain why. My half-brother is a dragonrider, and my younger brother is apparently a wizard .

Vaguely, she thought of all those tales she had heard in court about Robb - of the wolf king that could transform into a beast, the man who commanded wolves in the riverlands. Sansa remembered the time she had spent with Lady, and the thought of her murdered direwolf still caused a pain in her heart. For a time, her direwolf had been part of her.

The ephemeralic convergence, Sansa wondered.

It was a long day, spent stewing over a hundred different concerns. Time was short and there was too much to be done. Sansa eventually found herself back in her father's solar, studying a list of marriages between the wildlings and northerners that Jon and Lord Wyman had arranged some months ago. Soon she would have to determine who would sit in the Winter Court, who would be lords in the new north. She sighed and leaned back in her chair, eyeing the wine at her father's desk. She wanted to gulp down the entire bottle just to calm herself, but she refrained. There was much she needed to talk to Jon about.

The coronation, she thought. As soon as Jon returned, they would hold Bran's coronation. If Jon was not back shortly, they might have to crown Bran without him.

My brother will be crowned king. I will crown him king . It was a scary thought in so many ways.

In the distance, the swollen red sun drooped over the western horizon. Sansa stared out over the corridors and rooms that she once knew, and she thought of the days of lemoncakes and songs. The days of summer children.

It was only towards dusk when she heard the bells ringing. The sound was faint at first - a soft ringing from the gates. The noise started to spread, and down below people were running. Then, she heard a boom as the great bell of tower picked up the alert.

Sansa was already halfway down the stairs. She saw Lord Mollen running up to warn her. "It is from Cerwyn, my lady," the lord panted. "A score of men approach."

She was already moving. Cerwyn had been captured easily by free folk soldiers and the Bolton garrison surrendered, but they had received no warning. A few of her guards wanted her to stay in the keep, but Sansa refused. As soon as she stepped out into main hall, their outriders gave word.

A host of men were marching up the kingsroad, they reported. There were few cavalry among them, the majority were on foot but marching quickly. They were flying a lizard lion on their banner.

At once, Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. House Reed?

Sansa stood on the walls as the procession approached Winterfell's gates. Just in case, there were archers readied. She saw the banners fluttering in the wind, showing lizard lions and snakes, toads and frogs, lilies and reeds, herons and fish, wildcats and aurochs. Houses Blackmyre, Boggs, Cray, Fenn, Greengood, Peat and Quagg, Sansa recognised. All of them petty houses of the Neck, many that she had never seen before in person - though the lords of the Neck were sworn to Winterfell, they so rarely emerged from their marshes. Most houses made their banners out of wool or hemp, but the crannogmen painted their banners on weave and twine.

The crannogmen were all lightly armed, with three-pronged spears and half-helms. To a man their clothes were painted with dun shades of brown and grey and green. It was rare for them to leave the Neck in such numbers, but House Reed had answered Winterfell's call.

At the front of the column of men, a carriage rattled through the soft mud. The carriage was more like a farmer's cart, light and beaten. It was pulled by horses so small they might have been ponies, but the steeds were stout and steady over the ground.

At the very back of the convoy, Sansa noted a single wagon surrounded by a troop of guards, every man flying a faded Stark direwolf.

The column came to a halt at Winterfell's gates, and a small procession broke off to approach first. The cart came with them. Even when looking down, Sansa reckoned she could see the shock in their posture at the heat surrounding the castle.

Sansa stepped down to meet them as the hefty gates creaked open. Two dozen men and the cart were waiting behind the portcullis, Sansa saw, led by a tall and grim figure at the very front. The man held a dark iron helm under his arm, revealing a head of grey hair, as he held a banner of a black lizard lion in his other hand. Suddenly, she noticed Meera Reed rushing out of the castle, running through the courtyard.

The portcullis opened, and slowly spearmen parted to allow Sansa to step through. The man at the front had the look of a lord, albeit a worn and weathered one. His grey hair verged towards auburn near the back, but he was not balding. He bore a shaggy beard and cragged, windburnt features, but most noticeable was his scar. A blade had gouged across his cheek and scalp, cutting through an eye. The worst of the wound was hidden under an eyepatch, but the injury was still raw.

Lord Howland Reed has finally reached Winterfell .

At the sight of Sansa, the lord stopped. His eye widened in shock, his face paled. Blue eyes, she noticed. She only just heard the gasp; "Cat?" he whispered in shock.

Sansa forced a smile and stepped forward. "Lord Reed, I presume?"

The lord just stammered. "By the Gods, I…" He shook his head, off-guard. "Forgive me… Sansa, you're… you look so much like your mother."

She did not reply. He stepped forward cautiously. "I heard that you were in Winterfell, but I did not…" He looked as if he had seen a ghost. Behind her, Meera Reed was pushing through the guards, but her gaze flickered right past the man at the front. "I am not… I am Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish to most. Brother to Lord Hoster, your mother was my niece."

Sansa blinked.

After a pause, Brynden Tully drew his sword, and lowered himself to his knee. He took a deep breath.

The stranger - the Blackfish - was looking up at her expectantly. "Your mother, she made me vow to…" her great-uncle started and then grimaced. "I fought alongside Robb, my lady, I held Riverrun for him during the Red Wedding. When the Lannisters came, I fled north to search for you, my lady. Lord Reed sheltered and healed me at Greywater Watch, and we captured Moat Cailin together. As I did with Robb, I serve House Stark. I swear to you the same vow I gave your brother and mother."

Ser Brynden Tully? She hesitated, trying to recompose herself, and the tall man - my greatuncle? - turned and motioned to the cart at the back of the procession. "And we come bringing your father's bones," he said with a solemn nod, meeting her eyes. "Lord Reed held Eddard's bones at Greywater, awaiting safe passageway. We can finally bring him home."

Sansa suddenly wasn't sure what to say.

Her eyes lingered on the cart flying the direwolf. There was a box in the middle of the wagon. A small box. Father?

Meera was rushing straight by Sansa, towards the carriage at the back of the group. "Father!" the girl called. "Father, what you are doing here, it is not…"

Lord Reed . Sansa's gaze flickered for the man, but then her eyes turned towards the cart at the back. She didn't know how to reply to Ser Brynden, so instead her feet stepped forward to see Lord Howland. There was no crack in her posture. The other spearmen stepped aside, and Sansa realised that all the men were shorter than her.

There was a figure in the cart, she saw suddenly. A gaunt man in the back of the cart under a pile of furs, being pulled by horses. He could not stand, and Sansa saw only his outline.

Meera pulled herself up to the cart's edge, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes. "Father!" Meera cried, cradling a skeletal hand. "Father, what are you doing here… your health…?"

"My health shall last, my darling," a breathy voice croaked. "I am where I must be."

Sansa walked forward to see a sickly old man with green eyes, holding Meera tightly. He was whispering reassuringly in her ear, but there was a stutter in his voice and a tremble in his grip. He tried to pull himself up, but he hadn't the strength and his throat broke down into wheezy coughs filled with phlegm and blood.

Then, Sansa saw the wound on his body. In the heat, the furs were loose on him, and she saw his figure. An ugly, crescent moon-shaped scar stretched from shoulder to thigh, as if he had been half-gutted. The wound was old and faded, the flesh had sealed with time, but the skin was still sickly pale and yellowish. A blow that had never healed properly, and the lord looked like he had been living on death's door ever since.

Lord Reed followed her gaze to his scar. "It has been eighteen years," he croaked softly, with an utterly humourless smile, "but Ser

Arthur's blade continues to torment me. I survived the blow at the time, but then days later the wound began to fester in the red sands. Your father had to carry me to Starfall. I have not been the same since."

Lord Reed hugged his daughter tightly, cradling her in his arms. "I owe Ned so much," he spoke in quiet, uneven breaths, meeting Sansa's eyes from over Meera's shoulder. "Without him, I would not be here, would not have even known my children. I could do naught for him but escort his bones, but I must do more for his children. House Reed is at your service."

Sansa didn't even know what to say.

He made a motion as if trying to bow while sitting down, but then winced in pain and gripped his stomach. Meera grimaced, then stepped aside. "Forgive him, Your Grace." Meera looked to her, biting her lip. "Travel is very difficult for my father, he has relied much on Greywater to keep him…"

Meera's voice trailed off. Sansa did not reply. The famously reclusive Lord Reed. He was struggling to even pull himself upright, and he needed Ser Brynden to help support him up in the cart.

Very sick, very wheezy, and very frail. He wasn't even that old, Sansa realised suddenly. The lord might have only been middle-aged, but his sickness made him as gaunt as a corpse.

His eyes were lined with hollow shadows, but the orbs within glinted bright green. Even for a man so sickly, he had a cool, knowing gaze. Sansa was left speechless, but Lord Howland Reed finally managed to pull his head down into a pained bow.

"Princess Stark," he wheezed. "I am here to see the king."

The Mother

Near a week had passed, and yet she could still see the faint wispy haze of smoke over the horizon. Even after all this time, this strange southron city still smouldered. White Harbour - even burnt and half-broken, this was her new home, her people's new home.

The charred silhouette of the harbour was visible through the open doors, as a thousand men and women filled the stone hall. "Salvation!" they chanted, feet stomping against the stone. "Salvation!"

In the distance, a fresh plume of smoke was breaking into the pallid sky.

Mother Mole stood on a podium made from the stump of a large oak tree and shouted at the top of her lungs. Her weirwood staff drummed off the marble to the beat of the chant. "For too long have we huddled in fear against the cold winds!" she screeched, above the jubilant cries. "For too long have we cowered before the creeping frost, for too long have we felt the frozen knives in our chests!"

The only reply was a voiceless roar. "For too long have we burnt our dead, in fear of the day that they would rise again!"

There were more people in her congregation than ever before, and every day it seemed like a few more. They all came before her.

"Who here has lost loved ones, friends and family to the white? Who here has suffered known loss?" she cried, and the crowd howled. "For the cold winds are rising, and the Old Gods make us but one promise! What do they promise?"

"Salvation!" they cried. " Salvation! "

The crowd filled the Church of Snows, stomping and screaming. They had stripped the temple of its pews, but there were still more men and women than could even fit in the temple. They were flooding from the doors and out onto the cobbles of Fishfoot Yard.

Once, this had been the 'Sept of the Snows', a place of worship dedicated to seven false idols. Now though, there were far more followers of the true faith in White Harbour than there were of the 'Seven'. Those seven effigies had been ripped from the walls, their statues had toppled, and in their place stood a single white totem. They all stood before the image of a coiled white dragon carved from the trunk of a huge weirwood tree.

The dragon's eyes and horns had been shaded red with blood, the white wood was stained with bloody handprints from where the worshippers had cut their palms to give tribute.

The sight of such a congregation still took her breath away. Even after all this time, even after all that the dreams had shown her, even after the bloody battles, she could still scarce believe it. As she hobbled down from the podium, there were dozens - hundreds - queuing to touch the dragon totem. Each one had a white stone on their chest.

Such a gathering would never have been possible beyond the Wall, and there would have been no way to feed them all. The free folk had never had anything even close to a city. But perhaps that is the reason the southerners always won, Mother Mole mused. For alltheir flaws and short-sightedness, she appreciated the… structures that the southrons had built around themselves.

This is a city of true believers now .

In her youth, cities had been a tale to tell the children at night, a dream for when the little ones were being tucked in. Castles and dragons, lords and ladies and cities. They had been things for dreams, fantasies for fools and children.

Aside from a small few like the Thenns or the cave-folk, the free folk had been wanderers. They had been nomads, a people of a thousand clans following the rule of their chieftains and warlords, their thanes and wise-men. Never before, not even under Mance, had the free folk united under a single banner. But now they were

south of the cursed Wall, staring at horizons she had never imagined.

It is all changing.

The world's nature was changing far beyond what men could merely see. The dragon had been like a stone thrown into a still pool, and where it walked the world rippled. Bloomed. Magic was returning to the world, revitalising it, and despite her old bones and rough skin she felt stronger than she had in decades. The aches in her bones had gone, the vague cloudiness of her visions had grown to a girl's clarity. She felt like she had in her youth, when she had still been slim and strong.

"Salvation," the believers chanted as they prayed. "Salvation."

And while King Snow led the battle against the cold with sword and fire, it was to her to lead a different type of battle. Hers was a war of faith.

The witch hobbled down the steps, enveloped instantly by an escort. Most of her inner circle were female - spearwives or wise women - but there were a few men scattered about them.

Her gaze turned towards a brown-haired youth waiting by the stone columns, his face twisted with anxiety. She stepped towards the enclave to meet the youth. His hands were blackened, Mother Mole noted, as her leathery face twisted to a scowl.

"Is it done?" Mother Mole asked quietly.

"It is done." The boy was young, she doubted if he was passed his fourteenth nameday. "As you say, Your Holiness, the false gods burn."

"' Your Holiness'," Mother Mole snorted, and she swatted the boy's head with her staff. "Such kneeler's titles, I have no use for them. Do not address me such again."

He gulped. "Yes, um… Yes, Mother."

"And your hands are stained with soot. That is foolish," she chided. "Did anyone see you?"

The child shook his head. "No. Me and the boys stuffed straw through the windows, then threw burning rocks to light it. The whole building went up. We were out of there before they knew what hit them."

That would be the sept by Lordsport, Mother Mole thought with approval. An unholy building now cleansed by fire. "And how many remain?"

"Um, there's the sept in Silver Street, and the other sept out in the city slums?"

She nodded. "Good child. We will not suffer such false gods here." He extended his hand, and she kissed it with wrinkled lips. "May the Dragon bless you."

He gulped, before backing away. The ones that she chose were all young, all loyal, and all converts. They were boys and girls that had grown up in White Harbour, and now she had tasked them to burning the city's septs.

To use converts was important. Tensions with the fat lord were already high, and it seemed too risky if free folk were caught burning the southern gods. But for kneelers to be torching their own temples? That sent a wholly different message, one that would not be so easily linked back to her, or linked back to the Circle. If the men she sent were discovered - and they probably would be - then they would have the honour of being martyrs to the cause.

It had been a difficult effort. Mother Mole had arranged for the torching of septs - but it had to be done discreetly enough that there was no outcry. She did not want to risk the relationship with the mermen any more than she must.

It had been a slow cleansing. One by one, the septons and septas had been chased out of White Harbour.

King Snow would disapprove of what she was doing, she knew, but never mind. Jon Snow was oft distracted, and Mother Mole took care that he would not find out. For all his service, their prophet was still very young. Time would harden him, she did not doubt, and in the future he would come to understand - but for now it was for her to act in his stead. She would serve the gods.

She had seen it. Only true believers would survive the upcoming storm.

After the sermon, night was falling and Mother Mole and her Circle retreated out of the church. There were still lines of homeless clinging to city streets, but shelter was being built and Mother Mole had ensured that they were well-fed.

The Circle was finding ever more converts in the city. They had protected White Harbour where the Manderly's own guards had failed.

She could walk near any street in the city now, and she would see a good proportion of people with white stones on their chests. Even the southerner merchants and traders were beginning to convert, and even the powerful Oarsman's Guild had accepted the dragon. And every day, more snow fell on the city.

The wargs-chiefs Boroqq the Boar and the Owl Lord had returned to the city. With the Circle's aid, they were now teaching the next generation of wargs from within the Church of Snows itself. Even some southerners had been found to have the Gift, and more and more powers were rising.

At Mother's Moles bequest, the Circle's wargs aided the city's fishermen, whalers and patrols. Now, by seal and shark, albatross and orca, the skinchangers were helping to guard and feed the city.

In the battle's wake, White Harbour was being rebuilt. Not as it once was, but into something new.

The priestess headed back towards the ancient black castle clinging to the outskirts of the city. The Wolf's Den was an old fortress nestled against the cliffs overlooking the bay - the battlements were sheeted in frost, the stone cobbles of the yard were cracking apart, and the keep was in the disrepair of generations. It had stopped being a castle a long time ago, and had been turned into a prison by the mermen, but now it had been taken over by the Circle in the days after the attack. The castle was heaving with the faithful and the desperate, refugees all.

During the battle of White Harbour, the refugees had taken shelter in the Wolf's Den. Even a week afterwards, the free folk refused to leave. Mother Mole found that for the free folk to have their own castle in the city was… useful.

It was approaching the dark of night, and she could feel the power in the air. She found herself drawn towards the overgrown weirwood cradled at the heart of the castle. The weirwood's branches had grown even through the crumbling walls and windows, and every red leaf seemed to be rustling in the still air.

She could feel the aura of the Old Gods surrounding her as Mother Mole stepped before the tree.

This was the very last heart tree left in White Harbour. She might have held her sermon in that 'church' of stone and timber, but this felt like the truly holy place.

"Mother," Sigrid bowed before her, a long and lean girl with red hair. "We are ready for you."

She only nodded. The others knew what was happening too. Around her, acolytes and apprentices were gathering around them. Her gaze moved to her apprentices, flickering from one to the next. Sigrid, Gunhilde, Arsi, Heltha, Solvi. There were almost two dozen girls who

had the Gift, the fruit of her months of searching amongst the refugees.

They were the Circle.

All the while the warg-chiefs were training more skinchangers, it fell to Mother Mole to train more witches.

No - no longer was she just a witch. The world had changed, and so had she. Now she was the Gods' priestess, an apostle for the Old God of Ice. And now, as she led the way to the godswood, as her fingers clenched about her carved weirwood spear, she knew that she had to show her apprentices the way.

There were three dozen women in total, ranging from girls barely past maidenhood to the grey-haired. They all stood silently around the tree, listening to the beat of Mother Mole's cane as she hobbled over the cobblestone. There were a few men among them too, but she found that women tended to be more in tune with the elements. Males were inherently selfish when it came to power, but women shared more naturally. Men tried to seize power themselves, but women could act as conduits to the gods.

The moonless night was dark, and the heart tree was radiating. She could see the hunger in its twisted red face.

It was time.

"Bring another from the cell," the Mother ordered.

They already had. Heartbeats later, she heard the sound of a scuffle, and three hardened spearwives dragging a bloodied young man over the broken cobbles. "Stop!" a voice begged. "Don't do this… you can't…"

He was shouting, squirming, even as her apprentices dragged him by his chains.

"The Lord of Waters will ransom me!" the fair-skinned sellsail moaned, struggling against his fetters. "I'm the son of Lorane Nermantes. I am the fleet's Lord Navigator, my father will ransom me! You don't need to do this, I have friends in Lys. Family! Gold, silver!"

"Pirate's gold, murderer's silver," grunted Sigrid, pushing the young man to his knees before the heart tree. "Filth." Her flame-haired apprentice looked to Mother Mole, eyes questioning. "Is he enough, priestess?"

"It is," Mother Mole agreed softly, her eyes flickering over the young pirate's form. "One more tribute to the gods."

She looked around the room, and they were all tense with apprehension. You are ready, my apprentices .

The pirate was a fine-looking man, he couldn't have been older than

twenty. Fair of skin and blond of hair, with large blue eyes and even,

smooth features. He might have been a woman but for the short hair.

There were many that had been left from the assault on the city. The remainder of the pirate fleet had fled, but many other mercenaries had been trapped without ships. Most had been captured in the city, but some few had forced their way out of the city and fled out into the countryside. The free folk quickly hunted those down.

They had all been sentenced to death, but Mother Mole saw no reason to waste their bodies on the gallows. She drew a bone sickle, as sharp as any knife, as the prisoner was forced to kneel.

Something in the pirate's eyes widened in realisation, in fear. "No, no, you can't-!"

"Bring him to the heart tree," Mother Mole said, sickened by the kneeler's begging. "And bind his mouth."

Mother Mole took a deep breath, as she walked towards the weirwood. She muttered a quiet prayer in the Old Tongue, before turning to face her coven. "Tonight we give tribute to the Gods," she proclaimed to the breathless air. "We are the Circle. We stand apart and above clan and tribe, family and chief. We are the shepherds who will guide our people into this new world. Where the God goes, it is our task to follow and clear the way."

The old woman gripped her spear tighter, thinking of those that had been lost. They had given much to be here, and she would give more still.

"It is to us that the sacred duty falls. Fear not, for we are not alone. The Old Gods have returned, taking form and flesh to stand with us against the night without end. The God of Ice was the first, and there may yet be more. It is our role to show the people to the true path - that we may yet live to see the dawn. To see spring!"

There was no reply but a quiet, wordless murmur. Mother Mole turned to the pirate, bound by rope and held at the shoulder by her spearwives. His struggles were like a frenzied animal. His eyes were wild, and blood wept from where the ropes bound him to the heart tree.

She studied him for a long moment before speaking. "This wretch, and all those that sailed with him tried to take that from us. They who have shed the blood of free folk must give their blood in turn. To the God."

"To the God," the girls intoned.

"To the God," the spearwives agreed.

The man's moans reached a fever pitch, screams hissing through teeth, through the rope in his mouth.

The acolytes stripped the man, smallclothes and all, while the spearwives bound him to the tree. At some point he took a blow to

the head, and after that his resistance lessened. A small vat of weirwood sap was taken out, to prepare him in the Old Way. Her apprentices, let by Sigrid, painted him heart and lung, throat and leg, phallus and skull with the runes of the First Men.

She raised the blade and then paused. Slowly, Mother Mole handed the sickle to Sigrid, wrapped the young woman's hands around the blade. The girl looked shocked, but she nodded and gulped.

"Sigrid, you are ready," the old woman instructed. "This is your night."

Sigrid approached the heart tree slowly. The night was tense, expectant. The apprentice took a deep breath, and gave a silent prayer.

Finally, Sigrid gutted the man with her bone knife, slicing the blade through tender flesh.

There was an art to it - cut below the stomach but above the intestines. The lesser apprentices collected the blood with a cured sheep's bladder, then offered it to the heart tree's mouth. The gagged screams reached fever pitch.

Slowly, Sigrid's knife cut through skin, tracing the path of the runes. The air was deathly quiet besides the man's muffled cries, hissing from between teeth.

The moment of death had to be prolonged, so the heart tree would better take in the essence of the sacrifice. First it was the chest, the intestines, the lungs, then the heart and finally the neck. The blood spilled onto the roots, and it took a long time before it began to still.

They watched the blood seep forth in tune with the crazed beat. It was like music. It reminded Mother Mole of a spring fawn, fiercely uncomprehending of what was happening. Like a spark that was about to burst forth into a fire. The kindling always resisted in the moment before it blazed.

She met the pirate's eyes, and gave her silent thanks to his service.

Not enough were so blessed as he.

After the blood was totally emptied, the knife cut deeper. The sickle flayed open the skin, they used a hammer to crack ribs. Now, the organs were to be stripped, so that each one could be given to the tree in turn. Astrid uncoiled the intestine, first the small, then the large, and placed them into the waiting hands of gentle Arsi.

Everything that the man was, offered and fed to the Old Gods.

Around them, the red leaves rippled in the dark. Nobody said a word, they just dropped to their knees before the bloody tree.

It was blooming. The weirwood was almost glowing in the evening dark, the bark shining like the moon, the leaves like the reddest star. Its branches rustled though there was no wind.

Something had changed in the year since the God's awakening. Once, these hallowed traditions had gone all but extinct amongst the free folk, practiced only by the most isolated and savage of all the clans. But now, the rituals had more effect than ever. Mother Mole had been the first to rediscover them, as she sacrificed squirrels and rabbits to the tree in which she used to live.

The times were changing. The gods were rising, and they hungered.

"It is your time, Sigrid," Mother Mole nodded to the flame-haired girl. "Lead the coven. Let us all meditate."

Her apprentice gulped, then nodded. The rest lowered herself to their knees. One by one, Sigrid walked around the Circle, and dabbed their foreheads with the sacrifice's blood.

The world went still. The heart tree was screaming, spinning…

It is happening, Mother Mole eventually realised. They are Seeing.

The circle of acolytes knelt in place, their heads lowered to the heart tree. Twitching. Sometimes as though in pain, but never quite recoiling.

And as Mother Mole closed her eyes, she saw the storm of souls.

It felt like the heart tree was burning. She felt the invisible fires lick at her face, but the flames felt cold…

Visions flashed before her. They saw an icy figure limping over the snows, they saw black shadows stirring. They saw the snows given flesh, a snowstorm whirling away at a great barrier of red and green.

Mother Mole saw a boy - a young boy - crying before a heart tree.

On his head, he wore a bloody crown of white thorns.

She saw another dark-haired child with red eyes, screaming and thrashing as a black figure lifted him up off the ground and carried him away into the night.

She saw a black, frozen ocean under a bulbous moon, as a swell of waves threatened to break through the surface. The ice was cracking, breaking in the night. Something large was moving just under the surface of the oily water, it was like the whole ocean was churning.

And then she saw a shadow. A shadow of black and red walking through a hall of white, leaving black and red footsteps with every step it took. It was burning so hot that she could feel the heat against her skin, it was like the bonfire of a thousand souls surrounding her. The burning creature stepped closer, painting the hallway black…

All around her, acolytes gasped. A young girl lost the connection first, and scrambled backwards. The circle was breaking apart as the trance was shattered. Mother Mole felt the visions fading, but she tried to hold on…

She saw a group of faceless figures lowering themselves before a white throne. She saw a man with the heart of a tree inspecting a black tarnished crown in his hands…

The air split, and suddenly the vision broke.

Her eyes shot open, taking deep breaths. All around her, the acolytes shivered.

Before her, the red and white tree loomed. The bloody entrails across the branches were already shivering. The face carved into the weirwood looked like it was giggling.

There was a long hush, as the acolytes took deep breaths to focus themselves.

"You have done well, Sigrid," Mother Mole said finally, her voice a gasp.

Her apprentice blinked, looking lost. "Mother… what was that ?" she whispered, unwilling to raise her voice. "What did it mean?"

Mother Mole hesitated. That was always the most difficult question. The Old Gods granted them sight. Visions of the past, shades of the future, but to find clarity… to find meaning was another trial entirely.

The memory of that black shadow hovered over her, it was like she could still feel it against her skin. She remembered those visions; of that child, and of the throne…

"It means that we must go to Winterfell."

…

Days past, and then weeks, Winterfell beckoned them, but the snows made travel impossible. Instead, the Circle had to wait for the Manderly convoy heading north.

She was followed by a host of true believers flocking to Winterfell. To have so many refugees in tow made progress on the road slow, but a mother could not abandon her children.

The road was long and hard. Despite the efforts of the Manderlys and the rearguard of the coalition forces, the snows had grown so deep that no wheeled carriage could pass and the wheelhouses and carts had to be refit for sleighs. There were not enough available horses left for the caravans, so it was pulled by a motley of garrons, oxen and mules. The progress was slow, while more and more refugees flocked around her and a supply train stretched for near half a league from White Harbour up along the frozen White Knife.

All around her, the north's heartlands were in torment. Every village that they passed was in a panic, being mustered by the local lord, or failing that, a coalition commander. There were thousands of men and women that were being gathered to reinforce the dragon even in the depth of winter.

'Conscription', the southrons called it. To her, it looked more like farmers and cattleherds being forced to hold swords.

At the village of Blackpool, at a lesser crossroads near half the way to Winterfell, she arrived just as coalition forces were sacking the castle, to put Lord Slate into chains. The mermen forces met little resistance as they demanded that the traitor be surrendered, House Slate's own men abandoned their lord. Mother Mole watched as the lord and his family were frogmarched from their keep.

The supply train was trapped by the snows in Blackpool for close to a week, when word reached them of a rider coming south. The merman guards were the first to know, but Mother Mole heard not long afterwards. A knight - one 'Ser Alek of White Harbour' - had set off south to meet up with his lord.

From what Mother Mole gathered, this Ser Alek had once been part of King Snow's Dragonguard, but he had abandoned the Dragon and resigned . Mother Mole would have had the man executed for such

weakness, but Lord Manderly's men took the knight away too quickly.

The rumours from Winterfell trickled south slowly. King Snow had captured Winterfell, and both his brother and his sister had been found alive. There was news of a coronation. They whispered of a great battle, and an army of the dead.

By the tell of it, the white walkers raised an uncountable number of dead as wights, and then marched north for the Wall. The North's heartlands were a roiling chaos in the wake of the news, with word of uncountable slaughters having been committed by the Others further north along the kingsroad.

The men also told other darker stories. They told stories of a slaughter at Winterfell, with many dead. A creature of shadow and flame. The demons of fire and demons of ice.

Around the campfire, her apprentices chattered eagerly about such things, but Mother Mole sat quiet and unnerved, edging nearer to the fire than usual. It was far away, but she could still feel it in the distance. It felt like there was something powerful burning over the horizon, coming closer with every step.

As they made their way north, the stories they heard from travellers grew ever more queer. The column of refugees grew larger. It was not long after they passed Cerwyn that Mother Mole finally saw it.

Winterfell.

In the distance, the castle came into view as she crested the peak of a hill. The castle looked different from what it had been in her dreams, but that was oft the way of visions.

While all its surrounding fields were smothered white, Winterfell itself looked brown and green, surrounded by so many tents plopped amid the muddy soil that it made her think of a field of mushrooms after

the rain. Her followers gaped and stared, but Mother Mole only pursed her lips.

Freak weather indeed, she thought. She had to strip off the outer layer of her furs - within the span of mere leagues, the world had gone from winter to summer.

The snows around the castle had melted. The rest of the North was covered by over six feet of snow, but here at the castle the snow was simply gone. In its place was muddy, brown earth, but she could see patches of green - the grass was sprouting, flowers were even blooming. Her apprentices babbled excited questions all round her, but the Mother found herself devoid of answers.

It was like the stories her own mother had once told her, the stories of the children of the forest. They had told her once that the children could hold ceremonies to bring back spring. Stories she hadn't heard since the days of King Redbeard…

The youngest son of Stark did this, she thought. Mother Mole could hardly imagine the power that such a feat would require. It was tremendous. What sacrifice did he give?

The dragon was not here, she could feel that instinctively. Still, there was some other magic sparkling in the air, radiating from the earth beneath the castle.

The wide gates loomed over her, as the Manderly carriages clattered through over the muddy cobblestones. There was such a crowd that the smallfolk were queuing outside of the gates to come in, all the while they bustled around the roadside. The guards were trying to keep the smallfolk out - pointing them towards the winter town instead - but Mother Mole's spearwives forced them to let her pass. The old woman hobbled forward, staring around this unfamiliar place.

The castle was huge, but it was stained by battle and unease. The yards past the outer gate were filled with hundreds of roaming

figures as the Manderlys supply convoy was unloaded. She met Dormund, son of Tormund Giantsbane directing the refugees, but of his father or his brother Toregg she saw nothing. The free folk and the northerners in the yard largely separated into their own camps, casting one another distrustful glances. She could feel the hunger, the tension hovering in the air.

She could not see the giants, or any of the army's commanders. Jon Snow and the dragon had already left, but more and more Mother Mole's thoughts were turning towards Brandon Stark. King Brandon, apparently.

She was already through the yards. As soon as she stepped through the gates, she was drawn to the castle's godswood, a bit further to the northwest. It was here it had happened. She could feel it. The traces of a magic more powerful than any she'd known. She took a deep breath amidst the godswood's muddy soil, soaking it in.

Her followers mingled with a few of the castle's worshippers. They spoke of Bran Stark in hushed tones. A child that came back from the dead. A child that summoned spring, a boy who Jon Snow declared king…

"Take me to this young king," Mother Mole ordered to her followers. By her side, a spearwife hesitated. "Where is he?" "Find someone who knows. I want to meet this boy."

It did not take long before they found a man. Many of the southrons tried to dismiss them, but there were enough free folk around who bore Mother Mole in high regard. They found one of the king's personal guards, a free folk bearing a white stone on his chest. He spoke hesitantly, and dipped his head before Mother Mole and her Circle.

"King Bran is in the keep, Mother," he told her. The man spoke the Common Tongue in the gruff tones of one who had only recently

learned. "He does not leave. The Princess Stark won't let any near."

Mother Mole scowled. She tried to arrange a meeting with this princess next, but the Mother wasn't even allowed into the keep. Very few were, apparently. The thought was frustrating.

"What are we to do, Mother?" Arsi asked her nervously. Many of her followers seemed ill at ease in the shadow of such a huge castle.

"I must meditate. See to yourselves."

She found herself stepping through the trees, drawn to the heart tree at Winterfell. Around her, the hot springs still bubbled and crackled, while a rustling of birds had taken refuge in the branches around her. She could still feel the lingering aura of their God - the woods themselves remembered the dragon.

Judging by the broken trees and the strewn earth, the dragon had roosted in these trees. She could feel it; the magic was still thick in the air from its presence.

It had been sickly, she realised. There was pain in its aura that poisoned the ground. Mother Mole could still feel a taint like rot hovering over the grass and trees. Something had happened, some dark power had poisoned it, but then…

Mother Mole lowered herself before the heart tree, and she suddenly saw the memory of a young child on the ground by the roots, as the world bathed in steam. She took a deep breath.

A young child. Brandon Stark. Young and crippled, powerful but untaught…

The old woman's bony fingers clenched her staff tighter. Yes, she now knew why the Old Gods had directed her here.

She was here to teach this boy.

There was no time to waste, so much to do…

She knew that she must meet with him, but infuriatingly none were permitted. The castle's keep was locked down and kept on high-alert.

Mother Mole held her congregation in the yards below the great keep that night - to try and draw someone's attention - but she received little. They set up their sermon in full view of the keep, and the grounds were filled with chanting and crying. There were well over a thousand of her followers filling up Winterfell, and yet many kneelers gave them naught but angry glares. None approached, but the southrons huddled in their little groups while the yards were filled by a mob of believers.

The southrons would be whispering in this young king's ear, but Mother Mole wanted to make sure that Bran Stark heard her words instead.

Mine is a war of faith, she thought to herself. It was not a war she intended to lose.

As dusk fell, she was escorted back to a tent set up by the godswood, where the Circle made its camp. It had been a long day and her old bones were aching, she could feel the strain on her joints as she hobbled unevenly over the stones.

A figure was waiting for her, half-hidden in the corner behind an outbuilding.

Witch," a voice growled to her, and the Mother could have scoffed. Her spearwives instantly drew their weapons, but Mother Mole just shook her head.

"Weeper," she replied in a croak, and she paused before she turned around.

The man was glaring at her with bloodshot eyes. He was an ugly, squash-faced man with beady eyes. The raider bore the appearance of a rabid dog even on his best days, but this seemed to be one of

his worst. The Weeper's face was bloody and black, and he had a new gap in his front teeth. He stood bare-chested in the warmth, revealing a chest of shaggy hair over old crisscrossing scars, with large bloody welts across his body.

The man tottered on two half-spears he used as crutches, while his feet shuffled stiffly. She glanced curiously to his legs, and then his face. The raider and warlord had been beaten to within an inch of his life, by the look of it.

"You always were a hard man to kill, Weeper," Mother Mole noted, with a nod at his wounds. "I hope you killed the man who did that to you."

The Weeper's scowl deepened, feet awkwardly moving forward. "What are you doing in Winterfell, witch?"

Call me a witch again, and I will have your tongue . Against any other man, Mother Mole would have made the threat out loud, but the Weeper was like to take such as a challenge. "I am here where the Gods want me to be."

"Fuck the gods. What are you really here for?"

Mother Mole cocked her head, sizing him up. He was a short man, but he still stood head and shoulders above her. "I want to see the king."

"He's gone. Flew off on a dragon."

"The new king." Her voice was cool. "The boy, I hear."

At that, the raider grunted. "The 'king'. A bloody boy." The Weeper's voice was foul. "I thought that was a joke at first - Snow surrendered to a cripple ."

"The Old Gods have a plan for us all." In the distance, a horn from the wall drowned out her voice. She took a half-step forward, to hear

him better. "Jon Snow serves their purpose, and he chose his brother as his successor. A brother likewise Gifted by the Gods. Look around you, Weeper, I feel the touch of the Gods in the air."

The Weeper snarled. "Spare me the talk of gods and magic, I don't give a crap."

"Your blindness is your own." Mother Mole snorted. "Would that you had taken a few more eyes from the crows, they might have even given you wisdom."

The warlord's snarl deepened as he approached her. She could sense her apprentices bristling behind her, alarmed. Even alone, half-naked and wounded, the Weeper cut an intimidating figure.

Mother Mole glared her apprentices down, then considered the man as he paused a few strides away.

The Weeper was an aggressive man, but she could sense there was something different in his manner. Mother Mole had not seen the warlord this… talkative before.

"It is your turn, Weeper. Do you command in the castle? Where is your warband?"

His crutches fumbled as he tried to move, and the Weeper spat on the stones. "Fucking Snow took my fucking warband north with him," he cursed. "I command nothing. It's Tormund that leads the raiders in the castle."

Ah . Mother Mole began to understand why the man was in such a mood. There was a pair of thin red trails running down his cheeks, coming from the corners of his eyes. "Worst part of it all?" the Weeper growled. "I hear that there was one hell of a battle up north, and I missed that. I'm left here twiddling my thumbs with these bloody things." He waved his makeshift crutches, face twisted in a grimace.

"The Old Gods give us all a purpose," the Mother replied softly.

"Spare me, witch. I'm not here for your 'wisdom'."

"No - you come to me because I'm a healer," she retorted. "Isn't that right, dearie?"

He did not deny it, but his mouth curled. Back in the day, when she had been but a woods witch, Mother Mole had made her living tending to wounds and fevers. She had lost count of all the limbs she had cauterised, the cuts she had bound, or the poultices she had mixed. Mother Mole had once lived in the roots of a tree, and all the surrounding clans had left her alone, in return for her tending to their wounded.

There were many a raider that were only able to grip an axe thanks to her. Or to walk without supports, perhaps . She eyed the Weeper's legs critically. "Does it hurt?" she asked, pointing to his legs. "The bones look twisted."

"Fuck off."

"They might never heal properly, you know that?" she challenged. "But I could set them, aye. I could help a recovery. Better than any of these southrons could, that's for sure."

"Witch, you give nothing for free." The Weeper scowled. But still, he hadn't spat on her, and he wasn't walking away. He was interested. "What do you want?"

"I assume you still have friends, Weeper," she mused. "Old raider comrades, most like. Perhaps you have friends in the dungeons? I hear talk that there are prisoners in this castle."

His bloody eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why?"

"If I cannot go near the king, then he must be drawn to me. I shall hold a ceremony in the godswood tomorrow night." She took another step forward. "And for that I need sacrifices."

"The dungeons?" the Weeper mused, and the old woman nodded. "Aye, that can be arranged."

"Grand. But one other matter…" In a smooth motion, her bony fingers reached for the necklace of white stones around her neck. She yanked at it with a small tut, and then extended her open hand to the Weeper. In her palm rested a single, small white stone. "If you want my healing, then you will wear a white stone."

The warlord looked like he could have strangled her, but then he glanced down at his crutches, and he took the white stone without another word. Mother Mole felt a plan forming.

Winterfell was still filled with unbelievers, and it was her task to make them believe.

Mother Mole spent the night making preparations, gathering her Circle, and sharpening her ritual knives.

By the first of light of the morn, the Circle stood ready. They waited until late eve, as the sun started to droop over the walls, and then lighting great bonfires at the edge of the godswood. The smoke rose into the air, and already the worshippers were starting to flock before the godswood.

It will be a full moon, Mother Mole thought. That was good.

As the first shadows of nightfall stretched across them, she was ready.

The Weeper rounded up a few men with access to the dungeons, but Mother Mole ordered two dozen spearwives with them, to be sure. It had to be done quickly - they must take the prisoners from the dungeons before any managed to object.

Dusk was falling slowly, all while they rang drums and gongs to gather the congregation. The sound rang through the trees, and the godswood flooded with bodies as the sun fell.

Several of the Circle stripped naked and painted themselves white with ash, as they called the sermon to the forest. The acolytes of the Circle dressed all in white, standing before the heart tree. A bulbous white moon lingered behind the clouds, blessing their efforts.

The noise of drumming - savage and primal - filled the air. All around her, Winterfell was stirring.

"Mother, there are kneelers at the gates," a spearwife reported.

"Do not let them stop us," she ordered. "But do not draw blood. There will be no violence tonight."

The kneelers would have little sleep tonight, she expected. The godswood was ringing with noise. The air was beating to the tune of barbaric drums, the sound of cries in the Old Tongue filling the dark, stuffy air. The music of the Gods.

We are the Circle , Mother Mole thought fiercely, staring at it all. Only a mere two years ago, half the free folk here would have sooner fought than mingle.

She found herself lingering by the gates, watching out over the rippling courtyard. For a moment she feared that they might have been unsuccessful, but then she saw a huddle of figures pushing their way through the courtyard.

True to his word, the Weeper provided the guests of honour for the sermon. The warlord was limping on crutches, cursing with every step as his raiders dragged a line of figures behind them. They were all dressed in rags and fetters - mostly men, but with a few women amongst them.

"Stop!" a southron knight shouted, chasing after the Weeper. "Stop! You can't take them, Princess Sansa said that none-"

His voice was cut off, as the Weeper slammed his knuckles into the young man's face. Blood splattered, the knight dropped, and the

raider was already hobbling off on his crutches.

"I will tell the Princess!" he shouted, voice muffled by the blood. "You can't take the prisoners, you can't…"

The Circle's followers were already grabbing the sacrifices, dragging them physically through the woods. They tried to scream, tried to thrash, but they were overwhelmed by the mass of bodies.

Seventeen, Mother Mole counted. Seventeen sacrifices will do.

"Prepare them," she ordered to her acolytes.

The air was crazed. The prisoners were so scared they were white as bone. One prisoner - an aging woman with dark hair - tried to thrash, only for the spearwives to force her to her knees on the carpet of humus before the heart tree. Some tried to plea, some tried to fight, others wept, but their cries were lost in the chorus.

Mother Mole stood upon a log, standing over the hot springs. "These men have been sentenced to die!" she declared to the crowd. "The southrons would give them to a headsmen! But I will give them to the gods!"

The godswood roared. The face of the heart tree was illuminated by a hundred glowing torches.

It did not take long for the kneelers to react. Armoured men were stomping through the trees, moments later, each one bearing the sigil of House Stark. Under their helms, their features were dark and grim.

There were two dozen or so guards, but they were surrounded by spearwives lining the trees. The guards went straight for Mother Mole, standing by the heart tree.

"Stop this, woman," the guard ordered. "These prisoners are not yours to execute."

"Look around you," Mother Mole challenged. "Do you really wish to defy the Gods?"

His eyes flickered to the scores of believers filling the trees, crowding around the hot springs. She saw the twitch. "If you want to bear witness, feel free," a spearwife offered. "But tonight we will pay tribute."

The guards all bore swords, but they would be fools to draw them here. In the godswood, the free folk of the Circle numbered at least a thousand. There were more women than men, but they all clutched spears. The guard paused in doubt, and his courage wavered in the darkness.

"I will alert the princess of this," the captain of the guard warned. " Please," Mother Mole snorted. "Do."

She turned her back, facing the prisoners. Seventeen in total. Nine were old men, three had the look of thugs, two were portly and fat - kneeler lords, perhaps. The other two were women, but Mother Mole knew none of their names. She had simply told the Weeper to take as many as would not be missed.

They were all conspirators, from what Mother Mole understood. They were maesters, conspirators, and Bolton loyalists awaiting judgement. Now, they would be tried by the Gods.

The sacrifices were stripped naked, pale flesh on the grass, and they were shrieking right up until their mouths were gagged. The beat of the drums never ceased.

"Arsi, Heltha," Mother Mole ordered. "Fulfil the ritual. I shall see to the southrons."

The northmen were already mustering outside of the godswood, looking tense and nervous. There were many weapons being readied, but none dared to enter the woods. A line of believers, men

and women both, stood around the perimeter, each with white stones on their chest.

"Mother, the lords approach," a boy called as he rushed to her, while Mother Mole hobbled along the path. "They demand we surrender."

"Allow them through," she ordered. "But no violence, not tonight."

She could see them gathering outside the rustic iron gates, staring down into the path. The shadow of the heart tree was in the distance, the sacrifices were taking position.

Mother Mole did not know their names, but clearly they considered themselves important. She could have snorted. "My lords," Mother Mole greeted, her voice sardonic as she hunched over her staff.

"Surrender the prisoners," a broad-chested man demanded, his thick moustache squirming as he scowled. "These people will disperse."

She snorted. "Is it not a rule of this land? That them who pass judgement should do the deed?" Mother Mole challenged, looking around them. "These prisoners committed crimes against the Gods, and so the Gods will take their lives." The priestess then turned to the free folk, and her voice rose into a screech. "That is law on which this coalition was founded - justice for atrocities. Blood for blood. These men committed grave crimes, and I am ensuring they are properly punished."

The biting edge in her voice caused a few of the kneelers to flicker.

She glared at them in turn, daring any to disagree.

Lowly, a quiet voice spoke up. "What do you hope to achieve?" a man muttered in a wheezy breath.

Mother Mole turned towards the speaker; a lord with a black lizard lion on his chest, barely supporting himself on a cane. One hand was across his chest, the other arm slumped over the cane. He was slight of figure with sickly features, a gaunt face, unkempt stubble,

but sharp bright green eyes. He was staring straight through her, his gaze on the heart tree behind her.

"I serve the Gods. I feel their will," Mother Mole retorted. "If Brandon Stark is what I believe he is, then he'll feel it too."

Behind her, the sacrifice was beginning. The night screamed. A line of spearwives stood against the guards at the gates of the godswood.

The northmen huddled, unsure of what to do. Mother Mole looked between them, searching for weakness. Most averted their gaze, but the sickly lord with green eyes stared straight at her.

Finally, she saw a flash of red hair, of figures striding quickly through the courtyard. Princess Sansa Stark walked briskly towards her, wearing a thick white cloak as her dress trailed over the cobblestones. The princess was young, but her eyes were narrowed and her lips pursed.

By her side, walked a tall and grim man, with his sword drawn. There was a sigil of a black fish upon his chest, and a scowl on his features.

"What is going on here?" the princess demanded, turning her eyes towards the old woman with the staff.

"A pagan ceremony," another man muttered darkly, keeping close to the princess' side. He was a heavyset figure, robed in dark brown hemp robes, with bulldog eyes and curled lips. "This is blood sacrifice. Crude magic, unlearnt."

Mother Mole only tutted.

They stood facing each other - two dozen men against one old woman. Mother Mole's eyes were fixed on the Princess Stark. Every hand hovered around weapons.

"You have no right to execute those men," the princess said finally, her voice loud and clear.

"I serve the Gods, and I serve Jon Snow, my princess," Mother Mole announced. "I mean no harm to you and yours, quite the opposite. It is my duty to show you the way, to serve you like I do your half-brother."

Before the heart tree, Sigrid slit open the stomach of the first sacrifice. Blood gushed into the night.

The princess held herself well, but Mother Mole saw the girl grimace, averting her eyes from the heart tree.

Seventeen sacrifices. The Gods would feast tonight.

"Your Grace, give the word," the man with the black fish muttered darkly. Under his helm, he bore only a single eye, glaring at the followers. "Give the word and we will end this farce."

Farce . She might have spat. The first wave of energy was already swelling outwards, flooding through the trees. She felt it. Mother Mole shivered with its power, and she saw the sickly lord twitch where he stood.

"Can you not see it?" the old woman cackled. "In their death, they cut through the veil. For the cost of their lives - of traitor's lives - they grant the touch of gods."

It was all around her, spinning through the air. Show me, Mother mole begged of the Old Gods. Show them .

By his princess' side, the captain of the guard drew his blade. He huddled close to the princess, as if Mother Mole might leap at her. "This woman is mad."

Mother Mole only chuckled. One of her apprentices quietly handed her a bowl of fresh blood. Mother Mole slowly let the fluid drip over

her forehead, but never looked away from the princess. "Your half-brother could testify to my Gifts, princess. Life is the currency of the Gods." Her gaze turned, looking towards the man in the robes with the bulldog eyes. "Through sacrifice, I can achieve many things, many wonders. I can bring sight to dark night, the blessings of the gods - that of prophecy, and truth. I can see distant shores, I can see into the past, I can see a man's sins. I can heal the wounded, I can promise protection in battle. The Circle offers you much and more."

"But I do not like your price," the sickly lord scowled, audibly wheezing between breaths. The short lord glanced back at the princess, fingers clenching about his cane. " Stop her ."

The man with the sigil of the fish obeyed, pushing forward. The spears of a dozen spearwives snapped to attention, but Mother Mole held them back with a glance. Suddenly, the tall man stepped closer, and the world came into focus around him… "I see your niece, black fish," Mother Mole said suddenly, and the man hesitated. "She was dropped into the water with a hole in her throat and a sickness in her soul. A flame touched her and it burnt her heart black." The man's face flickered, suddenly freezing. All the while the visions swam in his shadow and took form… Mother Mole could see them. "But you saw her again, didn't you? You thought it was a dream, but you saw your niece standing on the banks of the river - you saw her. It was why you lingered in those lands, you were searching for her."

The visions kept coming. The fish-lord's entire history and fate was painted in the shadows before her, Mother Mole could see it all.

The man's eyes widened and his body stopped, teeth seeming to grit beneath his helm. Mother Mole smirked. "You did not dream it, ser. Your niece was walking that night."

Behind her, Astrid cut open another stomach, and the world was spinning in power.

Sansa was looking at the tall knight, and suddenly the girl seemed uncertain. The knight of the black fish seemed perturbed by her

words, caught off-guard. Behind her, all of the Circle had their hands raised, opening themselves up to the power.

"Marwyn," the princess demanded a pause, looking to her retinue. "What are they doing?"

"Blood rituals." The robed man glared at the Mother, as he said the words like a curse.

It was swirling all around her, magic distorting the air. It was flooding outwards, the world soaked in power. Visions were swirling…

"I can see, Princess Stark." Mother Mole extended her hand. "Do you not wish to see too?"

Her mouth tightened. "We are done here."

The soldiers stepped forward, but the old woman raised her staff. Give me more, give me… "And what of your brother?" Mother Molechallenged, and then Sansa stopped. "I see a child, dark haired. Five or six, perhaps? He was thought lost, but he lives still. The Old Gods show him to me."

A troubled frown creased Sansa's face. They were looking at her for orders, but the princess hesitated.

Mother Mole took a deep breath, closing her eyes and trying to make sense of the spinning visions. "I see him, a boy with a beast's heart. He has a black wolf by his side, growing more feral everyday. Your youngest brother is alive and well - he has been taken to a new home, I see him sheltered by a lobster's claw. Your brother forgets, he has settled into a new life, a new family, a new home." Her voice was rambling, struggling to breathe… "I see the boy standing before a heart tree upon a stony mountain, with bloody teeth. He hides in a land of rock." Show me more, show me . "He holds a unicorn horn in his hand, he is staring out over the ocean."

"Your Grace…" the captain of the guard looked to her. "Do not listen to this lunacy."

The princess did not reply. Behind them, another sacrifice dropped before the tree. The woman died clutching her own guts.

Mother Mole met Sansa's eyes. She could see images of her past - dark and stained by tragedy. The princess wanted to - longed to - know more of her family. Show me more .

Behind her, the acolyte slit yet another throat, and let the blood gush outwards.

Show me the Starks. Show me her blood .

"And your sister…" Mother Mole said, and suddenly Sansa froze like a statue. A vague vision flashed before Mother Mole, but this one was harder to make sense of. It was obscured, blurred. The Mother saw a girl with no face, a shadow. "The sister you knew is gone. You mourn her loss, but she cannot remember you. The dark-haired girl faded away slowly, lost in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by unfamiliar people." Mother Mole took a deep breath. "Hers was a slow death, she faded away piece by piece."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're wrong, Arya did not die like that."

"The Old Gods are never wrong," Mother Mole snapped. "I offer wisdom."

"Do not trust the wisdom of prophecy," the sickly lord muttered, a dark look in his eyes. "There is none."

"Then you are a fool." Mother Mole's gaze focused, and she saw something of the lord with the black lizard on his chest. She saw an image of red sands, and a sword of sunlight slicing through flesh, and a woman's dying wail. Ten men fought to the death below as a woman screamed for them to stop… "I can see you too, squire . I see a pact made in starlight, you made a promise in blood. You

never believed it, but you promised anyways, you swore by ice and fire to-"

Enough! " the lord snapped, pushing forward with surprising strength. "Do not let them -"

The night snapped, voices rising….

At the heart tree, another body fell against the roots.

The world was spinning, it was hard to even hold on….

"What's going on?" a high-pitched voice cried over the din, a child's voice. Mother Mole sensed him instantly.

Mother Mole saw Brandon Stark. Finally, she saw him. The boy was being carried on a platter lifted by two men, sitting head and shoulders above the crowd. He was young, with pale auburn hair, and wide eyes and gaunt cheeks.

As soon as their eyes met, she felt the tingle down her spine. There was immense power in the boy, beyond anyone she'd ever seen before. This was no mere Gift. His aura was glowing brighter than all others, like the sun in a sea of candles.

He could feel it too, she knew. He had been drawn by the ceremony

I knew he would be .

The princess' face paled. "Bran, you should not be here."

Mother Mole saw her chance. "I am here to show you the Old Gods, the true gods!" The Mother declared, raising her arms wide. "I am but a channel for them, a servant of higher powers. It is my duty to show them to life. Can you not feel them around you, Your Grace?"

She had been right. The king could feel it too, she could see it on his face. The powers were swirling through the trees - they were so thick in the air that Mother Mole reckoned even the ungifted must be able to sense them.

The wind was hissing, the night stirring…

"My powers are at your command, Your Grace," she offered, lowering her head. "I can find the traitors for you; the Old Gods will reveal to me their sins. My powers are yours. For the glory of the Ice Dragon, for the promise of salvation, I serve. We serve!"

"Salvation!" the crowd behind her intoned. "Salvation!"

Yet another prisoner dropped to the heart tree.

She saw the hesitation, that flicker of doubt. Sansa Stark was glaring at her, sizing the old woman up. Perhaps trying to decide if she were friend or foe.

The robed man was the only one who dared to break the hush. "Do not trust this woman," the fool, Marwyn, warned. He spoke withscorn. "I know her sort - soothsayers and wood witches. Parlour tricks trumped up by the ceremony. She offers naught but false prophecies and folly. She tells you vague whispers that sound like wisdom, but there's no power to any of her acts."

"No power?" The Mother's eyes narrowed, glaring at the robed man. "You remain a fool."

The very last sacrifice, a woman, died before the tree. A swell of power flooded outwards. King Brandon flinched.

So much energy…

Give me strength, she prayed. Let them see…

All around her, she felt the Old Gods replying, she felt them in the wind.

"Say the word and I will kill this hag," a knight muttered to the princess, glaring angrily as he levelled his sword.

Mother Mole shook her head. "You stand before the Gods," she spat. "Do you doubt what is before your very eyes?"

Mother Mole took a deep breath, summoned all the power she could, and willed the magic to life.

Show them, she begged. They must see .

There was much power in the air - both from the godswood and the dragon, she could feel it responding to her prayers.

The old woman pointed towards the tree, and suddenly a gasp spread throughout the crowd.

A thousand breaths inhaled, as the sound of wood creaking broke through the air.

Red leaves rippled in the torchlight, all eyes were fixed upwards.

The witch could have cackled.

The heart tree was moving . Its branches were twisting, the bark itself was rippling. The mouth of the red face contorted, opening its jaws wide. It was churning like a giant thrashing against its chains.

Red leaves scattered from its writhing branches, raining down in the night.

The godswood was frozen, all eyes staring up at the bloody tree churning in the ground. The roots themselves were snaking through the soggy earth, they were grinding beneath their feet. She could feel it rumbling in the ground below.

It was alive.

In an instant, the air went silent. All of that frenzied energy of the mob withered away. They were left staring up at the moving heart tree with bated breaths. How could any object when they see the Gods themselves?

Mother Mole took a deep breath. The act had taken much from her; exhaustion that nearly caused her to drop, but she couldn't fall yet. She felt weak and elated at the same time, but she couldn't fall.

King Brandon was stared from his platter, mouth agape at the sight.

Mother Mole started to walk forward, hobbled straight before him.

"Your Grace," she said and, with a creak of her joints, she lowered herself to her knees.

Slowly, the movements of the white tree started to fade, slowly settling back into position. They were staring at it, and nobody dared to approach. They were looking up at the weirwood as if it might uproot itself at any moment, like it might crawl from the ground.

The crimson face on the heart tree looked like it was grinning. They saw it .

Mother Mole's focus was on the young king, and his reaction. The princess looked to her brother, blinking in shock.

"I've seen something like that before," Bran finally whispered finally, so low she could barely hear him. "There was a… a man, he could control the trees too. He controlled a forest."

"I am but a vessel," the Mother croaked. "The Old Gods merely work through me."

Nobody spoke. One by one, the spearwives and acolytes followed Mother Mole's example, and lowered themselves to their knees.

King Brandon blinked.

"Why are you here?" the princess asked finally.

"I have come to serve, King Brandon Stark. The Circle has come to serve. For the Gods."

The Priestess

The darkness consumed her. It was everywhere; it was twisting around her, burning through her, raging before her eyes. They were swirling through the flickering shadows of her chambers, howling in the whisper of the flames. Smoke writhed over the four-poster bed, sweeping across the bookshelves and the mantlepiece. They were everywhere - shadowy tendrils contracting around her, squeezing the life from her body.

The dragon's-head brazier was burning bright, but the light didn't reach her. She was standing in the middle of an abyss, while the shadows screamed in fury. The Lord of Light had always sheltered her before, but now his light went dark.

She could feel it. She could feel the magic scratching across her skin, burning through her flesh.

The world blurred. She saw it in the dark, rippling like the shimmer on a pool of oil, the black blurring into shape. She couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, couldn't do anything but watch the world burn away…

Suddenly, she was seven years old again. She was a girl with dirty red hair, and heavy iron manacles rattling from her scrawny wrists. Her body was frail and bruised, with old scabs across her neck, hands and ankles from where the metal chafed against skin.

She was starved and skinny, her wide eyes staring numbly around the surreal and unfamiliar place.

The sky was grey. The sky was always grey here - the city stood in an endless dusk beneath the Shadow. Everything was dreary and cold; the waters were foul with ash, and the smog lingered over the harbour at night. In the light of high noon, the waters would glint black, but under the moonlight the river would shimmer green with phosphorus. The buildings around her were all ancient; they were

large and heavy like tombstones, every structure carved from oily black stone.

Only one in ten houses were even occupied, she learnt later. Most were left over from the days of tattered glory. This place was like a mausoleum, a city of the dead. The girl had been crying every single day since they first carried her into that rickety hull filled with chains.

All around her, foreign men in purple robes crowded and heckled, their shouts slurred. They were all unnatural figures with pale skin and bluish teeth, their faces hidden beneath elaborate lacquered masks and cowls. At the time, she never understood what was happening - she just knew she was surrounded by monsters.

Her heart was beating, her blood screaming…

"Melony, Lot Seven!" the auctioneer cried. "Young and beautiful - hailing all the way from the Sunset Kingdoms! Look at her hair! She's good for whatever you want from her, and young enough to learn! Melony, Lot Seven - starting the bid at two hundred cronas!"

Men were screaming. There were tears in her eyes, her body cowering behind the flimsy rags. Grasping fingers poked and groped at her, hungry hands trying to yank off her remaining clothes. The girl tried to run and hide, but then men grabbed the chains and dragged her backwards over the rough cobblestones of the plaza.

The bidding war was all around her. Hooded men were raising their hands eagerly, shouting in a tongue she could barely understand. She was the prize piece of the auction - it was her hair, she had realised later. Red hair was rare in these eastern lands, and every warlock, cultist and shadowbinder wanted her as the prize of their slave collection.

Melony, Lot 7 .

Yet the girl's gaze was drawn towards the man in grey, squatting in the tide of faceless bodies. He was exactly as he appeared in her

nightmares; with black, lecherous eyes and bloated cheeks, running his slimy tongue over purple lips. The sorcerer's gaze was fixated on her, staring straight through her as he outbidded anyone else. She could see it in his eyes, he was determined to have her.

All around her, the world was drumming. The world was mad, swollen with fear. The only words that she could focus on… over and over above the howl of the crowd… " Melony, Lot Seven…"

Melony screamed.

…

In the chamber at Dragonstone, Melisandre could not breathe. The shadows wrapped their tendrils around her throat, all the while the memories flashed in the darkness. The images were as vivid as a nightmare.

They were angry, angrier than she had ever known them. The shadows writhed in fury.

All around her, her childhood flashed before her eyes. They were inflicting onto her the worst torture imaginable - her past.

She was a wreck. They had stripped the glamours away, and lashed the illusion from her. The hissing ruby around her neck was burning her, choking her. The woman could do nothing but crawl on the cold stone and scream silently with pain.

She wanted to howl so loud that she might topple the whole tower down, but their hands clamped at her throat.

She was on her hands and knees, and in the gloom her fingers were that of a rotten corpse. Old, bony and decrepit fingers.

"I'm sorry," Melisandre gasped, her voice a hoarse choke. "I'm sorry, I didn't…"

' Sorry? ' the shadows hissed. ' Our brother is dead! '

' You promised, you promised… ! '

' Melony, Lot Seven… '

"I didn't… I didn't…" She might have wept, but her pupils were bone dry. She needed to take deep breaths, trying to focus herself through the torrent of memories. The vow, remember my vow…

' Melony, Lot Seven… '

' You did this! You betrayed us! '

Deep breaths, struggling to focus through all the pain. "I serve the Lord of Light," the red woman prayed. "I am His servant, I am His vessel. His will be done, His name be hallowed - in His glory we find justice, and in His light we fin-"

Crack. Their tendrils lashed against her back like phantom whips, retracing scars of decades ago. Old wounds were suddenly raw again, searing against her. Melisandre would have yowled, but her throat jammed.

You made a deal! ' the envoys hissed. ' You grant us life, but our brother is gone! GONE! '

She flinched. Melisandre hadn't even known that a servant could die, she hadn't thought such a thing possible. The shadows were the envoys of her god, the will of R'hllor. She had never seen them this angry before, this raw. "It wasn't my fault, I didn't -"

' He perished in his task. he perished for you. '

' You promised him life, you promised, you promised! '

They could not be reasoned with. They were burning around her with rage, screaming in torment for their fallen kin.

An envoy had travelled north, but it had not returned. The Champion of Night must have slain it, but how Melisandre did not. All she knew

was that they were furious.

It had gone north on her wishes, and now its brothers were blaming her.

They wanted to hurt her for failure, they wanted her pain to appease their fury.

The darkness blurred again, another nightmare coming into focus…

' Melony, lot 7… '

…

"Priestess! Priestess, where are you?"

Vaguely, in the distance, she heard the sound of rasping against the hard-wooden door. They were outside her chambers, irritated voices shouting into the barred chamber.

There was another voice, a woman's. "Your Grace, you must not disturb Her Eminence so…"

"Disturb?" the voice said indignantly, as knuckles rasped again. "At this hour? I require the Red Woman by my side."

Suddenly, the shadows seemed to freeze.

There were more footsteps, those of heavy boots marching up and down the corridor. A haggle of bodies was outside of her chambers, demanding her. Melisandre could see the glimmer of light through the crack beneath the door. There was faint sunlight outside.

She hadn't even realised the hour, but apparently it was at least morn.

"Priestess!" the king's voice demanded. "Damnation, what are you doing in there?"

Stannis and the queen were standing outside of her door. They stood in irritation, shouting for her.

Melisandre heard the mutters, like it was breaking through the trance. She didn't know what hour it was, but her absence was already noted. Her chambers were sealed and it was rare for Melisandre to remove herself so. She rarely slept, and usually she was the first to be up and about on a morning.

For her to bar her chamber door was very unusual indeed, and it was all but unheard for Melisandre to refuse the king's summons. Outside, the murmurs seemed perturbed.

They had no idea the scene on the other side of the doorway. The red woman was lying naked and unconcealed on the stone floor, while the shadows stood around her in warning.

A wave of panic flooded through her. They could not come in - not while the shadows roamed, not while she was so exposed. If they opened the door and saw her like this…

Another hand knocked, this time more nervous. "Your Eminence?" the queen called hesitantly. Selyse seemed scared to even disturb the High Priestess. "Your Eminence, are you there…?"

Melisandre couldn't reply, didn't dare to breathe.

In the distance, broken by the mutters, she heard a singsong voice. The fool must be in the corridor too, she could hear his bells chiming gently. "The shadows come to dance, the shadows come to play," Patchface giggled. "Oh I know, I know, I know."

Around her, the darkness shifted. Melisandre stared breathlessly at the outline of the door.

Then, a wispy hand wrapped itself around her throat. It didn't squeeze, but she could feel it against her jugular.

' Tell them to leave, ' the darkness warned.

Melisandre gulped, taking a deep breath to compose herself… "Leave me," Melisandre called, her voice a wheeze. "Leave me, I must meditate."

It was met by silence. Everything froze, as the darkness poised and waited….

She heard Stannis step closer. " Meditate? " His voice was incredulous. "Jon Connington arrives now, I need you now." Clang, clang, clang - his iron hook rasped against the wood. "What are you even doing in there-"

They were stirring, tensing… "Leave me!" Melisandre snapped, her voice breaking. " Leave! "

Outside, King Stannis flustered. The crowd was murmuring. None of them had ever known Melisandre to speak to him such.

Connington, she remembered vaguely. Jon Connington - the Hand of the False King, coming as an emissary for the mummer's dragon. Stannis had been expecting his arrival for weeks. Normally Melisandre would stand at her king's side for such, but now she didn't dare leave her chambers. The Lord of Light was too angry at her.

Please don't come in, she begged desperately. Please, just don't come in . She couldn't allow anyone to see her like this, she would lose everything…

Then, Stannis' hook hacked against the hard oak so hard it chimed. "Sorceress!" the king snapped. "I order you to open this door!"

Melisandre might have wept. She was in near hysterics as the murmurs outside rose to a fever pitch….

"Your Grace, Her Eminence must have her reasons…" Selyse pleaded, but Stannis could not be persuaded.

Heavy boots whacked against stone. "Ser Richard, Ser Rolland!" the king boomed, stepping backwards. "Break the damn door down!"

There were mutters, hesitation. The Godsguard would be standing by his side, but they were slow to obey.

"Your Grace, if the High Priestess needs peace…" came Ser Richard Horpe's hoarse, fearful voice. "Perhaps we should not intrude…"

The knight was scared to even enter her chambers again. He should be .

Outside, the voices blurred as they rose in pitch, Mel could only listen intently. An argument was rising outside her door, broken by the king's firm voice. Stannis was bristling, but the queen's men in his court were loath to defy their priestess.

Please don't, Melisandre begged the Lord of Light. Please don't let them see me like this…

In the backdrop, she heard the jester's nonsensical song, as Patchface skipped obliviously through the argument. "The shadows play, the shadows play," the fool was giggling. "They come to play, they come to stay!"

"I need my High Priestess, she must be by my side…"

"Please, Your Grace, the Lord of Light talks to her… let us not disturb…"

"This Connington…"

All around her, R'hllor's envoys were staring down at her with unseen eyes. They were faceless and formless, invisible in the black. Their voices were the lightest whisper of the candle, their touch was as soft as smoke.

There were more of them than she could even count - they were in every crook and cranny, every corner, every shadow of the grand chamber. They were everywhere.

Outside, the voices were fading. She could practically hear her king grinding his teeth together, while his queen and her supporters urged him to respect the god.

"Damn your nattering," Stannis fumed finally, as his heavy boots finally tapped away. "Have it your own way. I want guards outside of this door - and if she is not out of there by noon, I will be back with a battering ram."

He was walking away. She could have breathed a sigh of relief, but there was also a stab of fear. Melisandre could only listen in hushed breath, but she didn't dare to even open her mouth. They were leaving. They were leaving…

"Bring this Lord Connington to the Painted Chamber," the king's voice ordered, growing fainter and fainter. "Let us see what this fool has to say…"

The king's voice faded over as he turned the corner. The darkness relaxed fractionally, but Melisandre was still trembling. Her heart was beating so fast she couldn't feel it. Despite everything, some part of her had wanted the king to barge through, she had wanted the shadows to leave her alone…

In the broken light under the crack of the door, she could see the silhouette of boots standing outside - two knights of the Godsguard were still standing less than a dozen yards away, on the other side of the barrier. Help me, she begged silently.

There is no helping you now,' the darkness replied. ' You must be punished .'

The lull was over. They were writhing again. ' You belong to us…'

You made a deal .'

Melony, Lot Seven .'

This is your failure .'

The shadows contorted around her. Melisandre might have howled in pain, but her throat couldn't make the slightest motion, shadowy fingers clenching at her neck.

Punishment. This was punishment. The fire would always take as much as it gave.

"I will do better," she begged. "I will birth more sons, I will serve His will. I will perform the Grand Rite, I swear to it."

' You will perform it faster. There will be no mistakes, not again. '

"I swear it," she whispered, lowering her head. Her wispy grey hair scraped over the stones. "I serve for the Glory of R'hllor, I shall do my duty. In His light I find purpose."

The formless figure was staring down at her. It never replied, but she could feel its fingers stroking her skin.

I displeased the Lord of Light, she thought with a gulp. I deserve this .

You do .'

Invisible tendrils lashed against her back.

Her vision went black, her crooked body slumped to the floor.

…

She saw another scene, another memory. The girl was delirious and in chains, starving in the sorcerer's basement. Melony's body was covered in wounds that no person should ever suffer - the sorcerer

had taken her blood, her flesh and her soul for use in his twisted rituals.

She was left wasting away in the dungeon, with only the light of a flickering candle to keep her company.

Then a noxious smog blew in from the Shadow one night, and the candle went out.

The girl was starving. There was no sunlight in the dungeon, there was no food or company. The only thing to drink was the putrid waters of the Ash, as it slowly trickled down from the sewers above. The river through Asshai was slow and black; it had long since overflown from its banks and it now oozed through the streets like treacle, or foul blood.

It was foul water. The Ash was polluted by all sorts of unnatural powers, and in it swam blind and deformed fish. The black waters were not fit for any mortal.

She didn't weep, though. The sorcerer had grown drunk one night, and became tired of her weeping. He had carved out her tear ducts. Blood still dripped from her scabs on her eyes, red tears down a disfigured face.

Melony, Lot Seven .

She would have screamed, but her throat sealed shut. She would die in this dark, she knew.

It had been in the blackness of the shadow when she had felt Lord of Light.

R'hllor came to her in the form of a glimmer of light, a red heart that pulsated with her touch. She had held the wisp in her hands, and suddenly the shadows took form around her. Shapeless, intangible bodies filled her cell.

The child wasn't scared, she had no fear left to give.

'… Melony, Lot Seven… ' that unearthly voice croaked. She would never forget the very first time she heard them, when they first found her.

"Who's there?" the little girl whimpered. "Who's there…?"

She hadn't been able to see it, but she felt its hands on her skin, she felt its whisper in her ear. She didn't resist, she couldn't. ' Melony… Lot Seven… '

"Where are you?" The only thing she could see was black, even despite the red light clamped between her fingers.

Here .'

"Do you have a name?"

Many .'

The child gulped. "What do you want?"

There was a long silence. ' What do you want? '

There was shifting, pulsating in the blackness of the room. The wisp of red light flickered, but it didn't fade.

Slowly, her eyes managed to focus. She saw the outline of a figure before her. A featureless, translucent man on his knees, holding her hand through the chains.

Melony snivelled. "What are you…?" she whispered.

There was a long pause before the voice spoke.

Once I was like you. Once I was lost. Once I was trapped in darkness and weakness. Once I was called Alexys .' Its hands

wrapped around hers, but she could barely feel them. ' But now we offer you the same salvation. Now we serve the light. '

That had been the night that the Red God found her. Rh'hlor's envoys had offered her a deal.

…

She remembered that moment well. The first time they appeared. They had given her the power to escape the sorcerer's chains, and in return she served the Red God. Melisandre couldn't even count - how many decades ago had that been?

The Lord of Light freed her from the sorcerer, and they had granted her the power she so desperately desired. But He gave nothing without cost. She had always known the price.

No salvation without sacrifice. No faith without pain.

I failed Him. I must do better .

Her head was spinning in agony, all the while the shadows clenched tighter and tighter. She could have gagged, could have wept, could have screamed…

and then she saw them. In her delirium, suddenly they came into focus. It was like she was staring through the dark, looking at the shadows more clearly than she ever had seen them before.

They were beautiful lords cloaked in black. Each one was more beautiful than any prince, more noble than a king. They were dressed in flame-red finery under cloaks of black shadow. Their bodies rippled as they moved, swirling through the air. They were His servants, the envoys for her lord.

And then they stopped, and turned. Without warning, Melisandre slumped to the ground, their interest in her instantly vanished.

Something else had caught their attention. As one, the shadows shifted, they turned towards a single direction. They were staring out through the mortal barricades and out over the horizon. They were staring north.

' Is that…? '

There was something different in the wind, something blowing in from the north. The room chilled slightly. Melisandre didn't understand, but she felt the change in the room. The shadows stirred amongst themselves, tensing.

' Do you feel it? ' a shadow whispered. ' I feel them. '

Somewhere in the distance, it felt like a breaking in the world, as though a great lock had given way.

' Is it them? '

' Yes. They are here. The barrier is broken? '

The cold comes for us .'

Author Notes

Sorry about the long delay with this one, but real life has been difficult and it happens. Special thanks to Diablo Snowblind and Herraidous for their help with this chapter.

Chapter 50

Chapter 50

Val

The air of the infirmary was still and lifeless, pungent with the scent of lye and old blood. The only sounds were the faint pattering and thumping of boots outside, and the uneven breaths of a man on death's door as he wheezed out strained words. They lay on opposite sides of the stone room, but she could hear every gasping word.

"I spy with my little eye…" the Greatjon muttered dozily, his eyelids flickering on the edge of sleep, "something beginning with 'k'."

In the opposing bed, Val stared up at the ceiling as she considered the puzzle. Normally she quite enjoyed riddles, but this one was a bitch.

"'Keg'," Val said finally, without even lifting her head from the goose down pillows, stained black with old blood.

The lord shook his head. "No."

"'King'," she offered.

"You see the king here?" The Greatjon harrumphed.

"He might have been carried past the door. Or maybe you're just hallucinating again," Val said with a shrug, and the movement sent a jolt of pain down her spine. The Greatjon only snorted.

It was just the two of them in the infirmary of Winterfell, both of them lying on blackened and bloodstained sheets. It was a chamber reserved for wounded lords and men of status, with only six beds in the room. Val wondered vaguely if all the other wounded men went

elsewhere, in some smaller and more cramped room. Most likely there were others sleeping on the floor while the beds here went to spare. Previously, there had been some fat lord with an arrow in his gut sharing the room, but he had died and they had cleared his body quickly. After that, there had been a Manderly knight who broke his wrist in a spar, but he had recovered and left. The other beds had stayed empty.

Val knew that the Weeper had spent time in the adjoining chamber with some broken bones, but he was already limping about with crutches. Neither Val nor Lord Umber were fit to walk anywhere.

The Greatjon's gut had been sliced open, while the left side of Val's body had been hacked apart. Supposedly, both of them were lucky to be alive, but she sure as hells didn't feel lucky.

There was naught to do but lie in the infirmary, the silence broken only by the occasional guessing game.

"Is it 'crate'?" she said finally, as she lay in bed with eyes half-closed. "That doesn't begin with a k."

"Well how the fuck am I meant to know that?" Val snapped, but without any real irritation. "I can't spell, you know."

Across from her, Lord Umber scoffed. "It was 'knife'."

Val rolled her eyes. "Fuck you and your letters."

The time passed in silence. Neither of them wanted to be here - she didn't choose him, and he didn't choose her. Still, they were trapped in this room, and they had nothing but each other's company.

His voice was a hoarse whisper, and hers was a throaty choke. Each night, she could hear the Greatjon unable to breathe - he would start wheezing for air as he struggled to stay alive. Every night was a strain. Sooner or later, Val imagined that she would have to listen to

him choking to death. She had started to anticipate the moment when he would finally suffocate.

Val was better, fractionally. It felt like she had been through the worst of it and was slowly starting to heal. She was more coherent in the mornings, she was passing out less and less. She was moving on to eat solid foods, even. If not for the fever and the dizziness, she might even have been able to stand.

Those first days after the Battle of the Snows were blanked out from her mind, and the first weeks after that had been a blur of sickness and pain. When she had finally awoken, it had been in an unfamiliar place gripped by chaos, but slowly she was starting to feel whole again.

Feel whole, she repeated silently, adding a quiet scoff.

"Fine. My game, now," Val said eventually, after a long moment's thought. "I am alive without breath, and as cold as death. I am clad in mail but never chinking, and never thirsty but ever drinking. What am I?"

The Greatjon's face twisted into a scowl. "Is that one of those white walkers you keep talking about?"

"Not this time." Val shook her head. "Try again."

There was a long silence as he contemplated. Val had to repeat the riddle twice, but the Greatjon just looked more and more confused. "Oh, bugger this game," the lord groaned, and he sagged backwards into his bed.

Val allowed herself a smirk. Her skin was sweaty and clammy, her fever was burning high, but she had to savour the small victories. "A fish," she said slowly. "The answer was a fish."

"How does that even…?" he muttered, but then he realised the answer and gave a low groan. "Dammit."

She could have laughed, but her throat was choked by a series of hoarse coughs filled with phlegm. A layer of sweat clung to her pale skin, and her once golden hair was turning stiff and grey.

"Alright, easy one this time," Val wheezed, clearing her throat. "I move without legs, I push without arms, I whisper without words and I howl without a mouth. What am I?"

The lord looked baffled. He wasn't good at this game. She let him stew for a while, before finally having mercy. "Wind," she said. "I'm the wind."

"Bugger it." From across the room, the Greatjon rustled in his bed.

He tried to move slightly, and then groaned in pain.

"The princess will be furious if you burst your stitches again," Val warned.

His only reply was a low, angry growl.

There was a certain pattern to the days in the infirmary. Val didn't know how long it had been - she had lost track of time. The servants came in with porridge or stew three times a day, followed usually by one of them puking shortly afterwards. The men outside rotated four times a day, but there was always at least two of them standing guard. That useless dolt of a maester visited once a day, mostly to change bandages. There was very little smalltalk.

Occasionally, after one of his spasms, the Greatjon would beg for milk of the poppy - only to be told each time that they had none.

The washerwomen changed the sheets once every two days, and they emptied the bedpans twice a day. Val, at least, was well enough to use a bucket, but the Greatjon couldn't even pull himself upright without rupturing his stomach. The huge lord of Umber was left to soil his own sheets.

The air stunk of waste, foul blood, and despair. With all the heat, it felt like the stench was cooking.

There were times when it felt like death would be the easier option.

Occasionally, Val wondered why she held on.

"So is this what you do beyond the Wall?" the Greatjon asked finally. "Sit around with these little word games?"

"Well, we never had all those fancy letters like you do. We didn't have big castles to hide in, either," Val retorted softly. "When winter comes and the forests freeze over, we find our own distractions."

She remembered so many cold nights spent clinging to the fire and listening to a hundred tales and stories, playing a thousand little games. As a girl, they had been buried by snows twenty-foot-deep, and they could only huddle together for warmth and dream of spring. They would tell tales, trade lewd jokes or come up with riddles just to pass the frozen nights.

"Like raping and stealing?" Lord Umber's voice was bitter, but Val didn't rise to it.

"Sometimes," she sighed. "Or sometimes we'd just make snowmen."

"Snowmen?"

"Aye. Back when I was a lass, we used to make hundreds of snowmen in winter. Real big snowmen too, we'd build them all around the village." Her voice turned wistful. "We used to use them to scare hungry giants away."

From the other bed, the Greatjon lifted his head and stared at her as if she was japing. "Giants?"

"Oh aye."

"Snow told me that those giants ate fruits and nuts."

"They do. Mostly." Val nodded. "But in winter? They'll eat absolutely anything they can grab."

The Greatjon's head dropped back onto his pillow. He took a deep, strained breath. "How many winters have you seen?" the lord wheezed finally.

Val shrugged. "Eight, I think."

"I've seen thirty . The longest lasted three years. That one damn near killed me."

"I remember that one." She frowned. "Well, I remember folk talking about it. I was just a babe, I think."

"It was bad." His voice was low, his breaths uneven. He muttered the words like a confession. "The hearth froze over, we had no food. That was when my father went out hunting. Left me with my uncles."

"Aye, 'went hunting'," Val repeated, with a sad grimace. "The same happens in the north too. They go hunting and they know they're not coming back."

The Greatjon gave a weak nod. "Long summer means a long winter," he murmured. "Few years back, I started thinking if maybe this would be the winter when I'd go hunting. Oh, I thought about it - walking off and having to leave my boys…"

His voice trailed off into an uneasy silence. There was a long pause, before finally he managed to shiver and focus himself.

"Can't even imagine what winter would be like further north," the lord admitted. "You'd freeze your bloody asses off in the snow."

Val just shrugged a shoulder, hiding her discomfort. She kept her eyes closed. "Well, Snow never seemed to mind my ass."

The Greatjon blinked, and glanced at her. There was a pause, then he chuckled. Then his breaths were wheezes, and he clutched his

bloody bandages as he choked.

They talked occasionally - mumbling in the hush of the ward. They were mostly talking to themselves, just as a means to stay sane. He told her of Last Hearth, and of the north. She told him of life beyond the Wall, of the clans, the hunts and the forests. Occasionally, the Greatjon would mention his sons, but his voice would always fall quiet afterwards. She knew that his sons were dead.

There were long stretches of silence broken only by the occasional murmur.

It was still in the room. Not peaceful, just… fatigued. It was like the bed and the wound had stripped away her strength to move. Val lingered with her eyes closed - not asleep, but on the edge of unconsciousness.

She had been sleeping too much, but she still felt constantly tired.

Sometimes sleep was her only refuge, but other times the waking was the worst. Every time she woke up, she would try to stretch her limbs.

There were times during the day that she never even thought about her arm, but each time she awoke was like seeing the wound for the first time all over again. The sight of the jutted stump still made her feel nauseous, it still made her head spin.

Val took a deep breath, as her fingers traced the scar running down from her shoulder and her breast. She was covered in bandages, but she knew that underneath it all, the wound was vivid red, raw and weeping. In her dreams she saw that cleaver coming down over and over again…

She could still feel her left hand, sometimes. Occasionally as she dreamt she would curl it. Sometimes she would reach for something, and for half a moment she felt her fingertips. Sometimes she could

trick herself. She knew that it wasn't there, and all that remained was an ugly stump at her shoulder.

Val never regretted what she did, not even for a moment. If not for her, Jon would likely be dead or worse. Still, there were times when she did regret surviving it.

Through the shuttered windows, she saw reddish sunlight. Val didn't even know whether it was dusk or dawn - she had lost all sense of time.

"Your turn," she said finally. 'Give a riddle."

The large man was silent for a time. "I know one. Got told it as a child," he muttered. "If you break me, I do not stop working. If you touch me, I may be snared. If you lose me, nothing else matters. What am I?"

Val thought on it for only a moment. "A heart," Val said finally.

He grunted. "Close enough."

Her fingers slowly traced the jagged scar over her breast.

Vaguely, Val looked for Jon. She wondered if he would ever come to her bedside, or visit her in the infirmary. There had been a few other guests - Tormund, old free folk friends, and even Snow's sister had visited her once. Val had talked with Sansa Stark briefly, though the meeting had been stiff. Lord Umber had been visited by plenty of other lords and men she never knew. But Jon himself never came.

Val hadn't even seen him since she woke up.

She could understand why, she knew he was busy. They had told her of the disaster at the Wall, of the massacre in the great hall, and Val knew that Others wouldn't wait. There was a war to fight, and Val wasn't one to pine over a man.

But still, deep down, his absence pained.

Instead, she could only lie in bed and think of riddles. She slept most of the day and lay awake at night. During the hour of the ghost, she occasionally crept out of bed and tried to walk.

Over a fortnight of fever and lethargy had left her muscles numb. Her joints creaked as she walked, and her scar pained. With only a single arm, she could not seem to find her balance. Even a few steps left her woozy and pained.

As she slept, she would dream of falling backwards into the snow, as an icy blade sliced open her heart. Other times, she dreamt of a great stone dragon, buried underground with white roots wrapped around it. Once, she dreamt of an avalanche of snow tumbling down over the world.

The very next morning, she had a visitor. Val half-expected to see the young maester again, but instead she heard the tap-tap of a walking stick against stone. Uneven feet lurched slowly through the doorway.

Val perked upwards, just as a short, wrinkled crone stepped into the chamber.

Lady Val of Whitetree, I hear," the rustic voice grated. "They speak highly of you."

For a heartbeat, Val wanted to throw something. Her phantom fist clenched. "Mother Mole."

"That'll be Mother Reverend to you, dearie." Her voice was sharp, hoarse and throaty. "Prioress, if you feel so inclined. These southerners do like their little titles."

The old woman was so short she could have been a dwarf, and she seemed shorter still as she stood over her weirwood staff. Mother Mole was a wrinkled prune with a mouthful of rotten teeth, with skin as weathered as a willow's bark. The woman reminded Val vaguely

of a rotting tree; the crone was hunch-backed and crooked, wearing hemp robes and a chain of white stones that rattled with every step.

Val's eyes narrowed. The woods witch was followed by two spearwives, each one with a face like old leather. They were all wearing white; white robes, white staffs and white spears, with a necklace of white stones.

"What are you doing here, witch?" Val snapped.

"What I must. They told me to see to you." Narrowed eyes peered down at Val's bandaged shoulder, and the witch tutted. "Now what sort of fool bandaged that?"

There was something about the old woman that sent shivers down her spine. They might call her "priestess" now, but Val remembered when Mother Mole was a mad old crone who lived in a tree. No, this hag is still mad - the only difference is where she lives.

And yet still… "Are you here to heal me?" Val muttered, eying the old woman as Mother Mole creaked closer.

"I cannot bring the arm back," the witch snorted. "But I can cleanse the wound, and ease the flesh. I have poultices that might stop the swelling and herbs that will fade the scar."

"If needed," one of the spearwives said suddenly, "we could sacrifice a goat to your well-being."

Val shrugged, or tried to. "Bring the goat."

Mother Mole stopped by her bedside and didn't move. "How queer," the crone chortled. "The last time we met, you told me to - what was it? Oh yes - ' stay away from me and family, witch '."

Val only glared. The last time I saw you, you were trying to bully me and my sister into converting . Mother Mole had been pressuring

Dalla to take a white stone, and Val feared what might happen if she persisted. Still, now, Val held her tongue.

"Have you changed your mind, dearie?" Mother Mole asked, a slow smile creasing her craggy skin. "Do you now want my aid?"

Her jaw clenched. "Yes."

"I did not hear you."

" Yes," Val growled. "Please, help me."

Mother Mole hobbled closer. "Healing is for the devoted only," she chided. "If you want salvation, you must first embrace the god and the dragon."

Slowly, one of the women placed a smooth white stone by Val's hand. She only glared hatefully.

Across the room, the Greatjon watched without a word.

She knew it was expected, but Val couldn't bring herself to reach for the stone. Mother Mole paused, and then tutted. The sound was like nails over bone. "You did provide pleasure of the flesh to the prophet," the witch mused. "And perhaps he will be grateful if you survive. I suppose concessions could be made."

Bitter twisted hag .

Mother Mole dropped her staff against the wall, and then limped forward to croon over Val's wound. With a click of leathery fingers, she pointed to her followers.

"Hold her down," the woods witch ordered.

The women obeyed, and their hands were rough.

Despite herself, Val couldn't stop the scream of pain as the older woman squeezed her flesh tightly. Gnarly fingers clawed at the

sensitive wound, while they stripped off the wool bandages.

Across the ward, the Greatjon shouted something, but Val couldn't make out the words. The witch ignored his protest.

Mother Mole squeezed her scar so tightly it hurt. The fingers were like claws. "After this," the witch croaked, "I expect to see you in my congregation."

Val could only grit her teeth and close her eyes.

The woman had all the warmth of a torturer. Val felt a mucus-like mixture smeared over the wound, followed by pain as a fine twine stitch pressed through the wound. A thorn-like needle poked and pierced into her. Those gnarly hands were all over Val's shoulder, her torso, her breast.

First, they applied poultices and herbs, before being washed off with warm water and leaves. Then, Mother Mole mixed some foul-smelling gunk - like red and white ooze.

As soon as the substance hit Val's skin, it burnt like poison ivy scraping over the scar. It was pure, burning agony, but heartbeats later it faded away. Val gasped as the pain disappeared, to be replaced by a pleasant tingling sensation over her skin. She could feel a soothing liquid wash over her phantom arm.

The two spearwives held her downwards, while Mother Mole wrapped Val in fresh bandages so tight Val struggled to breathe. "Give it time to settle," Mother Mole ordered. "I shall be back in two days to rinse and repeat."

Val's head was spinning in so much pain she could barely think. Mother Mole then ordered her to drink something from a bowl, but the substance was foul and horrid. With a click of her fingers, the spearwives plied open Val's mouth and forced the mucus down her throat. She gagged, sputtering out greenish substance that tasted like bile.

"What was that?" Val gasped.

"It will help, dearie," the witch chuckled. "But I never claimed that healing was nice ."

They left the white stone by her bed as they walked away. Val wanted to throw it, but she couldn't find the strength.

After she was done with Val, Mother Mole limped towards the Greatjon. "As for you, Lord Umber," the witch croaked, "do you embrace the ice dragon as your saviour and salvation?"

The Greatjon muttered out a curse that Val couldn't hear, but Mother Mole just seemed amused. "You are dying, lord," the witch continued. "You know that you are. Can you feel the bleeding inside your gut, the haemorrhaging in your chest? Your lungs are clogging, and you will rot from the inside out. But I can cleanse the wound, I might save you."

There was no reply but wheezy, unstable breaths. Mother Mole frowned, and one of the spearwives looked to her for confirmation. "Mother?"

"The man is weak," the witch decided, "but perhaps he will make a better decision when he's whole. Hold him down - I shall need warm water and fine twine. And a sharp knife."

The women had to fasten belts around the Greatjon's thick wrists and stamp on them. Mother Mole wielded the slender knife like a butcher.

Val couldn't see, but she heard the squelch as the witch pulled out the stitches. She was cleaning and then refastening the wound with twine. For a large man, the Greatjon suddenly seemed so small. He was screaming in pain.

It looked like there was frighteningly little blood left in the man's body, and the blood that oozed out seemed a darker shade.

They came and went all day, hovering around the Greatjon. At one point, Mother Mole pricked the Greatjon's finger and then dropped a fleck of his blood into her mouth. Then, Mother Mole pricked the finger of one of her followers and tasted her blood, and then again on the second woman. The witch tasted her blood, and then nodded.

Afterwards, to Val's shock, one of the spearwives extended her hand, and Mother Mole reached over and gingerly slit the woman's wrist. A small needle pulled open the cut, and they used what looked like a rabbit's intestine to funnel the blood - transferring the blood from the woman into the Greatjon. After a while, the spearwife looked faint and had to be carried away, with thick bandages held tightly around her wrist.

Val didn't know what was happening, or what sort of unholy sacrifice this was. The lord himself had fallen unconscious. Still, the spearwives rebandaged the Greatjon's wound and removed his sheets. The man was left naked, pale and bloody atop the rough mattress. The raw scar across his stomach made him look like a corpse.

Finally, Mother Mole limped away. "The great war comes, dearie," Mother Mole croaked as she left, "it will be the living against the dead, and the holy against the unholy. You must pick a side."

She didn't not reply. Val noticed that the guards outside had been replaced by spearwives wearing white stones.

Her shoulder was throbbing so painfully she could barely think. She collapsed into a restless sleep.

That night was the most painful she had felt in a while. The poultices on the bandages made the wound feel raw again, and every nerve was screaming in pain. Val didn't know what medicines Mother Mole had forced into her, but it felt like they were burning through her body.

The next morning, Val was woken by yet another spearwife with a white stone, bringing a bowl of soup. "Ice dragon bless you," the woman said, placing the pot next to her.

It was only when she spoke that Val realised she wasn't a spearwife at all. The woman had the accent of a northerner, from south of the Wall. Yet she wore a white stone and twine necklace - a convert.

With eerie realisation, she suddenly saw that the white stones were everywhere.

Val half-expected the Greatjon to be dead after the witch's butchery, but he was still breathing. He seemed weaker though, his breaths even more uncertain.

The following day, Mother Mole returned and sacrificed a goat before the Greatjon's bed. They cut out the beast's heart and nailed it to the wall above him.

The days passed in pain. Despite herself, the fever did begin to break. The phantom pain in her arm didn't fade, but it became easier to breathe through the scar on her breast. The infirmary was still swelteringly hot, but the sweat and the fever faded.

All the while Val started to heal, the Greatjon only seemed to grow worse. He was a big, muscled man, but he looked like he was withering away on the bed. His black beard was shaggy like rope, greying at the edges. Mother Mole visited him thrice, but each time the witch seemed disappointed in the results. Every night, Val was mildly surprised that the man was still alive, but he was clinging onto life like a drowning man to a shipwreck.

By the second day, Val started to walk more often, even despite hobbling with every step.

She needed to escape that torturous bed - she stumbled down the corridors of Winterfell and headed outside.

The sight of the pale, one-armed woman stumbling around drew a few stares. Occasionally, Val would meet some that she had been introduced to in New Castle. Some few knew her as Lady Whitetree, but to most she was the king's wounded paramour. Guards followed her, and she would hear the whispers as she passed.

They told her not to leave the keep, but Val wanted to know what had happened at the Wall - with Jon, Mance and Dalla. It seemed like nobody had answers to share.

Eventually, Val grew restless enough to step out of the gates, and she saw the yards of Winterfell overfilled with refugees.

The grounds were covered in tents so thick it felt like a slum. A carpet of hide tents and bonfires stretched out over the yards, even in the courtyard right outside of the keep. The earth was still warm, but the lightest frosting of snow was starting to creep back across the walls. Val knew of the Winter Town outside the castle, but it seemed like most of these people were cramming to take shelter within the castle's walls instead.

Val saw men and women, northerners and free folk, with gaunt cheeks, carrying everything they owned in the sacks over their shoulders.

A guard tried to urge her to step back inside, but Val had been cooped up for far too long. She heard a commotion by the gates, and she followed. The crowd was so thick that Val struggled to push her way through.

Every time a man bumped into her, she could have howled in pain.

Her raw scar burnt like scolding coals on her skin.

She arrived just as an ox-driven cart rumbled through the gates. It was dragging three limp figures behind it, their bodies sliding over the stones. At first, Val thought they were corpses, but then she saw them move.

The crowd gasped at the sight, mutters rising.

Wights. The cart was dragging wights. Each one was grey-skinned, staring with empty pale eyes. Their legs were wriggling, even while they were dragged across the stones by a rope wrapped around their necks and waists. The ox seemed unnerved with their very presence, all while the crowd gaped and jeered.

The wights had no arms, Val realised. The men must have chopped off the creature's limbs, just to be safe. The captured wights were being paraded through the crowds of Winterfell for all to see.

She watched as they hammered six foot tall wooden stakes into the ground, right at the very front of the gates. Each wight was hoisted upwards by a gaggle of men, and then their chests were dragged over the sharpened spikes - impaling the dead bodies up off the ground. Val heard the crunch of the rib cages as their chests were forced straight through the points. The spikes were lining the roadside, rotten bodies still being mounted. The wights were left to twitch as helplessly as pinned insects, their legs still flailing. Crucified but undying.

All around her, Val heard ringing bells, and voices chanting. "Look upon the creatures of the dead, look at what awaits you!" a woman's cry screamed over the mob. " These are what we face. Only the Dragon may grant salvation, and only the Circle shows the way!"

"Salvation!" the worshippers chanted. "Salvation! Salvation!"

She saw people in the yards sickened by the mere sight of it. The rotten bodies made for horrifying sights - like living scarecrows, slaughtered bodies still kicking. The wights thrashed blindly, but to Val, something in their pale, lifeless eyes seemed lost or confused.

More and more carts were coming south, bringing with them hundreds of pale-eyed wights that had been captured in the battle. Along with them came a tide of refugees from the battles, all hungry and worn.

A free folk raider even dragged two of the wights through the Great Keep itself, so that all of the lords and ladies could stare at them in horror.

Val just watched it all unfold around her.

She still didn't know what happened in the battle at the Wall, but she saw its grim aftermath trek through Winterfell's gates.

A band of cavalry were trotting through the crowds, announcing conscription and calling upon both men and women to enlist. A ragtag militia was forming in the outer yards filled with weak bodies clutching pitchforks and scythes. The castle had announced that all men and women who enlisted would receive double rations, and suddenly there were more in the militia than there were swords or shields.

They looked like they might have press-ganged Val too, even despite the missing arm - if not for a guard recognising her.

She saw white stones everywhere, even on northern knights. The southerners would gape at the undead during the day, and then flock towards the congregation in the godswood at night.

It felt like Winterfell was changing. She could feel it in the air; it was as clear as the unnatural heat that burned from the ground. The people were scared, and everything they had once known was falling apart.

It was all overwhelming. There were dozens, hundreds, crowded around her, shambling and knocking into one another. Val staggered, but then a large woman shoved into her from behind. The pain seared over her wound, and suddenly she lost her footing. Val was tumbling, crashing down to the stones.

A scream broke her throat, but it was like no one even noticed.

They were all pressing forward to see the undead wights, and she was trapped in the middle of the mob.

Val tried to pull herself upwards, but she couldn't manage it with only one hand. The mob around her was like a stampede, threatening to crush her. Bodies jostling into each other, stamping feet everywhere. Val tried to stagger to her knees, but then the flow of the crowd threatened to crush her…

"It's alright, I've got you…" muttered a voice suddenly next to her, and then there was a hand wrapping around her shoulder. In his other hand, the figure held a three-pronged spear, spinning it to force the people backwards. "I've got you."

Val was in too much pain to focus, but she felt the man's grip. He lifted the one-armed woman up off the ground, pushing their way clear.

Val took deep breaths, trying to focus. The man wrapped her one arm over his neck, half-guiding her and half-carrying her back to the keep.

At first, in her delirium, she thought he was one of Winterfell's guards, but then slowly she realised he was dressed differently. Instead of a spear, he held a pronged trident. He was short too; an entire foot shorter than her.

Instead of a grey wolf on his chest, he bore a black frog. His armour was dull grey leathers instead of chainmail.

Val blinked, and suddenly realised that she didn't recognise the corridor they were walking down.

"Where are you taking me?" she muttered. Instinctively, she tried to reach for her weapons, only to realise that she had no blade on her belt. And no hand to grab one with.

The man didn't reply. Val couldn't struggle. He didn't slacken his grip on her as he walked towards a door at the edge of the corridor. With the butt of his trident, he knocked twice.

"Enter," a wheezy voice called, and the short man pulled her through.

"I have the woman, Lord Reed," the man muttered, as Val stumbled through the doorway. Her head was spinning, she couldn't focus…

"Thank you, Edwyle," the wheezy voice replied. "Lady Val, is it?"

Firm hands guided her to a seat, and Val nearly collapsed. She was gasping for air, the pain itching over her joint…

"Deep breaths, my lady," that breathless voice croaked, almost soothingly. "Edwyle, please fetch our guest some water."

She felt a goblet wrapped into her hand, cool liquid dribbling over the brim. Her fingers couldn't hold it, and it dropped out of her grip. Water spilled over her onto the floor and carpet.

Finally, Val managed to refocus herself and take stock of her surroundings.

She was sitting on a cushioned chair, staring across at an old man sitting opposite.

The man's face was pale, his back hunched and his shoulders drooping. He had vivid moss green eyes set above gaunt cheeks - his skin looked discoloured and sickly. He was dressed in the pale leather and fine hides of a lord, and in his hands he cradled a walking stick.

There was a whistling in the room, rising and falling. The sound of his strained breathing, in and out.

"Who are you?" she croaked, tensing.

"At ease, Lady Val, I mean you no harm."

His voice was soft, very soft - so low it was like a whisper, slurred slightly by his wheezes. He didn't have the breath to speak loudly, instead she had to strain to hear.

"Edwyle, you may leave us," he ordered.

"My lord, are you…?"

Please, Edwyle." With a great deal of effort, the sickly lord dragged himself to his feet, supported on his cane. Wheezy breaths followed every movement. "I am much better, thank you. You can wait outside."

The man with the trident left. There was another set of eyes in the room, Val realised suddenly; a figure sitting so still she hadn't even noticed him at first. Her gaze turned to the corner of the room, where a youth - looking around thirteen, fourteen years old - sat on a worn armchair.

The boy looked unwell too. He was not ragged and worn like the old man, but he had bandages around his shoulder. Both the boy and the old man shared a look to them - both with discerningly deep green eyes. Their pupils were the very darkest green she had ever seen.

Val didn't know what was happening. The old man followed her gaze and smiled.

"Lady Val, I believe introductions are in order." He finished tottering upwards, staggering to fetch her another cup of water. "I am Lord Howland Reed, and this is my son, Jojen."

"Pleased to meet you, my lady," the boy said stiffly, in a voice that sounded older than his years.

Val looked between them, staring with confusion. Lord Howland offered her another cup of water, but Val didn't take it.

There was no hostility in his gaze - or at least none that Val could sense - but she was still on edge. She was in pain, and the aggression slipped into her voice.

Who ?"

"Lord Reed," the sickly man repeated, "Lord of Greywater Watch?" If he was looking for recognition, he found none. "Ah, never mind. I am a friend of House Stark."

She scoffed. "That sounds like something an enemy would say."

"Very true," he admitted, with another smile. "But I suppose I can't prove or disprove that, so I'll leave it there. You do not have to sit so stiffly, my lady - I just wish to talk."

You had your man drag me here. There were guards standing outside. She did not trust these southerners. Her pale blue eyes met his dark green, and her lips curled backwards.

"About?"

He paused, taking a sip from the cup himself. "About Jon Snow."

"Why?"

"I would like to know more of him."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why me ?"

"I've spoken to many around here, and they say that you know him best. You were his…" The lord's voice flickered with uncertainty. "… His lover, yes?"

Were'. Is that past tense? she wondered.

She didn't reply, but she glared like an angry cat. The boy - Jojen - he was staring straight at her missing arm, and that put Val on edge.

For a moment, Lord Howland seemed flustered. "Forgive me, this isn't how I wanted to start this discussion," he admitted. "Can I get you a drink? Something to eat?"

"I'm fine." Val's voice was a snap.

His gaze turned towards her stump. She tried to cradle it as she sat, but she could place no pressure on the wound.

"Does it hurt?" Lord Howland asked softly.

"They cut off my fucking arm," she growled. " Of course it bloody hurts ."

Language, please!" Lord Reed protested. "There are children present." He shook his head, but slowly, as though he was tired.

Val's eyes could have bulged. She stared at him as if this were some jape. The pain and confusion of being so out of control put her on edge. Something about Lord Howland's soft wheeze caused her to growl.

The sickly man met her gaze, and then sighed. "Jojen, may you give us a moment?"

"Yes, father," the boy said. He had the voice of a loyal son, and stood up from the armchair. Jojen Reed moved with a wince as he stumbled out of the room.

"I'm leaving too," Val said curtly, nails digging into the chair as she dragged herself up.

"Please, my lady, don't leave."

"You going to have your little man stop me?" she spat.

"I don't want to. But I might." She glared at him. "What would happen if you fell down again, my lady?"

Is that a threat? she wondered.

The man staggered on his cane, and Lord Howland carefully stepped around the table. "Hold on, allow me to show you something…"

There was a cabinet in the corner of the room, made out of old oak like everything else that wasn't stone in the castle. The doors creaked as Lord Howland pulled them open, and then, with a long wheeze, he hoisted up a heavy clay pot.

"Here, consider this a gift," the lord offered, panting. "A token of friendship."

She did not step any closer. The man popped the cork from the pot, and a thick earthy smell wafted out.

"It will help," he explained, despite her silence. "Smear this over the wound and it will help the rawness."

She stepped forward and stared at the clay pot. It was full of brown mucus. " Mud ."

"Mud from Greywater Watch. I brought several containers of the stuff with me." He stepped backwards, and the cabinet was filled with clay pots. "It won't heal anything, but it will ease some of the discomfort. Please…" He motioned at her, as if he expected her to try some.

Val didn't move, her eyes narrowed. Was this a jape?

"It will help," he repeated. "I know how much the scar will chafe."

"You don't know a thing," her voice growled.

"Is that so?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Aye. Don't bother with this whole act." Bloody mud . She stepped backwards. "How many arms have you ever lost, lord?"

"Oh, I think I know what it's like more than most," he retorted. "I'm not unsympathetic, Val."

Without a pause, he unfastened the clasp of his belt, and then his tunic. Val glared, then the man pulled up his tunic, raising it over his torso. She saw pale flesh, a hairless skinny stomach.

And then there was a vivid red scar cutting across his ribs.

The sight caused some of her anger to fade away. The wound was old and faded, the skin knotted together and long sealed, but the redness still lingered.

"You lost an arm. I lost a lung." Lord Howland smiled humourlessly. "The blade that got me broke open half my ribs. I can feel it every time that I breathe. Eighteen years I've suffered with it."

Her gaze flickered. She wasn't sure how to reply.

"Take the mud," he insisted. "It will help, if you have it in you to trust me."

He let out a breath after a momentary silence, then tottered backwards, easing himself down into his seat again. Val quietly inspected the mud.

Moments passed. There was something about the man's tone that seemed to fill the room with silence.

"My wound will never heal," he said finally. "Neither will yours. You will never sleep comfortably again. Tis a cruel thing, but it happens. I've known some men that would rather choose death than debility, and there's been times when I've understood why. I've found ways to live with it, but I will be short of breath until the day I die."

Val didn't speak. Her jaw was clenched, staring down at the mud. It was strange, thick with a reddish, syrupy liquid. It reminded her of blood.

Lord Howland leaned forward on his seat, closer towards her. "Still, let me tell you something that I wish somebody had told me eighteen years ago," he continued. "That scar does not define you.

"I've lived with this half my life, but I still married a beautiful woman and fathered two gorgeous children. Oh, I will never hold a spear again, but it hasn't stopped anything that's truly important. I've had a good life regardless of this scar, and perhaps a longer one than I deserve."

Lord Howland extended his hand, and gently took her hand. Normally Val would have flinched from a stranger's touch, but his bony fingers were gentle and comforting. His grip was ginger - cradling her hand.

"The wounds we take do not decide who we are, my lady," he said softly. "What matters is how we choose to recover from them."

Val's gaze dipped, and her aggression bled away. Lord Howland didn't seem irritated at her, just… patient. Those green orbs were somehow both piercing and soft. He sat over the table, gently holding her hand, waiting for a reply.

"Thank you." she mumbled as she finally pulled her hand away. "For the mud."

He gave a weak smile. "Think nothing of it. Are you sure you don't want a drink?"

"I'm fine."

"Then may I ask a few questions?"

"On Jon Snow?" she muttered.

"Yes."

She shook his head. "I can tell you nothing more than anyone could. There are plenty who can talk about him."

"I do not trust most talk. I've already heard about what he's done, but perhaps you could tell me what he's like," Lord Howland pressed. "Is he kind? Merciful?"

What strange questions . Val had to frown as she thought about them. "He tries to be kind, perhaps," she said finally. "Doesn't always succeed. And he can be plenty merciful until you cross him."

"Until you cross him," the man repeated. "Then is he violent, does he lose his temper? Or does he enjoying hurting people?"

Val frowned. "Jon is one of the best fighters I've ever known. He's not the best, but there ain't many better than him." She nodded. "And he does love a good fight. And, aye, he's got a temper too. But he doesn't enjoy hurting people."

"I see," the lord mused for a while, bright eyes unblinking. "Then is he fair in his judgements? Is he patient? Does he encourage free-thinking or does he enforce only his will?"

Maybe? On occasion? Val wasn't even sure how to answer that. "Sometimes," she said finally. She hesitated. "Jon gets stressed more than anyone else I know. Sometimes I think it tears him up inside."

"Aye, I know the type." He nodded. "What about outside of kingship? How does he treat his servants, how does he talk to the people beneath him?"

Val could only shrug one shoulder. She looked up, feeling perplexment spreading across her face. Lord Howland sounded genuinely invested. "What is your interest in him?"

"I… I am a friend of the family."

"What does that even mean?"

"I was there at Jon's birth," he admitted. "I knew him as a babe."

"Then shouldn't you know more about him than I do?" she challenged. "He grew up in this castle - closer to you than to me."

"The last time I saw him, he was around three, maybe four?" Lord Howland's eyes looked distant for a moment. "I had to stay away from Winterfell for most of his childhood, and travelling is difficult for me," he explained. "That doesn't mean I stopped thinking about him, though. I've always wondered about the man that Jon Snow would grow to become."

There was a pause. The lord cradled his chin in his hands, and took a deep breath. "But not even I ever imagined him as King-beyond-the-Wall, let alone riding an ice dragon." He sighed. "It is a funny old world, isn't it?"

That was one way to phrase, Val supposed. "Guess so."

Lord Howland coughed, clearing his throat. "Mostly, though…" he mused. "I'm wondering why . Why did Jon abandon his vows, why did he choose to become King-beyond-the-Wall?"

"What do you mean?"

"Surely another option would have been to bring the dragon to the Night's Watch, not to the free folk? He didn't need to stay north at all." Lord Howland scratched his whiskers. "So why did he? Was it for power, ambition, love…?"

She hesitated. The memory of those days north still haunted her - the days when the cold had stalked in the darkness and Mance's host had been left scattered in the forest. Val and her sister might

well have died at Whitetree, if it hadn't been for the refuge at Hardhome.

"He did it because there were people who needed him to," she said finally, with a shake of her head. "We - the free folk, me, my sister, her babe - we probably would have all died if he hadn't. But he never enjoyed being king."

Lord Reed just nodded, his eyes thoughtful.

It was the start of a long talk. There was something in the lord's demeanor that encouraged her to speak more, and Howland was a good listener. She told him about the first time she met Jon - all the way back in Mance's tent - and afterwards when he had reappeared with white hair and a dragon. She told him of the uniting of the free folk, about the exodus south, about the campaign in the north from the Wall. For most of it, the lord sat and listened intently.

Val asked questions of her own too. Lord Howland could share more details of the events to the north. He told her that Jon had survived the assault on the Wall and that the dragon had been victorious, but Mance Rayder had fallen in battle. There was no news of Dalla in any of their reports, but Howland promised to secure word of her sister. Val just nodded.

Mance… she wasn't surprised. He had never been one to run.

As dusk fell, Lord Howland had her escorted back to the infirmary. He also offered to arrange a private room for her in the castle, but she refused.

Val limped back to her sickbed. She was so weary from her talk that she fell asleep before she hit the pillows.

She dreamt of a battle to the north, but in her mind they were fighting water instead of men. The Wall was creaking like a dam fit to burst, with punctures piercing through the ice and great torrents of black water flooding out over the land…

When she awoke, she realised that they had left a jar of mud by her bedside. She drifted for a time, half-lucid, dreaming of braiding her sister's hair with two good hands.

As morn drifted over her, she found herself listening to the Greatjon's phlegmy snores, thinking of the strange conversation of the day before. She kept on replaying the questions that Howland had asked, trying to understand what his interest. The broken lord's curiosity with Jon had not seemed hostile, and yet his questions had not felt normal.

The sound of Lord Umber's breaths reminded her of Lord Reed's gentle wheeze, but they were hoarse and rougher.

It was hours before the Greatjon woke, well into the early noon. For him, waking was not pleasant, Val suspected that he had soiled himself in his sleep again. The lord was still too weak to stand. He was barely strong enough to breathe - to move him would have killed him.

On the morn, either Mother Mole or one of her acolytes would visit, followed by a haggle of worshippers to change bandages or serve stew. Today, it was three women. As they worked, they would always chatter about the dragon and the faith. The women spoke with glossy gazes and hushed breaths, whispering of salvation and prophecy.

They even spoke proudly of King Brandon - the young boy chosen and blessed to lead them.

Once, Val knew that many had been upset with Snow kneeling to a boy, but then the miracle at Winterfell happened. That had caused plenty to change their opinions of the crippled king.

Most of the time, Val sat quietly and listened to the chatter. Something in their voices made her feel like it was dangerous to object.

"What of the Old Gods?" Val asked a woman finally, more from curiosity. "Do you still pray to them?"

"But of course." She even seemed shocked by the very suggestion otherwise. "But the ice dragon is an Old God. It is a god given flesh, a sign of deliverance. The Mother says that the weirwoods heard our prayers and sent forth a dragon to save us all."

From his bed, the Greatjon made a noise. "What does that make the other dragons, then?" the lord asked in a quiet wheeze. "There have been dragons in the past. None from north of the Wall, aye, but plenty of the fire-breathing sort in the south. Most of them never looked kindly on heart trees. Were those gods too?"

"Evil ones." The woman shrugged. "There are plenty of gods. I know naught of these other dragons, but I know our God Sonagon was sent to save us." The washerwoman's voice was certain. "It was foretold."

The Greatjon only scowled, causing another woman to glare at him. "The dragon rescued us. His coming marks the end of days - you've seen it yourself," she chided. "The proof of his miracle is all around you, how can you doubt?"

The lord chose not to reply, or perhaps he was too weak to argue. The women kept on jabbering, talking more and more of the dragon and its prophet. Some said that the battle at the Wall had been a victory, and others muttered it had been a devastating loss. They whispered that Prince Snow had singlehandedly defeated legions of dead at the Wall, that he had fought the Other's king to a standstill in a duel. They said that dragon's breath had repaired the Wall and raised it to a hundred feet higher. They also said that King Brandon would be coronated soon, and that Mother Mole would be the one to crown him in the name of the Dragon.

Val knew that at least the last one was false. No doubt Mother Mole would want to be the one to crown the king, but the lords of the north

would likely revolt at such a sight. Instead, it would likely be the boy's sister, the princess, to place the crown on his little head.

Nevertheless, Mother Mole would be standing nearby, Val did not doubt. The force of the Circle was quickly becoming too strong to disregard.

She had never met the child, but she felt sorry for the young King Bran, sometimes. Val had watched the kingship wear away Jon down to the bone, she had seen how gaunt and stressed it made him. Regent or not, a crown felt like a cruel thing to place upon a boy.

The spearwives left after changing their bedpans. The room was left in silence for a long time, as dusk drooped over the castle outside and inside the room.

In the infirmary, the only sound was the Greatjon's wheezy gasps.

"Long live the king," she whispered grimly to the empty air. Val wondered where Snow was now.

The Greatjon only took a shallow breath. "Damn this all to hell." "Problem?" she muttered.

"Where do I even begin?" He tried to pull himself upwards, but he couldn't meet her eyes. "Do you believe that talk of gods and dragons?"

She hesitated. "They believe it. But if you're going to pray to something, I suppose a dragon is as good as anything."

He made a scoffing noise. "They say this will be the Long Night. The Long Night . I didn't believe it, but we got dragons and demons, deadmen and living shadows. If they say that's a god, how can I object?"

Val paused. "If it is a god," she decided, "it's a shit one."

"Maybe all the gods are shit. Gods damn them all, how am I meant to…?" His voice was a broken murmur. "I ain't strong enough for this shit."

"You got your gut slashed wide open and you're still breathing. You ain't weak."

"I'm old." His voice was barely even audible between his breaths. "Not enough strength left in me, these bones can't fight another war. Not another winter."

It was strange to hear the Greatjon sound so tired, so small. His tone made Val feel uncomfortable. "You ain't that old."

"I ain't that young. Fuck it… I saw that… that thing, and I could do nothing." He sounded pained. "It cut right through me, right through my friends… and I can't…"

His voice trailed off, the pants only growing deeper. The Lord of Last Hearth was lying breathless in his bed, staring up at the greying pig's heart nailed to the wall. "I can't handle this… this magic, I just can't…"

He sounded lost. Lost, wounded and weak, all of that boisterous strength had bled away with his guts. It was easy to be strong, but harder to stay strong after weeks of wasting away…

"I know," Val muttered. She didn't even know if he heard her, but there was nothing else to say.

"There are days when I wonder why," he uttered the words like a confession. "Why even fight, why even…?"

Why even stay alive, Val knew. Why bother fighting the pain, when it will only cause more pain. She let the words slip away unspoken into the gloom.

Silence reigned in the dark room.

"Do what I do. Think of the people who are still relying on me," Val whispered. "I think of my people, my family, my sister."

"And who's that then?" the Greatjon wheezed. "My family are dead. I've outlived two wives and six children. There are days when I wish I had died at the Twins, I didn't even want…"

There was a strained sniffle between the gasps of air. Val couldn't see in the dark, but she suspected that the Greatjon was crying. He didn't seem like a warrior anymore, he was just a large, broken man weeping through choked breaths in his bed.

Strangely, she wondered about Jon. She wondered if he ever cried when no one was looking.

"What were their names?" she muttered.

"My wives… Shella… Rose…" He slurred the words, broken by rough breaths. "My boys… Jon… Steffon, Kol… Mikael…" His throat froze, like he could barely even speak the words. The only thing that came out were hoarse gasps.

He is dying, Val thought. Worse, it felt like the man had resigned himself to die. Suddenly, Val's voice turned harsh. "Would they want you to die like this?"

There was no reply from the dark.

"Dying is a craven's choice, Lord Umber," Val said lowly. "If you love them, then stay alive and remember them."

The air went still. It was the hour of the eel, as time slowly dripped away. The room was pitch black and uneasily silent, but she knew he wasn't sleeping.

Instead, the only thing she heard were his strained, staggered breaths. She counted the breaths, each one threatening to gag and seal his throat.

"Here's a riddle for you," Val said finally. "Every morn I shall appear at your feet, every day I will follow you no matter how fast you run, and every dusk I will almost perish. What am I?"

There was long silence, and Val counted the breaths.

"A shadow," he said finally.

"Aye, I knew you'd get one eventually, old man. Next one - the seas stand dry, the rivers do not run, these towns have no people, and these forests are still. Where are we?"

There was a pause. "Beyond the Wall."

"Nope. Try again."

She heard his gasp. "The Dothraki Sea."

"I don't even know where that is. Try again."

He did not reply. Val counted to fifty, and then her voice chided. "Come on, old man. You haven't answered the riddle yet. Where are we? "

The Greatjon made an indignant sound. He tried to shake her off, but Val kept on pressing for an answer. He growled in frustration, but Val just raised her voice and repeated the riddle. "We're on a map," he managed finally.

"Aye, that's right." She winced as she straightened up in her bed. "Come on now, I have more riddles."

They sat awake all night, from the hour of the eel to the hour of the nightingale. Every time Val heard his breaths growing hoarse, she demanded another riddle from him. She did whatever she could to distract him from the soul-crushing hopelessness all around him.

The Greatjon didn't die that night. She forced him to stay awake, to keep on talking, to keep on breathing just a bit longer. Whatever it

took to survive one more night.

When morn came, he seemed to ease fractionally. The servants brought a great jug of water for him to gulp down, and when dawn came they both seemed to pretend the night before had never happened. The lord of Umber managed to move, barely.

She brought over the jar of mud, for his wound. Mother Mole's foul ointments hadn't worked, but perhaps Lord Reed's precious mud would serve better.

"You should try to stand up," she offered. "It does no good to lie on your back. Try to stand."

"Fuck, I can't…"

"Then move your arms." Val winced as she staggered off to her own bed. "Move your legs. Just try to build up your strength."

Bloodshot eyes glared in anger at her, while Val limped over to his side. For a moment, it seemed like there was something he wanted to say, but then his mouth clenched. Val scoffed, and slapped him on the shoulder so hard that he groaned.

"Come on," she ordered. "You've survived this long. You'd be a bloody fool if you die now."

The man grimaced, but he didn't object as she settled down next to his bed. There was more silence, as Val rested her back against the wall and looked at him expectantly. The lord grit his teeth and stared stubbornly up at the ceiling.

"… I spy with my little eye," the Greatjon murmured finally, through a pained grimace as he started to flex his legs, "something beginning with 'b'."

Val rolled her eyes, but she smirked too.

They sat together for a long time. Most of it was spent in quiet, but it was a comfortable quiet. They shared riddles together - even the infuriating ones where the letters sounded nothing like the words. Gradually, the lord's breaths became fuller, a little bit more even and a bit less strained.

Val closed her eyes and rested her head back against the stone wall.

Absentmindedly, she flexed her phantom arm.

On the bed, the Greatjon seemed to reach a decision. He had spent a while with his eyes closed, the occasional flicker back to her. When he finally spoke, his voice was strangely low. "You said that you had a sister," he said. "Before, you mentioned a sister."

"Aye." Val nodded, faintly. "Dalla."

It had been several months since she had last seen Dalla, or her nephew. Dalla was now a widow, her son fatherless. The thought pained.

"Older or younger?"

"Three years younger." Val paused. "Well, roughly."

The man paused for a time. A frown creased his pale face. "You're not sure how old?"

"Nope. My father never kept count."

"And what about your mother?"

She just shook her head. "A woman, likely older."

"You never knew her?"

There was something in his voice she didn't recognise. At once, Val's voice turned sharp. "Is this an interrogation?"

"Just answer the bloody question," he growled.

She rolled her eyes. "No, I never knew my mother," she said with a snort. "My pa would go through a woman a week. He went raiding once, got a lass and brought back me and Dalla."

The Greatjon frowned. Val turned to glance at him. "My pa was the strongest chieftain around in his time," she explained. "He was a named man - all the other clans knew of him, even the crows up in their nests. Oh, me and Dalla likely weren't his only children, but we're the only ones he decided to keep. I never much knew my father - he died to a Thenn's axe back when I had pimples. What's it to you?"

At that, he went silent. The man seemed to be contemplating something, but Val couldn't even read his expression.

"Do you remember your mother's name?" he said finally. "Or what she looked like?"

Val snorted. "No, of course not. I was a babe."

She saw his eyes flickering. He didn't speak, but she caught his gaze inspecting her through the corner of his eye. The man seemed strangely nervous, and for whatever reason it unnerved her and she looked away.

There was a long hush that felt almost expectant. Curiously, Val noted that his breaths had turned silent.

Eventually, Val turned back to him with a frown. "Your turn, old man."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why are you so interested in my family?"

The Greatjon never replied.

Jon

The wind roared in his ears as he looked down on the white world from the dragon's back.

He was flying east, tracing the solid white line of the Wall over the arc of the horizon. The white land below blurred with every swoosh of Sonagon's wings, and fine icy clouds traced the tips of the dragon's wings. The dragon's world was a tapestry of shades of blue, with the rare speckles of orange or red where men or game were walking the land below.

Sonagon loved to fly - the dragon seemed incandescent with the joy of flight, inhuman emotions roiling at the edge of his mind. He felt the dragon's joy, exhilaration, fury. Sonagon felt like an ocean in a storm, it was all Jon could do not to lose himself. The dragon felt like it was compensating for the weeks spent grounded, pushing its monumentally powerful body as hard as it would go and revelling in the feeling.

Sonagon somehow felt stronger than ever before, the connection was so strong now that if Jon hadn't been so accustomed to the feel of the dragon's mind, he didn't know what might have happened.

As far east as the horizon went, Jon could see signs of yet more battles along the Wall, all illuminated by the morning sun. The castles-along-the-Wall were all blanketed white under drifts of snow, but smoking with remnant fires or strewn with corpses and wreckage. Woodswatch looked like it had half-collapsed, and Sable Hall had somehow ignited, with little left but cinders and a forlorn-looking field of tents outside the ruins.

At Jon's urging, Sonagon flew over it all.

Sonagon had come to him with no saddle, so Jon could only fasten himself to the dragon's horn and hold on for dear life. The wind swept around him, bitingly cold even through layers on layers of furs.

In the distance, the horizon curved around the Wall. Even through the dragon's sight, he had to squint to see through the clouds, but he could make out the outline of the mountains of Skagos. He could smell the ocean, the salt wafting on the wind, along with the pang of something foul.

Eastwatch lay in the distance, and stink of death was thick in the air. The dragon was uneasy with the smell, and Jon urged Sonagon to fly high and safe through the cold clouds. Even if there were no heavy catapults atop the Wall, Jon took care to stay out of range.

Jon wasn't quite sure what he was expecting - a horde of wights, perhaps, or perhaps a trap set by the Others. In his worst fears, he imagined seeing a second Breach through the Wall at Eastwatch. He could take no chances.

The scouts he had sent from Castle Black had not returned yet, but he could not wait for them. Jon had little idea what awaited them at Eastwatch, but he needed to find dragon soared slow and steady, nostrils sniffing the howling wind for anything that seemed out of place.

Still, the Wall was standing strong. Jon could see the Wall's edge as it broke into the water, and the castle of Eastwatch squatting unevenly on the cliff's edge. As the dragon flew, the black water of the Bay of Seals came into sight, and upon its shores the sprawling landscape of the refugee camp by the Wall.

Sonagon descended, and suddenly Jon gasped as a familiar presence shot into focus.

Instantly, Jon felt paws rushing over snow, he felt thick white fur wrapped around him. His breath was hoarse against the cold, the world shaded in scents, smells and faded colours. He had eyes on the ground, staring up at the Wall. Jon breathed a sigh of relief, and he knew instantly that it was safe.

Sonagon roared, and flapped downwards to the shadow of the Wall.

From the ground, he heard a howl echoing against the Wall.

There had been many battles here, Jon knew, but the fighting had ceased.

The last time Jon visited Eastwatch had been months ago - back when he had arrived along with the Manderly's galleys, bringing hulls filled with supplies for the free folk. Then, Eastwatch had been an overcrowded camp flooding out from a fishing village, and the castle had seemed alive with excitement. A trail of refugees had been making their way south, and the future had seemed bright with promise. There had been a celebration then upon Jon's return, but Jon had crept away from the festivities towards Val's tent. They had made love that night, stealing kisses until morn hidden away from the world… He remembered her touch, her laugh, her breath…

The very memory caused him to tremble. That felt like a lifetime ago.

Now, Eastwatch looked dark and dreary under the shadow of the Wall. The first thing Jon saw was the sprawling settlement; the refugee camp at Eastwatch had tripled in size since the last he had visited. From high in the air it looked as large as any town, but as Sonagon descended it seemed more like a slum buried in the snow. Where once it had been only cloth and hide tents, now there were sheds and huts built onto the grounds outside the castle. Makeshifts docks had expanded out over the coast; the bay was filled with all sizes of rafts, barges and ships.

In the black ocean, icebergs floated in the straits of Skagos, while the coast was blanketed in frost and shadows. To the north, half the sea looked like it had been frozen solid, but the turbulent waves still crashed against the rocks of the Bay of Seals. Still, Sonagon could sense the stink of smoke and death lingering in the air.

The dragon circled the castle first, and then out beyond the Wall, and circled then over the bay towards the shadow of Skagos. He was cautious as he slowly descended. There was no signs of the Others, and yet there were no ships in the water. Every fishing vessel was docked, and the gates at Eastwatch were sealed, he noted. There was no movement in the north - the refugee trail from Hardhome to Eastwatch looked dead. The roadhouses and beacons leading towards Hardhome had been abandoned.

By the time Sonagon finally landed in the castle's courtyard there was already a crowd of refugees waiting for him. The men and women were staring up at the sky and chanting in awe. Sonagon had to roar and swipe its tail to clear the yard of people.

As soon as Jon touched solid ground, he felt a bounding shape rushing towards him. Despite everything, a grin split his features - the first time he had smiled in over a week.

The white direwolf showed no hesitation in running towards the dragon. Ghost felt elated to see him again, the direwolf was panting and barking. Ghost rushed to Jon like a puppy, nuzzling his palm with his nose, while Jon's hand brushed through the wolf's mane. The wolf was so excited he nearly took Jon off his feet, and his coarse tongue lapped at Jon's cheek. Jon could have gasped - being reunited with the direwolf again felt like finding a part of himself.

Ghost was larger than ever, as large as a pony. The white direwolf was whining in eagerness at seeing Jon again, almost like the puppy he had once been. I should not have sent Ghost away, he thought with a pang of regret. He should have kept his friend close.

All around him, the crowd gaped and murmured as Jon hugged his direwolf tightly.

But why is Ghost in Eastwatch? He had entrusted his direwolf to three of his Dragonguard, all of them coursed for Skagos. Through their connection, Jon could tell that no harm had come to his direwolf, but they hadn't found Rickon and he knew little of the progress they made. Poor progress, obviously.

All around him, the yard was filling with even more people. Wide-eyed refugees kept creeping out of the castle, and their eyes were as much on him as they were on the dragon. Murmurs were rising in the air. Sonagon stirred, nostrils sniffing.

"Who is in command here?" Jon demanded to the crowd, still clutching Ghost's fur. Nobody stepped forward.

"That would be me, I suppose," a woman's voice said eventually, moving out of the huddle. "Well met, King Snow. They call me Torvi Icetooth."

The name was unfamiliar, but Jon had long since stopped being able to keep track of all the commanders in the coalition. Still, as soon as he looked towards her, he felt his skin crawl. Sonagon recoiled suddenly, a dark growl emerging from its huge throat. She is a skinchanger, Jon knew. He could tell instinctively.

"And you are?"

Torvi," she drawled. She showed no fear at the dragon's growl. "Daughter of Porunn, sister to Jawi, and priestess of the Circle."

Torvi Icetooth was a short and pale-skinned woman. At first glance, she looked stout and heavy, but she was wearing several layers of furs. Her eyes were a hollow grey, and her lips were tight and thin.

Jon couldn't even tell her age; her features were timeless, she might have seen anywhere between thirty or fifty namedays.

"Indeed." Jon glanced around, searching for a familiar face. He found none. "Where is Cotter Pyke, Halleck, Gurn, or the Admiral of Seals?"

"Dead, dead, dead and turned craven," she replied simply. "That leaves me in command."

There wasn't even a hint of care. There was no warmth in her gaze, just an emptiness like that of a dead ocean. Her posture instinctively put Jon on edge.

Still, with a mental push, Jon held Sonagon back slightly, and walked towards the woman. All around, people were gaping at him. These people are scared . The stink of hunger and desperation filled the air.

"What happened here?" he demanded.

Torvi just shook her head fractionally, and motioned for him to follow. "The dead happened. You come too late, King Snow."

After a pause, Jon followed. With a mental urging, Ghost walked loyally by Jon's side. With one hand, Jon clutched a spear as a walking stick, and with the other hand he held onto the direwolf for support. The free folk shuffled around him hesitantly, and all heads bowed as he limped passed.

Jon still saw a weirwood carving of a white dragon, sitting in a shrine at the edge of Eastwatch's walls. Everything else in the castle was falling into disrepair, but the shrine had been kept immaculate.

From the ground, Jon suddenly noticed the shapes in the water. Misshapen lumps of wood were bumping off the docks and the frozen coast. The flotsam of a hundred shipwrecks was still bobbing between the crests of the waves.

There was a fine layer of ice creeping over the water, crackling against the waves.

The attack came from the sea, Torvi told him as they walked towards the castle's harbour. The white walkers apparently never even tried to attack the Wall itself, but instead had targeted the refugee ships and the fishing vessels across the northern waters nigh-simultaneously. The attack stretched from Eastwatch to the shores off the isle of Skane to the northern coasts of Skagos, all the way to Hardhome. The Admiral of Seals lost many ships north of the Wall, their remaining forces had scattered to the four winds, and the dead were uncountable. They were targeting the refugees, Jon thought grimly.

"Attacked?" Jon asked. "Attacked how?"

"Dead things in the water," Torvi replied, without any hint of emotion.

The woman's eyes were empty.

She took him towards the docks, and he saw what was left of the Eastwatch fleet. Even the surviving ships looked torn half-apart. Torn apart from below, he noticed. Their hulls had been ripped open, leaving most of the ships as scrap.

"They came from the depths and gave no warning," she explained. "Our ships were sailing from Eastwatch to Skane, and then we were ambushed by stoneborn longships on the water. There was a battle between men off the coast, the Admiral of Seals mustered the fleet to defend. And then the dead ambushed both us and stoneborn together from below. Not even one in ten survived."

She kept her voice low, but the way she described it… "You were there?" Jon asked.

"Through my partner." Torvi Icetooth nodded. "My sister swam through the battle, while I raised the signal to pull back."

Jon was about to ask what she meant, when suddenly he saw movement in the waters off the harbour. A white fin emerged from the water, and the crest of a huge white creature cutting the waves. Jon's eyes widened, but the woman just nodded faintly. "My sister," she explained.

She is a skinchanger, he thought, and her second skin is a shark . The huge ice shark was circling through the shallows of the castle, at least fifteen feet long from nose to tail.

"And Hardhome?" Jon asked.

"Hardhome is lost, Snow." For all the passion in her voice, she could have been talking about the weather. "They completely destroyed our defences. Anybody who remained there has been slaughtered."

Jon stared out over the waves, at shadow of Skagos on the horizon. The Bay of Seals had never seemed so cold. "How many?"

"We evacuated most. But not all."

We always knew that Hardhome would be the first to fall, Jon thought. The garrison on the peninsula had been too isolated, too far from the Wall to be defended. Still, its loss left a bitter taste in his mouth.

There were more answers he needed, but then suddenly he heard footsteps crunching over the frost and pushing through the following of refugees. Ghost reacted first; the wolf's ears twitched at the movement.

"Snow!" a voice cried suddenly, and there were men running towards him. "Snow! Thank the gods you're finally here."

There were three figures, and two of them bore a pattern of white stones on their surcoats shaped into a dragon. Jon blinked as he recognised the two - they were from his Dragonguard; Eryn Whaletooth and Dark Gerrick. Jon's eyes widened slightly in surprise, but perhaps he shouldn't have been. So this is how Ghost came to Eastwatch .

It felt like a lifetime ago that he had sent Eryn, Gerrick and Bullden Horn north to search out Rickon.

The two men were tall and weary figures, and they walked with a dark-haired boy Jon didn't recognise. Their chainmail clanked with every step . Besides Grenn, these are the last remaining members of my Dragonguard, Jon realised. Everybody else in his newfoundorder had perished at the Battle of the Snows or at Castle Black. Toregg had been killed by the shadow at Winterfell, and Ser Alek had resigned and returned to White Harbour not long after the confrontation with the Weeper.

He inspected them; both young and lean men, but their eyes were shadowed and they looked weary. Eryn was panting for breath after running so fast to meet him. Jon extended a gloved hand.

"Eryn," Jon greeted. "Gerrick."

Suddenly, Ghost bounded up from Jon's side, rushing to meet the dark-haired youth next to the men. The boy grinned brightly, eagerly rubbing Ghost's neck like an old friend. For a moment, Jon looked shocked; he had never known Ghost to be so friendly with anyone but him.

Eryn noticed Jon's expression. "Aye, we've been looking after your dog for you."

"Who are you?" Jon demanded of the youth, but the boy gave no reply. Jon frowned, but the boy kept on playing with the wolf, fearlessly teasing Ghost with a chunk of dried meat. The direwolf snapped it straight out of his fingers.

"That's Wex. The boy ain't a talker, yet the wolf seems to like him," Gerrick grunted. Dark Gerrick bore a deep, fresh scar on his cheek that Jon couldn't remember. It looked like both men had seen battles. "Run along now, lad, we need to talk to Snow."

Jon limped forward. Eryn shook his hand tightly, but Gerrick didn't. "My brother?" Jon demanded, lowering his voice somewhat. "Did you find him?"

"No." Eryn shook his head. "But we do know where he is."

Jon looked between them, measuring their gazes. Neither man seemed successful in their task, that was true. Jon paused, eyes searching for the third man. "Where is Bullden Horn?"

"Dead," Gerrick scoffed. "He died months ago. Damn stupid death too; we passed through a village filled with hicks that chose to object to the white dragon we wore. We fought them off, aye, but then some farmer's boy slit Bullden's throat and stole his horn. Bastard bled out before we could do a damn thing.

"I see." Jon looked between them, then noted the quiet boy that had walked with them. Eryn averted his eyes uncomfortably, but Gerrick

met his gaze. "It's been months," Jon said lowly. "I expected you to make better progress."

"Yes, well, we lost the one guy who actually knew the lay of land on Skagos," he said foully. "After that, me and Eryn had to stumble around ourselves, with no idea what we were getting ourselves into." He shook his head. "And this place is a fucking warzone - you have any idea how hard it is to find a single child in the middle of it?" Behind him, Ghost yelped as he played with the mute boy. "While caring for a wolf ?"

His eyes narrowed. If I hadn't sent you away, he considered, you'd have likely died on that lake . "Come with us, King," Eryn offered."We have much to show you."

Jon followed, though his gaze flickered back to Gerrick. His steps were uneven lurches, but his hands stayed close to Dark Sister. Ghost seemed easy among the men, though, and Jon trusted the direwolf's instincts.

Behind him, Torvi Icetooth hovered silently and followed.

"The Skagosi?" Jon asked, looking around the castle.

"Aye. They've been tormenting us for months." Gerrick grunted. "The damn Skaggs have sent constant raids against Eastwatch, they turned this strait into a bloodbath."

Yes, the Skagossons had refused to even consider the northern coalition, and their people held an ancestral grudge against wildlings. Throughout the civil war Skagos had remained neutral, but with a bias against wildlings. The stoneborn had long separated themselves from the mainland.

Lord Manderly had believed them to be irrelevant - Skagos had only hundreds of men to field, and brought far more trouble than they were worth - but the stoneborn tribes were tough, hardy, and fiercely independent. Skagos was nearly a nation unto itself. Any attempt

from Eastwatch to negotiate with the stonelords had ended with decapitated heads on pikes being sent back with the next tide.

I could have forced the stoneborn using Sonagon, Jon thought, but I didn't want to distract the dragon with such a petty conflict . Sonagon could only be in one place at a time, and they had needed the dragon against the threat of the Boltons and the south. Added on to that, Jon also never wanted to risk Rickon's life by flying Sonagon into Skagos.

Instead, it had been the Lord of Bones who had volunteered to lead the efforts in bringing Skagos to heel, while their search parties discreetly tried to track down Rickon Stark. Under Rattleshirt, the fleets of Eastwatch had easily overpowered the Skagosi ships - there had seemed little reason for Jon to get involved until after they secured Rickon.

All around him, a procession was forming as Jon limped through the castle. Everything was grey, and Jon could feel the hunger and desperation in the air. Too many mouths, too little food .

"The war against Skagos had been going well under Rattleshirt," Eryn explained as they walked. "It was barely even a war, really. Our warbands set up camp on Skane and then we captured Driftwood Hall. We were set to bring the Skagosi to heel, just like you commanded."

Jon did not reply, but his gaze flickered. "But then Rattleshirt left for Winterfell and the battle on Skagos really went to hell," Eryn continued. "The 'Admiral of Seals' took command and he bloody botched the invasion. The Admiral was too scared to risk any of his bloody ships, and our warbands got hit hard. We lost our camp on Skane, and they threw us off their isle."

"We've been fighting against the stoneborn every other day for months," Gerrick added. "They rallied against Eastwatch in strength when your dragon wasn't around."

Perhaps that was Sonagon's greatest weakness, Jon considered.

The dragon couldn't be everywhere .

"And then the Others came," Jon noted.

"Aye. And then the Others came." Gerrick's voice was grim. "Both us and the Skaggs lost our entire fleets in an hour that night. We lost Hardhome in two."

From the sound of what he was being told, the battle had been utter pandemonium. A slaughter. The type of battle that still haunted the air, Jon could feel the tension around him. They told him that Cotter Pyke had tried to hold the line and rally the fleet, but the ships of the Night's Watch had been the very first to fall.

As their ships scattered, the Admiral of Seals had abandoned Eastwatch altogether. The admiral had taken the very last seaworthy ships and fled south, leaving the rest of the refugees to fend for themselves. Dark Gerrick spat at his name.

Hardhome hadn't stood a chance, but Eastwatch never even came under direct attack. The very worst of the battle had been fought at sea and on the coasts of Skagos.

The Night of the Dead, they named it.

As the battle broke, the two Dragonguard had taken Ghost and fled from Skagos that night, stealing a ship and seeking shelter behind the Wall at Eastwatch. Gerrick had taken his scar fighting through four crazed stoneborn, all the while wights crawled out from the sea.

We nearly lost the Wall here, Jon thought with a curse, adding it all up. That the Others had pulled back from a victorious battlefield alarmed Jon nearly as much as the sight of a second Breach would have. Do the Others truly care that little about winning?

No, he realised, the Others pulled back because they had already achieved their goals .

Jon could feel the weight of the droves of hungry eyes staring right at him. They all wore white stones, every single one. They prayed for salvation, Jon thought. These people have seen too much of war .

Finally, Jon had to ask, "What of Rickon? I sent you north to find Rickon."

"Oh, we found your brother," Gerrick scoffed. "He's safe, but we couldn't even get close to him."

With a bark of orders, Gerrick shouted something at a man inside the castle. Jon still could not understand the Old Tongue, but moments later he saw a naked body being dragged out over the stones. A prisoner, being dragged by two hefty wildlings.

The man wasn't chained, but he was beaten and bloody as he was dragged from both arms. He was a hairy figure with a beard down his neck and chest hair so thick that it could have been fur. The man was short-legged and barrel-chested, but extremely broad and well-built.

Jon recognised the thick brow and craggy build instantly; the prisoner was stoneborn. Those of Skagosi blood were not built like other men - some claimed that they were from Ibbenese lineage, others argued that they descended from giants. They were shorter and broader than any normal man, with thicker brows and wider jaws. A queer folk of cannibals and raiders.

Even despite his bloody state, he was still trying to fight. The captive Skagosson was thrashing against the men who held him, snarling guttural, hoarse curses that Jon could not make out.

Jon's eyes narrowed at the sight. The stoneborn was wrestling right up until Dark Gerrick kicked him in the chest.

This is Arago Stane, the heir to Driftwood," Gerrick introduced to Jon, as the man sputtered blood. "We captured him on Skane."

"Captured him?" Arago Stane bore wounds over his shaggy body; some of them scarred over, others fresh.

"We took Driftwood Hall from them, along with this one. A few moons later his father took it back from us, but we still kept this Skagg." Gerrick turned to the prisoner, looming over him. "You want to tell the king what you told us?"

It didn't seem like Arago heard, but then the stoneborn spat a bloody gloop at Gerrick's feet. The man muttered some curse word in the Old Tongue, and Gerrick kicked him again. "Bloody Skagg," Gerrick cursed.

"Arago told us of a boy," Eryn explained, looking at Jon. "A boy - two years back now. They found him wandering the stonelands, and he had a wolf with him. A large wolf too, and they say it was as feral as the boy."

"Rickon," Jon breathed. Lord Manderly had been right - Rickon truly had fled to Skagos. " Who found him?"

"Lord Magnar's men. The wolf preyed on their peasant's herds, the shepherds warned their Lord Magnar, and his men went tracking it. And then they discovered that the wolf had killed a unicorn too."

From the floor, Arago Stane was glaring up at Jon viciously. There was raw hate in the stoneborn's eyes, but Jon's gaze was ice. "Not many unicorns left on Skagos," Gerrick added. "But they're damn tough creatures, bred for war. They don't go down easy."

"Aye. The unicorns are sacred to the stoneborn," Eryn continued. "The Skagossons are vowed to protect them, their tribes shelter the last of the unicorn herds. For the crime of killing a unicorn, it should have been certain death for the boy and the wolf." Jon raised his eyebrows in alarm. "But in this case Lord Bjarg Magnar chose mercy instead."

"Why?" Jon kept his voice low.

All eyes turned towards Arago Stane. The stoneborn was on the ground, but listening intently.

Dark Gerrick drew a knife, and held it to the man's throat. "Answer the question or I cut off your hand," he warned.

There was a long pause. Arago glared hatefully. "The boy had potential." The man's voice was throaty and gruff with accent, his Common barely decipherable. "Had the Gift. Lord Magnar. Believed Gift more valuable than unicorn."

The Gift, Jon wondered. Skinchanging?

"Aye." Eryn nodded. "The rest say the same. Apparently Lord Magnar chose to adopt the boy as his own. The lord married his mother and took the child onto his own house."

Jon blinked in shock. He looked down towards Arago, and the prisoner just nodded sourly.

"Married his mother?" Jon muttered with a frown. Rickon's mother is dead, he almost said.

For half a moment, he wondered if maybe it was a different child. But then he remembered that spearwife Bran had told him of. The captured wildling from Winterfell's kitchens who had smuggled Rickon away - Osha . She must be pretending to be Rickon's mother.

Eyes were looking at him. Jon hesitated. "And Rickon is alive?"

"Alive and well," Eryn replied. "He's in Kingshouse, under the care of Lord Magnar. Mayhaps there's no safer place on Skagos."

"And we can't reach him," Gerrick added.

Jon knew of House Magnar. Theirs was the most prominent house on the isle, descended from the ancient Stone Kings. They were the

de facto rulers of Skagos. A house of cannibals and ill rumours, he added quietly.

Kingshouse was the seat of House Magnar. That was both good and bad news. It was good because Rickon was presumably safe and defended, but bad because House Magnar was a sworn enemy. The stoneborn forgot nothing and did not bend from their ways. The Skagossons held grudges like none other; they despised wildlings, mainlanders, and Starks. Jon didn't imagine that they'd be too fond of dragons, either.

But Rickon is alive, Jon thought. I promised Bran that I would protect my family .

All eyes were on him, but Jon needed to stop and think.

"How many other Skagosi prisoners do we have?" Jon asked finally.

"A few," Gerrick replied. "Arago here is the most important, but we got about two dozen others in the cells. We also got Lord Crowl's daughter, and two of Lord Stane's wives."

None of them in good condition, Jon expected. His eyes narrowed. "In what health?"

"Hell of a lot better than any of us would be on Skagos," Gerrick retorted. "The stoneborn haven't been half as kind to the ones that they've captured."

He didn't dispute the point, but Jon shifted slightly. "But have the Others attacked Skagos?"

It was Torvi that replied. "They have."

"Then we must convince the Skagossons that they have greater threats than us." He turned back to Arago Stane. "Get him up," Jon ordered. "Wash his wounds, feed and clothe him."

The men pulled Arago to his feet. The Skagosson was short - half a foot smaller than Jon, but he was wider and just as heavy. Jon stepped closer to inspect him. Arago's jaw tensed, his gaze flickered, he looked up at Jon… and then violently lunged, jaws opened wide to tear out Jon's throat.

Jon was ready for it. In a smooth motion, his fist collided with Arago's throat. The stoneborn dropped and gagged.

"I'm trying to release you, ser," Jon warned. "Do not be so fool to convince me otherwise."

The guards looked shocked. "Release him?" a free folk gasped.

"Aye. He is to bring my message to Kingshouse, I will meet with this Lord Magnar," Jon commanded.

The Skagosson was choking in pain, but still sputtering out curse words. Jon bent down slowly, and gripped the man's neck. "It seems that Lord Magnar and I now share common interests," Jon said lowly in the man's ear. The soon to be freed prisoner stank of sweat and fish. "We both want to stop the Others, and we both want no harm to come to that boy. You will relay that message."

"Snow, he's killed four men trying to escape," Gerrick warned, glaring at Arago. "I would not trust this one."

I am not trusting anybody . "Lord Magnar will meet with me, else he will meet with Sonagon."

Arago panted deep, hoarse breaths. Jon didn't slacken his grip. Jon paused, curious to see if the stoneborn would try to attack him again. Arago chose not to.

"For every day that Lord Magnar refuses to treat with me," Jon promised, "I will execute a hostage. After I run out of hostages, my dragon will start destroying his settlements one by one. He will meet me alone and in a place of my choosing, or Skagos will suffer for it."

The man's eyes were black, and full of hate. Jon dropped him to the stones and limped away.

The crowd parted around him as he stepped back towards the keep. Ghost bounded towards Jon's side, and the wolf bared its teeth fractionally at any who stepped too close. Fearlessly, Torvi Icetooth stepped next to Jon, easily keeping pace.

The woman was staring straight at him. "The Skaggs are not our problem, Snow," she said in a low voice.

"I'm aware."

"No, you're not." The skinchanger shook her head, and motioned towards the docks. "The problem is what our nets caught this morn, Snow."

Jon frowned. "Bali, Tor," she ordered. "Show him."

Torvi motioned into the crowd, and moments later he saw two men carrying a hefty barrel over the stones. The figures were both broad, bearded and grim, and clad in sealskin and walrus hide. The air stank of salt and rot.

With a nod from Tovi, the two men dropped the barrel, spilling its slimy content out over the cobblestones. At first, the only thing Jon sensed was the noxious stink of decay. Water flushed from the barrel, along with dozens of squirming, slithery shapes.

They were all grey. The barrel was full of dead, rotten fish soaking in saltwater. Jon saw exposed fish skulls and rib cages, like the flesh had been scraped off. Salmon, tuna, anchovies, even a small shark. There were hundreds of them, all flapping and wriggling before him.

Round, blue fishbowl eyes stared blankly before him.

Jon didn't blink. He only stared back.

Fish. Undead fish.

Around him, Ghost yelped and jumped backwards. Jon nearly recoiled as a mutilated salmon flapped towards him, biting at the sole of his boot. They were writhing like they were suffocating, flapping over the stones.

Jon blinked, and then looked at Torvi. She nodded.

"This is the reason why so many around here are going hungry, Snow," she said simply. "We've still got a few boats trawling in these waters, but this is the only thing that they're picking up. We've had net after net of this."

He didn't reply. Slowly, he lifted his walking stick upwards and swatted one of the creatures. It splattered in squishy gore, but the flesh was still wriggling under the spear.

"Aye. My sister is in the water, and there are more dead things like this." For the first time, Torvi's voice carried emotion and it was grim. "Not even my sister dares to venture deeper out to sea anymore. They're everywhere, Your Grace."

Fish. The Others were resurrecting fish now?

His hairs were standing on end. No, Jon thought slowly. The Others were looking for more ways to expand.

They mean to kill the entire ocean.

"Fish," he repeated. "You mean fish south of the Wall?"

She nodded. The barrier, Jon almost protested. Even over the ocean, surely the barrier should have stopped them from crossing?

Then, he felt a tingling down his spine and a sinking in his gut. But the barrier is already breached . They broke the barrier at Castle Black, so now it's broken here too?

He did not like this, and his thoughts were starting to twist in circles. One thought in particular was gnawing at the back of his mind. Are

the Others starting to look beyond Westeros?

The more he considered it, the more it alarmed him.

Finally, Jon pulled his gaze away from the pile of rotten fish. "They're only fish," Jon said after a pause. "They cannot hurt us."

He knew it was a lie as soon as he said it. Torvi just stared at him.

She didn't say anything, but he felt her gaze on his neck.

Jon limped up the stairs into the keep, where they could talk privately. Too many eyes were on him. "Where are the Others now?" he demanded. "Where did they retreat to?"

"To Hardhome," she replied simply.

His frown only deepened.

Jon stayed the night at the keep at Eastwatch, although Ghost never left his side. Sonagon roosted uneasily in the yards outside, while a flock of believers surrounded the castle. Jon questioned Torvi on absolutely everything her sister had seen in the water, and the answers she gave only made him more and more uneasy.

"How many ships do you still have?" he demanded eventually, during the dead of night. The cold air outside was still but the flames were whispering around him. Jon had taken off his furs, but he kept Dark Sister close to hand.

"Very few. Only the ones that we managed to repair."

"Prepare the largest ship we have," Jon ordered. "We set sail at first light, Sonagon will escort."

He slept for maybe an hour at most. The rest of the night was spent making preparations, counting heads and discussing options.

By the first shimmer of morn, Jon was already forcing his sore and battered body into motion. He was climbing onto his dragon again

before the sun had even properly risen. Sonagon growled with agitation; the dragon was hungry too, but there was nothing for it to eat, not even corpses.

With a single beat of powerful wings, the air whooshed as the dragon took flight. As the sun rose over the east, the mountains of Skagos loomed on the horizon's edge. Ghost howled as Jon flew away yet again, but Sonagon circled low around the Wall.

He would see Ghost again soon, he knew. The direwolf would come by sea, along with all the best of the fighting men.

Down below, Jon heard the commotion as the warband gathered on the castle's pier. About five dozen fighting men, all of them armed to the teeth with axes and spears. Torvi Icetooth captained the very last seaworthy vessel as it took to the water. It was a striped galley with its figurehead crudely recarved into jagged demon teeth. Once, the ship might have been painted yellow and purple, but now the paint was flecking off and the hull creaked like something from a ship's graveyard.

Still, it was seaworthy, and the free folk had captained worse. He could see Torvi's band stocking up the galley's deck with arrows and harpoons, and every man on the ship was tense with fear.

From the sky, Jon watched his two Dragonguard bring Ghost with them on the ship. The direwolf had grown surprisingly comfortable among the men, and the black-haired mute helped urge the wolf on to the deck.

There was a good south-westerly wind blowing over the bay as they set forth, and the galley chopped through the waters. Jon led the way atop Sonagon, occasionally circling round to watch the black waters. As the ship broke through the swell of the waves, Jon saw a white fin circling the vessel.

The icebergs were thick in the water, and occasionally Jon heard crackling as the ship had to force its way through the ice.

The great expanse of the north stretched outwards before him. The coasts and the shallows were smothered white, but the waters of the Shivering Sea had never seemed so black. The ice was creeping outwards, Jon realised. In some places he saw ice stretching as far as a mile offshore, further north along the coast.

Even the northern ocean was starting to freeze, he realised, as Sonagon soared over the Wall with long, powerful flaps.

Slowly now, Jon urged to the dragon. They had to be careful not to go too far ahead. We must search, search for the dead .

The white walkers were out there somewhere, and they needed to find out where and how many.

Sonagon flew a long and slow arc over the Bay of Seals, and eventually the mainland was reduced to a sliver on the western horizon. He saw the mountains of Skagos come into focus, and then the jagged coasts. The rocks jutting upwards from the waters looked like stone teeth.

The wind hissed around him as the dragon flew over the coasts of Skagos and then northwards towards the isle of Skane. An icy sea mist was blowing over the island, so thick that Jon couldn't see, but the dragon's eyes had no issue in making out of the land below.

Jon closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and melded himself deeper into the warg-sense. He couldn't see anything of the Others, but the dead were just as cold as the black waters and black beaches of Skagos, and Sonagon's sight was poor at picking them out, no better than a hawk's. Lower, he urged the dragon.

Behind them, the galley crept through the waves in sluggish motion. The dragon flew so much faster than the ship, but Jon took care to circle around often. Jon could feel the progress of the vessel through Ghost. If the ship came under attack, Sonagon would be the only chance the men had.

The dragon flew as low as Jon dared, searching the battlefields. He didn't see any wights, but there were signs of battle everywhere. There were broken ships washing up against the rocks, and flotsam sweeping over the desolate beaches. There was wreckage bobbing along with the ice in the ocean. As he flew inland, he saw abandoned settlements on the isle without any trace of life. There were small fishing huts of thatch and packed earth scattered across the coast, each one as still as the grave.

Across one beach, he even saw tracks through the sand and rocks leading up the cliffs. A trail of long, dragged footsteps coming out of the cold ocean.

Dead things in the water, Jon thought darkly.

Sonagon flew outwards, searching for life. The smell of old ash and smoke reached him, and the dragon followed. Jon saw an old earth and timber keep that must have been Driftwood Hall, but it had been burnt down. The fort was blackened in the spots not already smothered by white snow, it stunk of ash and charred wood. The surrounding villages on Skagos were all dead. Sonagon could see only shades of blue; all the heat of life had been snuffed out from the coasts.

Jon could only stare at the devastation. The Others are expanding.

Their campaign is only growing .

The only signs of life were further inland, towards the mountains of Skagos. He saw a hustle of bodies over an old earthen fort, a slum of men and women taking shelter around the keep. The fort of Deep Down, Jon guessed, as Sonagon flapped closer. Upon sighting the dragon, Jon heard horns blowing from the keep and men panicking. Sonagon circled, and the stoneborn below scattered and screamed. A few of them fired arrows, but the shafts never even came close. Sonagon was hungry enough to want to engage, but Jon managed to pull the dragon back.

On the water, the galley from Eastwatch was halfway across the strait. Jon circled back, just to search the area for threats.

Then, Sonagon flew north towards the peninsula, towards Hardhome.

He knew this coast; he and Sonagon had flown over it many times before. And yet now the landscape looked so different caught in the throes of winter.

The first things Jon saw were the towers and defences he had spent so long maintaining. The stakewall around the settlement was still intact, and there were still rough wooden watchtowers pointing out from the cliffs. Sonagon sensed movement from the harbour, and for half a moment Jon thought that maybe they had been wrong - that maybe Hardhome had resisted after all.

But then Sonagon flew closer, and all the dragon smelled was death.

In the waters below, there was movement. In the shallows, there were black shapes lurking under the waves. Jon thought they might have been sardines or salmon, but the way they moved… he had never seen fish swimming in formation before.

Shoals of unnatural fish were swimming around the cape.

The Others were gathering their wights at Hardhome. They were raising as many dead as possible, on land and in the sea.

Jon didn't dare attack - it was too dangerous to test the Other's forces alone - but he circled in the sky and approached with caution. The dragon crept closer and closer, until finally he saw black shapes like insects scattering over the snow and cliffs.

There were thousands, hundreds of thousands.

The settlement at Hardhome - the wooden huts, the caves, the makeshift docks and the crude fortifications, the Others had stolen it

all for themselves.

There was movement towards the coast. Why were they moving? The dead didn't move without purpose. Were they building something? There were no vessels on the ocean that Jon could see.

And then Sonagon flapped over the cliffs and came into view from the cape. Even despite the wind, Jon heard a desperate scream break through the whooshing air.

The sound caused a shiver down his spine. The dead didn't scream.

The dragon saw flecks of heat by the tunnels, grouped by the cliffside. Warm bodies surrounded by nothing but cold.

At first, he thought they might be survivors. They were screaming at the sight of the dragon. He saw them trying to run, but cold figures instantly pounced on them.

Jon's hands clenched. Sonagon felt his rage and growled too. Slaves . The Others had taken slaves, Jon realised. There wereliving slaves in cages by the crags, guarded by dead men. The Others had taken captives and forced them into the howling caves of Hardhome.

At the sight of the dragon, the slaves were screaming and falling to their knees. Begging for him to save them.

All around them, the cape was filled with more dead bodies than Jon could count. It was difficult to even sense them; most stood still, more were buried by snow, and the dead blurred into the surroundings through Sonagon's eyes. An entire line of corpses stood as sentinels upon the cliffs. It was only when they moved that he could make them out.

Sonagon flapped further inland, crossing over the cape. Suddenly there was movement everywhere below him. Beneath him,

Hardhome was stirring like a hornet's nest with the dragon's approach. The stench was overpowering.

How many? Jon wondered. A few hundred slaves, and a few hundred thousand of the dead? It was hard to tell how many more living people could be in the winding cliffs. Caves that the free folk had carved as shelter were now being used as cages.

I can't save them, Jon knew. It would be foolish to even try - even the dragon would be at risk attacking the Others where they were most fortified.

But what are the Others doing with slaves? Why do they even need living men?

The Others had taken Hardhome as their own camp. Mustering their forces, raising them and arming them. They needed living men to do what their wights could not; somebody needed to craft weapons and arrows for the dead, and the wights just didn't have the skill for that type of work.

They are preparing for invasion.

Beneath him, the army of the dead stretched across the snow and rocks.

Then, Jon saw black shapes in the shallow harbour at Hardhome, looming under the water. At first, he thought that they were rocks.

Then, a rock moved. It shuddered, and rose towards the surface, breaking through the waves and crested the surface. All the dragon sensed was the rank stench of rot and salt, but Jon saw swollen raw flesh and protruding bone.

There were more of them. Jon saw dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of black shadows in the water.

Beneath him, the Others were already reacting to his approach. Sonagon stayed high in the sky, but down below the dead were taking formation. Jon's gaze was drawn to the black shapes in the ocean, each one causing a tremendous swell as it rose.

The smallest seemed about thirty feet from head to tail, and the largest was four times that size.

At first, Jon thought of the wyrms, but these were different shapes. The wyrms had been elongated and serpentine, while these creatures were thick and stout.

He saw a finned tail rise from the waves, before it descended again.

The shapes were moving out to sea.

Sonagon was about to follow when a rustling sounded below him, a wispy line of smoke breaking into the pallid sky. Rotting wings were hissing towards the dragon.

Jon could have cursed. Undead birds. Everything from swallows to eagles to owls. They probably couldn't hurt the dragon, but there were lots of them, and they could most certainly hurt him.

Now was not the time to fight, he decided. He had come here to scout, not to attack. The Others were entrenched and Sonagon was at a disadvantage. Jon had wanted to know what the white walkers were doing at Hardhome, and now he had.

Jon took a deep breath, and willed Sonagon to turn around.

Still, a swarm of birds came too close, and the dragon scorched their little bodies with a sharp breath of icefire. A rain of tattered corpses fell from the sky.

The rest of the wispy cloud of birds followed them over the cliffs, but they didn't chase the dragon out to sea.

Flying out over the water, Jon could still sense those black shapes moving under the waves. Occasionally one of them would crest, and he saw a crown of jagged bones and discoloured flesh. Sonagon wanted to fight, to kill, but Jon veered the dragon away.

They are ships, he thought breathlessly, but they were like no ships he had ever seen before. They had been stationed at Hardhome like a fleet at port, but then they fled to open before the dragon. They were bone ships without sails or oars.

The dragon flew straight to the north-western coast of Skagos, where he saw the galley dock onto the stony beach. He felt Ghost on the ground, pacing frantically. Jon was gasping for breath, both from the cold and the sight of Hardhome. The memory of all those cold shadows…

Sonagon landed on the hard, black beach with an immense crunch of rocks, just as the wildlings were dropping off Arago Stane. They gave the stoneborn a pig's bladder of supplies and told him to run for Kingshouse. The Skagosi gave one final hateful glare, before running off at spearpoint.

Jon's gaze was dark as he clambered down Sonagon's neck. His legs were so weary and cramped from riding the dragon so long that he botched dismounting and toppled backwards straight onto his behind on the beach.

Two men rushed to help him, but Jon brushed them away with a grimace. He grunted as he pulled himself up, but his gaze was focused on Torvi Icetooth. "Did you see those things?" he demanded.

She nodded. "My sister did."

He looked out to sea. He couldn't see them now, but he knew they were there. Numerous black shapes, hidden under the water.

With a brief roar, Sonagon flapped into the sky without him. The dragon began prowling over the waves and growling, occasionally spitting bursts of icefire. But it was useless - the ships of bone and flesh had already disappeared from view.

Jon felt the sinking feeling in his gut, he knew it as soon as he asked…

"What are they?"

"They're ships," she replied. "But once they were whales."

Whales. That was how the Others were killing fish. They had expanded into the ocean - they were raising fish by the bucket load. First, they kill one fish, they raise it and release it - then that fish kills another and drags its body back to Hardhome. All of those bodies in the water, creating more and more corpses and expanding ever outwards like a plague…

The largest were the skeletal bodies of whales, hunted down and hollowed out. Mutilated creatures with their skin and organs removed, large enough to carry more of the Other's soldiers. That was what they were doing at Hardhome.

The Others didn't care for wood or metal. There were only two resources that the white walkers used to construct anything; death and ice.

The Others were building their navy out of corpses. A fleet of bone ships.

Next to him, Dark Gerrick glanced between Jon and Torvi, trying to measure their expressions. Ghost was growling as he sniffed the ocean. The silence stretched outwards.

"What the fuck does that mean?" the man demanded.

Jon's jaw clenched, but he didn't reply straight away. Through his dragon sense, he saw them again. He saw the swells in the water, he saw them creeping under the black water.

Sonagon breathed downwards over the ocean in a shower of ice, but the creatures were already escaping down into the depths. The dragon might have dived down after them, but Jon warned the dragon not to swim in these waters.

The white walkers were already preparing for their next assault. "It means that the next invasion will come from the sea."

The White Wolf

Paws loped over barren rocks, as the direwolf bounded through the frosted crags.

It was a vicious landscape, bare and brown, devoid of greenery. The layers of the land were slanted and haphazard, creased and folded, like the earth itself had been tilted on the wrong side. It felt like the ground had been cleaved apart, then crudely forced together. Spiny knives of rock ran over the hills, and cliffs as sharp as swords protruded from the mountains.

It was a land of ice and rock, illuminated by a bulbous half-moon lingering over the jagged snow-coated hills.

Red eyes gleamed through the darkness, nostrils sniffing this unfamiliar place. The wolf took a deep breath of fresh, wild air drifting off from the sea. It was a harsh, unfamiliar land - only black mosses and thorny weeds grew underfoot between the pebbles and snow. The trees were stunted and wind-battered things, barely bigger than saplings, scattered sparsely across the land. Only the gnarliest and most weathered soldier pines and black spruces managed to take root between the earthen crevices.

The stench of dead things wafted everywhere.

In the distance, he heard men moving, shouting. There was a frenzy by the coastline, the sound of hacking and chopping. Dead creatures coated in seaweed with barnacles sticking to their skin, staggering up the cliffs. They were foul things, each one putrid with rot and salt as they crawled out from the waves. The very smell caused the wolf's haunches to tense, white hair standing on end.

Across the frozen water, there was a flash of bright light under the half-moon, and of immense white wings flapping.

The wolf's bonded brother was in the sky, he knew. His brother was flying on the monster, soaring over the coastline and spitting ice down at the beaches.

The battle was all along the isle's coasts, and slowly oozing inwards. The wolf saw a group of men and women, encamped on a hilltop ringed by spears and torches, while all the dead things staggered upwards from the black beach. The cold, moving corpses were dripping wet and swollen with seawater, so deformed they barely looked like men.

The wolf wanted nothing to do with such a fight. It avoided the dead things wherever possible. The direwolf was large and fierce enough to tear down one or two of the creatures, but against a horde? Tooth and claws were poor weapons against the dead. This was a battle for men with axes and torches, or for dragons with wings and icy breath.

Instead, the white wolf roamed outwards, scouting over the rocks. The wolf paced near the rocks of the beach, and then he heard the many pattering of legs through the shallows. Sloshing sea ice crackled and broke, and dead shapes emerged from the black water.

In the poor light, at first they looked like rocks. Moving rocks. They were scuttling upwards from the sea.

The wolf sat on his haunches atop the hill, staring at the scene under the moonlight. The largest of them were as big as boulders, the smallest were the size of pebbles. Their pocked shells were coated in seaweed and barnacles, and they stank of salty rot. Their joints crackled stiffly with every jagged movement.

As they scuttled, the wolf saw a multitude of pale blue eyes, and clicking claws.

The wolf stared downwards at the shoal of monstrous crabs scuttling from the waves. The direwolf watched for only an instant, before turning and sprinting away as fast as it could.

Somewhere behind him, he sensed the dragon swooping low, scorching the entire beach into blazing white ice. The crabs made a bone-clenching shriek as they died.

Run, Ghost, his bonded brother willed. Get away from the coast, just avoid them .

The wolf was already fleeing, loping over the dunes and running inland. He could feel his brother's anxiety, the unease that lingered through the night. The dead things had followed them - his brother's pack had landed on the isle as darkness fell, and the dead had come not long after. The direwolf kept on running until it was a safe distance from the ocean, but the smell still lingered everywhere.

The stink of the dead was nearly overpowering, but then keen nostrils picked up a different scent hovering on the cold wind. The smell of something else fleeing the dead.

Another hunter, it knew. It could tell instinctively by the subtle scents in the air. The wolf searched, and then it found the site of an old kill. A dead thing shaped like a man had strayed too close, and a predator had ripped it apart. Every ounce of meat was gone, even the bones had been cracked open and the marrow lapped out.

The white wolf's nose twitched. A beast had torn through the creature with great viciousness. This was another wolf's territory.

Not long later, it found pawprints over the hard snow, and the wolf followed. He darted into a snowbound valley, and the smell was getting clearer. Powerful paws bounded up a stony ridge, and then he saw it.

There was a black wolf prowling on the canyon, overlooking the battle that spread across the dunes.

It didn't smell his approach. The black wolf was too distracted by the dead, while the white wolf moved too quietly.

It was a large wolf, every bit the white wolf's equal. Its fur was pitch black like oil, and its eyes shone dark green in the night. The smell of dried blood lingered around it, of a recent kill still on its fur. A hare, most like.

Then, snow crunched under paws, and the black wolf flinched. The two direwolves turned to stare straight at each other.

Their eyes met, burning red against dark green. Nostrils sniffed the cold air.

The scent was familiar, even despite how long it had been. They had known each other as pups. The white wolf still remembered the days living in the castle beside each other, of rolling around in the stables and being fed from cloths dripping milk.

Brother, the white wolf knew. He raised his tail and stepped forward.

Then the black wolf's jaws parted, baring teeth. A vicious growl rumbled from the black wolf's throat, it spun around, poised. Frozen blood clung to its mane.

The white wolf recognised him, but the black wolf saw only an intruder in its territory. A challenger.

I am not a challenger, the white wolf's posture said, but the other direwolf didn't relax. The white wolf approached carefully, but the black one was aggressive.

As it kept baring its fangs, the white wolf started to growl too. Both their hackles raised.

Perhaps both wolves were waiting for the other to back down, but neither did. Neither of them would submit, they both considered themselves to be the dominant.

The two wolves circled each other, claws sliding over the frost and snow. They were both growling, pacing with teeth bared and claws drawn. Sizing the other wolf up.

Once, the white wolf had been the runt of the litter, but time had made him large and vicious. The white wolf was the taller and longer of the two now, while the black one was broader at the shoulder, thick and stocky. The black wolf was feral - it had hunted in these lands, it had grown rough and fierce.

It had been too long since the white wolf hunted for himself. The white wolf had grown too used to the men feeding it. It had been a long time since he had faced a challenge for dominance.

All around them, the night writhed.

The two direwolves met in an instant, in a flurry of claws and a snapping of teeth. Black against white.

The clash was as furious as it was sudden. They both pounced as one.

Claws scraped across the white wolf's hide, the black wolf's teeth tried to clamp around its neck. The white wolf shook it off, leaping at the beast.

Too feral, too overeager . The white wolf was the more reserved. The black wolf was snapping and clawing, but the white wolf lingered backwards, waiting for the moment…

They parted backwards, and growled as they spun. The black wolf barked and yelped, but the white was quiet and vicious. Then, as sudden as the last, the wolves collided again.

They wrestled over the ice and rocks, their claws scrambling against each other. After the first clash the white one had been scratched, but in the second clash its teeth mauled at the black wolf's rump. The beast yelped, but tried to twist, until they were rolling over each other. Thud - their bodies crashed against a jutting rock, but the white wolf was the first on its feet. The white wolf took the leverage and kicked the black wolf onto its back.

Its teeth snapped at the black wolf's rear leg, gripping a hold tightly and dragging it backwards. The black wolf yowled in pain, but it still didn't stop thrashing.

Yield, the white wolf ordered with a growl. The black wolf didn't reply, it only snarled.

The black brother was wounded, limping, but it went berserk with rage. Teeth snapped ferociously, so fast the white wolf had to dart backwards.

Then, the white wolf's paw clawed over its snout. Blood hissed over snow.

Yield!

Still, the black brother attacked. It was angry, more furious than any beast the white wolf had ever known.

It nearly caught him off-guard, but then the white wolf grabbed it by the hackles and dragged it down, like a deer. If it had been prey, the wolf's teeth would have ripped out its jugular and torn through its…

The black wolf cried in pain. The white wolf was mere moments away from tearing out its throat, when suddenly he saw it.

In those green eyes, he saw a young child. A boy, scared and angry.

The wolves were both panting, both bloodied. The white wolf felt his bonded brother staring through his own eyes.

Brother, his bonded brother thought. Rickon .

The white wolf didn't slacken the grip of his jaws as he pinned his brother down, but he didn't bite deeper either. Through its eyes, he saw the young boy thrashing and screaming.

Don't hurt him, his bond brother asked of him. Don't hurt Shaggydog .

The white wolf obeyed. He released his jaws from the black wolf's throat.

In an instant, the other wolf scrambled to its feet. The black wolf turned and ran, sprinting over the plains. There was a stagger in its gait, limping as it scurried away.

The white wolf sprinted after it. The black wolf was running towards its other half, and the white wolf followed.

Behind them, on the coast, he felt the dragon change direction. Both wolves were running and the dragon followed in the distance.

The dragon roared like a crack of thunder, sweeping low. The dragon would often roar before a hunt, the wolf had noticed, to terrify its prey into running. Perhaps it was instinctual, or perhaps the dragon just enjoyed the chase.

The black wolf was running east, towards a peninsula on the coast. There, nestled into the cliffs, the smell of smoke and woodstock wafted over the dunes.

The fort stunk of earth and smoke. It was a crude structure sheltered by piles of boulders forming barriers, with the haphazard look of past rockslides. It was large and long, surrounded by rings of stakewalls and mounds of dirt and rock, but with no stone walls. At its very centre nestled a long timber hall, and few other large buildings. The squat buildings all had had only a single level, but they were long and low, surrounded by trenches buried in the mud. The whole keep was sunk into the ground - like a castle that had been half-buried into mud.

The wolf saw the mouths of grease-stained chimneys, sprouting straight out of the hillside and spewing smoke into the cold air. There was a sprawling an encampment of tents, tanner's stations, firepits and watchtowers, all built around the main keep, sheltered by scattered wooden towers poking from around the fort.

It wasn't the largest fort that the wolf had ever seen, and far from the grandest, but it looked hardy and well-fortified. A fort that had seen many battles.

The keep was so old that black and green lichen was crawling over the weathered stones, like they were slowly being absorbed back into the landscape. Above the wooden shieldhall, a great green lobster was painted onto the thatch roof.

Kingshouse, his brother thought. The name was meaningless to a wolf, but it meant something to his human brother. The wolf panned its vision to take in the castle's details, knowing that his brother was watching.

The black wolf was sprinting straight towards the fort. There were no gates or high walls, but it would still be suicide trying to charge over the rows and rows of trenches, embankments and spiked palisades. The wolf saw men with bows and spears waiting for them between the defences, dark figures almost invisible in the earth.

Soon, the white wolf saw movement. There was a group of men over the hills, another pack of two-legs clutching axes and spears. The

white wolf heard hooves, and the scent of strange beasts. There were four-legged creatures galloping over the rocks like goats, each one bearing riders carrying halberds.

The four-legged creatures were bulky and powerful, larger than a direwolf. They were shorter than the other four-legs that men often rode, but they were much thicker and stouter. From their mount's skulls, a single horn curved outwards like a sword. From the hill, the white wolf watched as the black wolf scurried behind them and kept running into the main keep proper.

His black brother had found a new pack, it seemed.

There were four of those mounted one-horns, but they moved swiftly and surely over the uneven rocks. More like goats than horses. They moved like creatures trained for battle, keeping their horns low and ready to charge.

The white wolf's own other half knew as well. His bonded brother was watching everything from the wolf's own eyes. In the distant sky, the white dragon roared again.

The white wolf couldn't chase his brother any further, instead he had to lope away from the one-horned creatures. Those goat-like things looked fearsome and dangerous, being ridden by men clutching spears. The mounts were armoured - large leather hides draped across their bodies, making them seem even more bulky and formidable.

There were villages and settlements around the cliffs of the fort, but they were all deserted. There were rough harbours and fishing houses by the beach, but those buildings were abandoned and the ships were wrecked.

In the black of the night, the wolf saw a line of bodies snaking up the road, and towards the mountain valleys.

Fleeing, the wolf realised, they are fleeing from the dead .

Like any predator, the dead things were hunting the herd of the living while it was vulnerable.

Over the hills and the fort, the black wolf howled.

There were half a hundred men on foot following the refugees up the road, all of them short and hairy with a queer smell to them. They smelled distinctly different to the other men the wolf had known. It was more earthy, sharp like flint. Each of these stony men looked broader too - they seemed twice as broad across the shoulders than most men.

They wore rock as armour, the wolf realised. The soldiers were each clad in a bulky cascade of leather pouches stuffed with rubble, while a few wore threaded armour of stone sheets bound in hemp. It looked like there was a rock shell around every man, as if each one of them was packed in stone.

All through the night, the battle raged. The dead were everywhere, hunting anything that moved.

The way that the dead things moved reminded the wolf of the termite hills he had once seen - so many insects spilling outwards, each moving seemingly randomly, but there was a purpose to them. The dead things were drones following higher orders.

By the coast, the dragon was burning through scores of dead, but the night was dark and the dragon could not be everywhere. The dead things were still slipping through from the water and onto the land.

The fighting was dispersed, muted sounds of battle ringing out over the hills.

The wolf crept closer to see the column of fleeing humans - females and pups - as they ran towards the mountains. They were hiding in caves that littered the pass, trying to take refuge from the night. The

soldiers and the mounted one-horns were trying to hold the dead things back, but they were still pushing through.

The dead were targeting the weak and the defenceless, while avoiding the fighting men.

The sound of wailing babes echoed over the canyons. They all stank of fear.

The wolf knew these tactics. A wolf pack would use similar methods against a herd of elk. The dead things weren't trying to overwhelm the living, they were trying to weaken them. They were targeting the most vulnerable, to chip the herd down piece by piece. These were continuous attacks, wearing them down and draining their fight.

And it was working. Already the coasts were littered with abandoned settlements, and the people were fleeing either to the fort of Kingshouse or to the mountain caves.

All around the earthen fort, smoke billowed in the night. There was a barricade of bonfires and torches surrounding the wooden structure, but the dead things were stalking the edges. They are predators, the wolf knew. Predators to all life.

The white wolf lurked in the darkness, staying away from the fighting, watching it all in silence.

Finally, as a pale dawn began to creep upwards over the horizon, the dead started to wither away.

The tide of the fighting changed. The dead creatures were sinking back towards the coast and into the waves, dragging with them the bodies of their prey. They had taken their meat in their night and now they were retreating to their lairs.

In the black, half-frozen ocean, huge shapes stirred under the waves.

It was a grim and cold morning as the weak sun rose.

Finally, the men in the stone roads started to pull back, retreating on sluggish feet towards their fort. The white wolf saw them trekking over the plains, stinking of sweat and fatigue.

The white dragon circled in the sky, a huge shape looming in the faint rays of morn. The sunlight could barely break through the clouds.

Then, the wolf felt his human brother approaching. He came over the horizon, followed by a mustering of humans with spears. The wolf recognised their smell; they were the humans that had travelled with it by boat.

Both camps of men had spent the entire night fighting off the dead things, and it was only in the first light of morn that their attention turned towards each other.

The wolf saw figures running. Short, stout men with clad in hide and stone.

Horns were blowing from the fort, alarms were raising. The stocky men looked panicked as they gazed up at the sky. The wolf heard a voice from the mounds echoing over the dunes.

"Wildlings!" a man boomed. "Wildli-"

The cry was drowned out by the beating of the dragon's wings. Men were screaming, shouting as the dragon soared above them.

The dragon roared as it dropped downwards. The whole earth trembled. Two earthen watchtowers were demolished with a single swipe of the dragon's tail. The air filled with white mist, and then a large chunk of the palisades blazed in dragonfire.

That was a warning shot, sent deliberately wide to scatter them. Their fort had survived the dead, but it was useless against a

dragon.

The humans were panting for breath as they charged down the dunes, fumbling through the weeds with spears in hand, swords and chainmail clanging.

A stone-tipped spear whizzed through the air again, but the dragon was already circling back around.

A wildling stepped forward from the group on the road, bellowing words to the men holed up in their keep. An uneasy silence spread over the fort as every eye stared upwards in fatigued horror.

Eventually, after a long pause and plenty of muted panic from within the fort, the wolf saw something happen. There were short and grimy men with flinty axes and stone armour funnelling out of the fort. They were all broad shouldered and with far more hair than normal men, clad in so many layers of bulky armour that they appeared almost round. They were headed towards the raid party of wildlings.

The wolf saw them; two different packs meeting on the craggy field. They huddled in formation, back to back, as the dragon circled above them.

The wolf smelled fear. Something about that fear reminded the white wolf of prey that wanted to run but knew it wouldn't escape. The men knew they were defenceless in their fort, so they were walking out to meet the intruders on the road, under the light of the weak noon sun.

The white wolf had no delusions; the dragon was the ultimate predator, not the direwolf.

The packs were facing off against each other on the rough road; leather, hide and spear against stone and axe. Those one-horned mounts shimmied, but they didn't charge. Neither came close to the other, there was over a hundred yards between them.

And then the dragon dropped from the sky with a huge crunch, sending up a rain of rubble as it landed.

The white wolf had no fear of the dragon, but the roar was so loud that every hare for miles would have scattered. Testing them, the wolf thought, as the lines of stony men rippled and wavered, but didn't break.

The humans were facing off against each other, huddling in a tight group while the dragon stirred and paced with irritation. With every lurching step, the ground quaked. The fear was so thick in the air.

The white wolf knew that scores of females and pups were hiding in the fort behind them. The fighting men were standing in formation, trying to protect their fort.

The dragon roared, delivering a challenge.

Finally, after what felt like an age, the four one-horns trotted forward. Four riders were approaching the dragon, all wearing threaded armour of grey stone plates, and then they were followed by the black wolf sulking at their rear.

Something was happening, a meeting of alphas. The white wolf lingered, watching from a safe distance.

Ghost, come to me, the wolf's bonded brother asked suddenly.

Come closer, I need your nose.

Obediently, the white wolf broke from his hiding place atop the hills.

He loped down the plains, paws crunching over frost.

He saw his bonded brother standing on the dragon's head, staring down over the road of snow and mud. The white wolf wanted to be closer to its other half.

"Lord Magnar, I presume?" his bonded brother called, voice loud enough to reach the ground even from the huge dragon's head. It

was looking down upon the group of four one-horns.

The reply was a guttural boom that the wolf could not understand, but his brother frowned. "Look around you, lord," his brother replied harshly, white hair rustling in the winds. "I am not your enemy."

The wolf crept closer, keeping behind the dragon's bulk. On the other side of the dragon, the four one-horns were snorting and neighing, frightened before the dragon. Their riders had to wrestle to push them closer.

"Say that to my kin killed by your savages," a hoarse, barely decipherable voice growled. "My ancestors will eat your bones, Snow, for unleashing this plague upon us."

The wolf saw them. Four riders, all of them rough figures clad in stone armour. They were all hairy and unkempt, they stank of sweat, fish and beast. They were all staring up at the dragonrider, their eyes wide, their faces twisted.

They tried to hold themselves strong, but the wolf could still smell the fear wafting off them.

It was the man at the front that was doing the talking - he was a heavily bearded man, his beard so long it reached his waist, and with hair on his arms and hands so thick it was almost fur. He was short-statured, but extremely fat and stocky, barrel-chested with bow legs. The man bore a lobster on his stone breastplate, painted as green as lichen.

The wolf snuck closer still, close enough to make out his features. He had a thick brow, a bloated red face, and a necklace of teeth around his neck. They looked like human teeth. Then, a shiver passed down the wolf's spine as he made out the eyes - deep, dark brown eyes.

The wolf knew it instinctively; this man was a skinchanger too.

Above him, the dragon began to snarl. His brother had to calm the beast, muttering quiet reassurances.

There was an uneasy silence as the four one-horns trotted closer.

"Look around you, Lord Magnar," the wolf's brother shouted. "Your villages are desolate, your ships are wrecked and your people hide in caves. It was not my army that did that - it is the dead that haunt your lands."

"Monsters that have followed you ." The man's voice was foul. "You and your wildlings brought those things to our shores."

"Fool." The dragon's head snaked closer, long neck outstretching. The dragon might have swallowed them all, riders and mounts together. "If I wanted you dead, I would not be talking right now. I come to offer an alliance, Lord Magnar."

The wolf hovered closer still, nostrils sniffing the cold air, and then it caught another scent. It was a different scent from the distinctive pang of the stoneborn. The wolf's attention turned towards the one-horn at the rear of the four, the one being sheltered from view by the other three riders. There were more figures upon it, it noticed.

Every other one-horn carried only a single rider, but there were three bodies riding that mount. Behind the armoured rider, there was a woman sitting on the rear of the saddle, and a child was cradled in her lap.

The black wolf was keeping close to that mount, the wolf noticed.

They were all surrounding the child.

The child was young, barely a pup, with dark hair and bright blue eyes. The child's eyes were wide and staring, flickering between the dragon and the white wolf's brother. His fear was wafting in the air, raw and pungent. Ghost sniffed again, and started to recognise the child's scent.

The dragon followed the white wolf's gaze. As soon as the wolf smelled him, his human brother knew it too.

"Rickon," he called, pointing at the one-horn at the rear.

The child squirmed. The hairy man seemed to fluster. "His name ain't Rickon." The voice was gruff and throaty. "He is Stiv Magnar. My son."

"He is Rickon Stark," his brother replied with a snort, "and I would return him to Winterfell."

"You think to steal my boy?"

The dragon stirred, breathing a cloud of mist. The child had his head buried in the woman's furs, her arms wrapped tightly around him.

"I hoped we could be reasonable, Lord Magnar. I have no desire to fight." His brother's voice was loud and clear, but he didn't descend from the dragon. "I swear to protect him. But this place isn't safe for him, I will take him to Winterfell."

"That den of wolves?" The man's voice was foul. "Invaders, scum and mainlanders."

"Look around you," his brother challenged. "The dead are in your waters."

"Skagos will survive as it always has. Your sort ain't welcome here."

The wolf could smell the hostility in the air. They were scared, but that fear didn't break them. It made them straighten their backs, it made them jumpy. His brother's eyes narrowed, and the wolf kept low to the ground, poised ready for a fight.

"This does not have to be a conflict between us, Lord Magnar," he said finally. "I invite you to come to Winterfell, I offer you a seat on the Winter Court. You have done Rickon a kindness, I would repay that."

"His name ain't Rickon!" the man snapped. "You think I would go with you savages and monsters?"

"Come to the capital, represent your people. Together Stark and Magnar might find a new partnership. Winterfell is your ally ." His brother grimaced, let out a breath. "This is the Long Night, my lord. Have you not seen the dead dragging your people's corpses into the water? All men must stand together against the cold."

"Fuck you." He spat on the ground. "And fuck the Starks. Skagos breaks to no one."

"You are sworn to Winterfell, my lord."

He shook his head. "Never. You lot waged war against us, but we never bent. Never in a thousand years has a Stark took tithe or blood price from Skagos." He raised his voice louder. "This is my son now - I claimed him before the Old Gods, he took the rite and he became my blood. I will not surrender my boy."

The wolf noticed how the bearded man was creeping closer, carefully urging his one-horn closer and closer towards the dragon.

"The dead are your enemy, not me."

"From where I'm looking," the fat, bearded man snapped, glaring up at the dragon, "you're just as much of a monster as those rotten things."

The wolf could feel his brother's patience running low. His voice turned cold. His human half was gradually losing his temper.

"Look around. Consider your position."

On the field, the stoneborn outnumbered the wildlings; there were near two hundred armoured men surrounding the fort, against the fifty men that had come by boat. Still, that hardly mattered at all while

the dragon stood between them. There were two hundred of them, but the dragon would be able to slaughter them all in a single breath.

A unicorn might be a tasty morsel for the dragon.

The white wolf took care not to step too close. Any creature with any sense kept its distance from the dragon. Apparently, the bearded man had no sense, though - he was creeping closer and closer.

"Only a fool makes more enemies when you are already facing the greatest, Lord Magnar," his brother continued. "The white walkers are out there, you have already suffered at their hands. We both have. I offer an alliance against them . Are you really so foolish to think me the greater threat?"

"You are all threats," the other man growled. "None are welcome on Skagos. We will handle our own land."

His brother paused, jaw clenching. He seemed to reach a decision. "Very well. If that is your will," he said finally. "Then give me Rickon Stark and I will leave."

The man's eyes bulged. "Steal my son?"

"I will take my brother home. His family - his real family - is waiting for him. That is not negotiable."

The crowd of men rippled. The wolf saw weapons being drawn, arrows tensing. It looked like the child was snivelling, weeping into the woman's shoulder.

The dragon took another step forward, and the one-horns nearly reared in panic. They were thrashing, struggling against their rider's reigns.

"If any harm comes to that child," his brother warned, loudly, "then I will destroy Skagos. All of it . I will destroy every keep, every village, and every house. I will wipe your people out of history from now and

evermore. You will surrender him now or I swear by the Old Gods that you will all suffer for it."

They were rippling, shaking with fear but ready for battle. The bearded man started trembling, his nostrils flaring. His face was reddening, filling with rage. "You are a fool, Bjarg Magnar," the dragonrider shouted downwards. "I offer you protection and you choose lunacy?"

"You offer death!"

His brother paused, and then turned to the huddle of stony men behind the four riders. His voice rose, and cut through the air. "If any of you have any sense," he boomed, "you will abandon your lord's folly. I will spare any man who surrenders. You have families on this isle, I offer a chance to save them from the Others." He focused on the child, and then on the woman holding him. "Osha, is it? I will protect Rickon, and that means removing him from this isle. If you care for his safety - and your own - come to me."

The woman didn't reply, but she was holding onto Rickon tightly, and stunk of nerves. The other riders stuck to a close formation around her, all of them struggling to control their panicking mounts.

The dragon loomed, and the wolf could smell the hesitation. Behind them, the wildlings were gripping weapons too.

"You dare?" the bearded man choked.

"If you will not see sense, then we are done talking."

"Aye." The man grit his teeth, hands tightening around his stone axe. "We are."

Without warning, the man snapped.

He threw his weapon upwards, and his brother ducked backwards. The throw was far too weak; the crude stone axe clattered

harmlessly off the dragon's jaw. The dragon's teeth parted, but the man was already shoving his one-horn into a charge. Its horn lowered, its hooves clattering.

He was roaring, as if he could single-handedly charge against a dragon. An aging, fat and bloated man, charging against a gargantuan monster. Behind them, arrows clattered off hard scales, while the other riders were scattering.

The dragon opened its mouth. "Stop!" his brother boomed. "Stop!"

The bearded man didn't seem to care. "We are the sons of stone!" he bellowed. He was screaming madly, riding against the dragon alone. "Never break!" he cried. " Never break !"

The wolf felt the air tingle, he felt something change…

The stoneborn screamed and charged. The wolf was only vaguely aware of Lord Magnar roaring, facing the dragon with furious, bloody eyes. He's bleeding, the wolf realised suddenly. The man's eyes were weeping thin trails of blood.

Then, a phantom pain ripped open its skull. The wolf barked, but the pain wasn't his. It was his brother's, he was clutching his head as the burning seared through his skull.

Shivers ran down the wolf's spine, something invisible pulsated through the air.

An aura was reaching outwards, stabbing forward like a lance.

It was the bloated man, the wolf realised. He was a skinchanger. He felt swollen with power and rage, forcing forward with all the strength he had. For a heartbeat, blood spurted from his eyes, running down his cheeks.

The human tried to possess the dragon, the wolf realised. He tried to forcibly subdue it.

The dragon twitched backwards, growled, and then immense muscles twisted. The earth under the dragon broke.

It was over before the wolf could even blink.

There was no restraint. In an instant, the dragon went berserk.

Slam . Claws lashed forward and crushed the man into pulp. He was instantly smeared, mount and all, all across the stones. The earth thudded. The wolf heard a child wail.

Then the dragon roared so loud the world went deaf.

Suddenly, the dragon was crashing forward - its tail lashing, jaws snapping. A jet of white fire blazed, bursting through the earthen fort. The monster roared in pure, berserk rage.

The white wolf was already sprinting away, running for cover so fast his paws kicked up billows of snow. He heard many men doing the same. He could hear a few arrows and spears whistling through the air, but the dragon could not be stopped.

A single whip of its tail and two dozen men were crushed against the stakewall.

A claw slammed downwards and tore out half the side of the hill.

Another twenty men went flying.

A cold light was glowing from between the dragon's teeth.

It all exploded into chaos.

Men were screaming, voices howling…

With a single beat of its wings, the dragon jumped forward over all the fort's defences, crashing down onto the shieldhall atop the hill. Men and women ran like insects, they were all writhing and screaming as the dragon bit downwards. The dragon was tearing the

roof straight off the fort, crushing through the wood and earth as bright white light glowed from its jaws.

"Stop!" a woman's voice shrieked. "Stop!"

The voice screamed at the top of her lungs, but the woman could still barely break through the sheer pandemonium. The black wolf was barking, frantic…

"We surrender!" she bellowed. " We surrender! "

The white wolf was already a safe distance away, hiding in the ferns. It looked like his bonded brother was struggling to even restrain the enraged dragon.

The fighting gone on barely a moment, but already the ground was covered in corpses. The icy breath had torn through a corner of the fort, and the dragon's weight had nearly collapsed the rest. The whole structure was shivering, about to give way.

The 'battle' was over before the bowmen even had time to notch a second arrow.

The woman was holding the child in her arms. The boy seemed hysterical with panic.

We surrender! " she screamed again. "His name is Rickon! Rickon Stark!"

Eventually, his brother managed to soothe the dragon. The woman was shrieking at the men, "Lower your weapons!" she screamed at them. "Lower them! I am Lady Magnar, I order you! We surrender! "

The wildlings were trekking into Kingshouse, unopposed. They pointed spears at the survivors, all the while distraught cries and sobs filled the air.

A cold mist lingered over the fort, broken palisades and frozen corpses scattered everywhere. The wolf stayed hidden in the ferns,

eyeing the dragon carefully.

The hardest part was convincing the dragon not to slaughter them all.

By the time his brother finally dismounted, the place was a wreck. His brother stood in the courtyard, as his soldiers pushed through the scattered barricades and seized the keep with ease. As the violence seemed to calm, the wolf crept back to his brother's side, tail drooped low.

The woman lowered herself to her knees, face first in the mud before him. She was an older woman, long and lean with a face like beaten leather. The woman stood taller than most of the men around her.

"King Snow." She did not raise her head, she kept her face pressed against the ground. The white wolf saw her gulp, heard her voice quaver. "Kingshouse is yours. House Magnar is yours."

His brother's voice was stiff. "Rise," he said curtly. "You are Osha, are you not?"

"I am." She was shaking. She still hadn't risen. "Lord Magnar took me as his third wife, and he took Stiv - Rickon - into his house."

"Why?"

Hesitantly, the woman raised her head, then shambled to her feet. "The lord was childless, he saw a Gift inside Rickon. He named Rickon as his heir."

"I see." His brother's cold gaze turned to stare at the maimed body smeared over the road. There was barely anything recognisable of the fat man - half of his body was still stuck in the dragon's claws, along with bloody pieces of his mount. "Did he know Rickon's identity?"

"No. I claimed him as my own son, and told no one." Her voice was throaty, eyes downward. "My husband only found out less than two months ago. Only after Stiv underwent the rite of clan, and he became named as Magnar's blood."

"The rite of clan?" his brother asked with a frown.

"A stoneborn ceremony," she mumbled. "My boy gave blood to the tree and ate meat. Human meat."

His brother turned to look at the boy, but the child was trembling as he tried to cover his face and hide his eyes. The boy was red-faced, sweating and sickly as he clutched the woman's furs. He was breathing so fast he might choke.

The white wolf trotted closer, looking around the shattered shieldhall. Spears were pointed at the squat men, forcing them to stand against the walls, or kneel in the mud.

His brother's expression was unreadable, but the wolf felt the unease slipping through their bond.

"Why did you bring my brother to Skagos, Osha?" his brother asked finally.

"I needed a place to hide, Your Grace. Winterfell was taken. It was a mad time. It seemed like nowhere was safe and everyone was hunting Rickon Stark." The woman grimaced, still not meeting her brother's eyes. "So I called him Stiv instead, and pretended to be a fisherwoman. I figured that Skagos was the one place no one would ever look." There was a flicker in her voice. "I did not expect Lord Magnar to take such an interest in the boy, did not expect…"

There was a long silence. His brother looked at the child, as if waiting for him to say something. The boy made no sound but strangled sobs.

"I cared for him as if he were mine own boy," the woman said finally, stroking his hair. "I swear I did, Your Grace. By the Old Gods, I looked after him. I thought his family were all lost, so I gave him a new one."

There was no reply.

Finally, his brother lowered himself to his knee, with a pained grimace, and outstretched his hand to the child. "Rickon," he called, voice softening. "It is me. Jon."

The boy didn't even look at him.

"It's been a long time, Rickon. Four years. You were just a babe the last I saw you, but look at you now." His voice was low, soothing, but the child still stank of fear, confusion and distraught anger. "But I'm here to bring you home. Bran, Sansa, they're waiting for you."

There was a long pause. His brother's outstretched hand remained empty.

The woman shook the child's shoulder, stroking his hair. "You must go with him, child."

"Mother…" the boy croaked.

"Go." she whispered. "You have to. He'll take you home."

This is my home. Please, he… he hurt father, you can't…" She tried to shake him away, but he clung on with tiny, pink fingers. He was sobbing. "Don't let him… !"

His brother finally stepped forward, and then hoisted the boy up off the ground. The child screeched madly. He tried to cling onto the woman, but she pulled away. She was crying too.

"Mother! Father!" the boy wailed, thrashing against the grip. "No! Get off me, get off… !"

His brother grit his teeth, and didn't listen as he carried his brother away. The child was screaming, kicking and hitting, tears pouring from red eyes.

From the yards, the black wolf started howling, thrashing. The wolf was loping forward, and suddenly the men had to try and restrain the beast. Spears were raised, men were shouting.

The white wolf bared its fangs and growled, protecting his brother against all who would do him harm. There were flustering emotions hovering in the air, sparks of violence and cries of alarm.

Around him, the black wolf tore into a man, crazed with blood. The white wolf jumped, while others were rallying.

For a moment, his brother was distracted. The boy managed to squirm out of his grip and tried to run, but then his brother caught him and dragged him back. The child was kicking and screaming with every step, right up until another man clamped his fingers over the child's mouth.

The boy bit down hard against the hand gagging him, drawing blood.

The sound of curses filled the air.

"Torvi, keep Rickon safe!" his brother ordered. "Restrain that direwolf - do not hurt it! Get these people under control."

Finally, they managed to force the crazed black wolf to the ground, by using large shields to pin it down. It took a dozen men to force it backwards into a corner and overpower it. The wolf was scratching and clawing, even as they finally gathered enough rope to hogtie its limbs. The men used the butt of a spear to press between its jaws, but then screams echoed as the great wolf managed to bite down into a man's neck and shake his entire body in its jaws. Blood splattered over stone.

Even as one man was being mauled to death, the others took the opportunity to wrap a rope around the wolf's neck.

The white wolf hovered besides his brother, poised and alert against any threat. The aggression was thick in the air.

As the boy was dragged away by a cold-skinned woman, the black wolf was finally brought under control. The black beast was yowling, moaning.

"Get Rickon out of here. I shall be flying back with him at all haste. But first…" His gaze turned around the yards, and then the ruins of Kingshouse. His gaze turned to settle on the weeping woman.

"Osha," he said finally, lowering his voice. "I want to know all of the leaders on Skagos, and where they are."

"They are all here, or further down the valley, King Snow." The woman finally stood, but kept her eyes low. "After Driftwood Hall fell, the Stanes and the Crowls flocked to Kingshouse. They took refuge in the Magnar's lands, along with most of their folk."

"And further afield?"

The woman frowned. "The Harstanes and Horgyrs were no friends of the Magnar's, they cling to the eastern isle. The Grawls keep docks and shipyards to the south, but I haven't heard none word of them since the dead appeared. Clan Steinn keep to their herds in the hills, but Magnar sent his cousin to call on them."

His brother nodded. "I want to know exactly which of them supported Lord Magnar."

The woman lowered her voice as she muttered a reply, occasionally pointing towards figures. As the evening stretched outwards, a frenzy of activity began.

The black direwolf was so agitated that they had to force it, still roped up, into a caged pen. It took five men just to drag it. The white wolf sniffed around the strange new place, occasionally pawing at its brother's cage. The smell of his black brother's pain and grief put the white wolf on edge.

The little child was locked up in an outhouse, guarded by two dozen men, all of them holding spears. The squat men and women were herded into separate tents, their axes and spears taken away from them. His brother walked between them, sorting through their scattered fort.

The direwolf saw a huddle of children cowering in the corner of the fort. They all seemed to be crying.

The smell of those one-horns was everywhere in the fort. His brother ordered his pack to confiscate all of the stoneborn's mounts.

Meanwhile, the dragon made its roost atop the broken shieldhall, which was collapsing under the dragon's weight. From the centre of the shieldhall, the dragon could stretch out over the entire fort.

The wolf could feel the anger and fear thick in the air. Its hackles were raised, senses peeled for any who intended harm. His brother still needed help to walk, so the direwolf kept close, hovering beside his brother's every limped step. Sometimes, his brother would clutch his fur for support.

They all gave the wolf a wide berth, mostly as the white wolf followed his brother around.

Towards dusk, there was a congregation gathering in the yard. One by one, a collection of hairy and squat men were forced to stand forward. They picked them out of the huddle, dragging them to the front of the fort.

His brother was there, surrounded by a barricade of spears. The white wolf followed to heel.

"These are them?" he asked, looking between the angry glares.

About two dozen of them.

"Aye, these are them," the woman Osha replied, keeping a hard voice. "These were Lord Magnar's top lieutenants and supporters."

She looked towards two sniffling bodies at the very edges. "And his other wives."

They were both very thick-waisted women standing on the end of the line, weeping quietly. The women seemed as hairy as the men; their hair was rough, matted black like seaweed, their jaws were thick, and their eyes were red and fierce.

More and more were forced to stand in a line before him. Some were angry, some grieving, but they were all terrified. More than a few had soiled their furs.

"I see," his brother said slowly. "And these are the ones that resisted my forces?"

"They are."

"We defended our homes!" a man shouted defiantly, but his voice was trembling.

"You did." He nodded. "And you also murdered my envoys. You denied all negotiation, all chance at resolution. You forced me to this."

Nobody dared to object. Above them, the dragon's neck arched downwards, curious to see what was happening. The shadow of the dragon loomed over them all, and a few whimpered. "Are you going to judge them, Your Grace?" the woman asked.

His brother shook his head. "No." There was a pause for a moment.

Then, he seemed to reach a decision. " Dracarys," he said finally.

In an instant, the dragon breathed. The wolf felt the swash of cold air wash over its fur. Ice blasted, voices screamed, and furious teeth snapped downwards.

In a flurry of quick bites, the dragon swallowed them all whole.

Sansa

It was past the hour of ghosts when she heard the bell tower ringing, when she heard the air above Winterfell twist like a storm.

The moon was obscured by clouds, the darkness thick and complete. The watchmen didn't notice the immense figure in the sky until the very moment it whooshed over Winterfell's spires. And then all of Winterfell and the surrounding refugee camps started to fill with panicked shouts.

Sansa was instantly shaken awake by the roar of the wind. At first she thought it was a winter gale causing the keep to tremble, but then she felt the air shift as an immense mass dropped from the sky. She was instantly out of bed, grabbing her cloak from where it lay and pulling the furs over her as she rushed to the balcony.

She saw white wings flapping as the beast circled over the castle, coming in for a landing. The sight took her breath away.

The dragon had returned.

The keep was already stirring as the bells clattered, even despite the unholy hour. It felt like she was half-asleep, but she still had to rush. Her head was woozy and tired, but Sansa quickly pulled on her shoes, and wrapped her hair up in a crude knot.

There was an urgent knock at the door. It was her guard's voice, a man named Wilhelm. "Your Grace!"

"I heard it!" she snapped. "I'm coming."

Sansa had ordered the guards to warn her the moment that Jon returned, but in retrospect that had been a foolish order. Of course the dragon would alert everyone all at once by itself. She was still in her sleeping clothes, but Sansa simply pulled her cloak and dress over the top. Sansa dressed herself in record time, and then paced quickly out of her chambers.

Wilhelm, Boderick, Watt, Keg and Duncan were already waiting, their faces anxious under their helms and each one gripping their spear tightly.

She heard the sound of the dragon's roar. The dragon was roaring as it circled lower and lower, wings beating harder as it descended, trying to clear the godswood of all the foolish worshippers who flocked there. If the dragon had landed in a rush, all of those people beneath would have been squashed.

As Sansa stepped outside, the yards were already awake and stirring. It was impossible for a dragon to do anything discreetly - it was like a parade with every step it took.

There were more guards and men-at-arms rushing to her side, until she was being trailed by two dozen of them.

"Your Grace…" an urgent voice called, and Sansa saw a portly man rushing over the stones. Archmaester Marwyn was fully dressed, and his eyes were practically glowing in excitement. Her guard's spears crossed to block his way. "Your Grace, the dragon-"

"Step back inside, maester," Sansa ordered curtly. Marwyn flustered. "Princess, the dragon… !" "Step back inside."

Her voice left no room for argument. With a nod, one of Sansa's guards broke off and escorted the maester away. Marwyn looked like he wanted to resist, but Sansa allowed no argument and the guard roughly forced him back into the keep.

Marwyn had proved himself very useful recently, but Sansa still would not trust the archmaester next to the dragon. She had taken care to keep him at a distance. No, Sansa would have to wait to clear the matter with Jon first, before she even allowed Marwyn anywhere near the beast.

Across Winterfell, the beat of the dragon's wings was like a hurricane circling above.

Sansa and her guards arrived at the godswood just as the beast finally landed with a great thump. Her guards had to push her through the crowds, while the surrounding voices reached a frenzy. It was a queer type of panic; some were trying to run away urgently, and others were trying to push closer. The godswood felt like a cattle pen; filled with bodies cramming and squirming through the trees.

All around the heart tree, Sansa saw pale faces with their heads lowered in prayer.

By the time her guards managed to clear the path, Sonagon had dropped its head to rest in the hot springs, its tail curling around the heart tree. She saw that Jon was already climbing down the crest of the scales. He moved with a great deal of care and difficulty - gingerly trying to lever his way down a makeshift saddle of hemp ropes.

It was only Sansa's fifth time or so seeing the dragon up close, but the sight never ceased to take her breath away.

She couldn't help a quiet shiver as she stared up at the dragon's immense bulk. She felt like a mouse approaching a wolf as she nervously inched closer.

The princess hovered gingerly, nervous to come any closer. The dragon was breathing deeply, and it collapsed almost instantly - perhaps the beast was exhausted from its flight.

The crowd was thick, but they still granted Sonagon a wide berth. Everything felt hushed - the loudest sound was the dragon's breath, while all others were muttering. The dragon would need only to roll over onto its side and it might crush over a half a hundred men.

It was a frightening feeling to approach a creature large enough to squash you without even noticing.

Jon seemed to be having trouble descending the thirty or so feet from Sonagon's crown to the ground. It was only as Sansa came closer that she realised why. There was a squirming shape fastened to Jon's chest; he was trying to hold onto a large bundle with one hand and to clutch a rope with the other. His legs were struggling to find a grip on the scales as he rappelled downwards. Sansa heard Jon cursing and grimacing with every step downwards, but the people around him seemed too nervous to step forward to help.

In his grip, Sansa noticed, he was holding a young, pale-faced boy. It was only as Jon's feet squelched into the mud that Sansa got a closer look.

The boy was around six years old, she realised. There was a momentary confusion, but then she met Jon's gaze, and her breath froze in the humid air.

He never even needed to tell her; she just could tell from his expression. Sansa was already pulling up her dress and jogging forward to meet him.

" Rickon? " she gasped.

She barely recognised him. As a toddler, Rickon's hair had been a bright auburn, almost like copper, but age had darkened his hair to near black. His bright blue eyes were red from tears, and he was kicking and wriggling in weak thrashes. The boy looked little like a prince; he was wearing grimy hides and dirty furs. His shoulder-length hair was filthy and unkempt, his face sickly pale.

Rickon? Is it truly…?

Jon was staggering forward with a wince of pain, but Sansa had eyes only for her baby brother.

"Rickon, it's me, Sansa…" she cried. "Oh gods, Rickon…"

The child replied only by pulling back his lips and spitting at her. Sansa had been reaching to embrace him, but his lips curled and he reared like a vicious rat. Sansa was left dumbfounded as the glob of phlegm landed on her dress.

Jon grimaced, but he didn't slacken his grip on the boy. Jon was holding him almost in a chokehold. Rickon's eyes were raw and red, but there were no tears. The child was swaying senselessly, writhing with dazed eyes. Jon met Sansa's gaze briefly, and then turned away.

"Guards!" Jon shouted, while the men saluted around. "Have the captain escort Prince Rickon. He needs a clean change of clothes, and plenty of water."

There was no reply from Rickon except a torrent of words that Sansa could not recognise. They are curse words, she thought. She did not need to understand them to recognise the meaning behind them.

Her baby brother was spitting curses at her. The boy seemed hysterical, still struggling against his half-brother's grip.

Sansa stared, trying to match the feral wild boy before her with the baby brother she had once known. Has Jon brought the wrong child?

Jon paused wearily, his eyes were grim. He was likely thinking the same thing. Sansa could see something of a resemblance in the boy's features, but it was hard to tell through the twisted face and red eyes.

The child is angry , Sansa realised. There was no joy in the boy's expression, there was only raw hate.

Sansa didn't know what to do.

Rickon was carried away from the dragon, but he still resisted with every step. Sansa tried to approach him, but her little brother cursed and spat wildly. Sansa couldn't even understand the slurred words, but the viciousness behind them was clear.

"Take Prince Rickon to a secure chamber," Jon ordered to the surrounding guards, then glanced to her. "Forgive him, Sansa, it's been… an unpleasant journey."

She wasn't sure how to reply for a moment. "What happened?" Sansa said finally with a deep breath, keeping her voice low.

"It is near a full day's flight from Skagos to Winterfell. I didn't risk making a waystop," he said grimly, in between shouting orders to the worshippers. "But Rickon was so restless, he never stopped struggling all the way from Skagos. I had to drag him onto Sonagon to begin with, and then I had to tie him down to keep him there. I still feared he might fall - he nearly wriggled free during the flight. It was bad from the start, and it got so much worse once we broke through the clouds. I think he's afraid of heights." Jon sighed wearily, and shook his head. "As Sonagon broke the clouds he was out of his mind with fear."

Sansa frowned, inspecting Jon more closely. Her half-brother looked like hell; every inch of him was battered and grimy, his face was gaunt and thinner than she remembered from mere weeks ago, and his limp was worse than ever before. His face was pale, and his eyes shadowed, and he was wincing heavily with each limp. He looked fit to collapse, and beneath his riding furs, his armour looked half-ruined; like he had just walked off a battlefield.

Sansa glanced back at Rickon - the boy was left dehydrated, terrified and delirious. The journey must have been pure torture.

"And he puked on me," Jon admitted, glancing down to his ruined furs. "Several times, in fact."

Jon finally released Rickon onto the carpet of humus and ferns. It looked like he might have ran away, but he couldn't even stand straight. He just dropped to the ground. Rickon was a wild thing. Sansa hovered around him, but the boy was crazed; stumbling, spitting and cursing. "Did you have to put Rickon through that?" Sansa asked with a grimace. "He's a child."

"It's either a several week's journey on land, or one long day by dragonback," Jon replied simply. "Sonagon may not be the most pleasant option, but the dragon is still the fastest and safest. I needed to get Rickon off Skagos with all haste. It was not safe there, Sansa."

She couldn't argue the point, but the sight of her little brother like this, crazed like some tortured animal… it was a disturbing sight. The guard Duncan rushed back with a bucket of water and a fresh cloak, but Rickon hissed at the man when he tried to take him.

"Here, let me…" Sansa reached downwards, to try and take the ruined fur cloak off her brother. Sansa couldn't even tell what hide his clothes were made from, it was a rough and unfamiliar material. Rickon only shrieked, trying to claw at her with podgy fingers. "No, Rickon, don't… !"

The child screamed. The crowd was left staring at the scene, but none approached. I cannot do this here, not in front of everybody, Sansa cursed.

Finally, Wilhelm had to reach down and pin the young child still to get him to stay.

"Get him to the keep," Sansa ordered.

The prince tried to bite him as he grabbed him. Rickon brought his teeth down hard, even despite the man's thick leather gloves. The guards seemed nervous to approach the wild prince.

Rickon's shriek broke the air, like the cry of a distraught animal.

Sansa wanted to hold her little brother, but Jon met her gaze, and then shook his head. "Not tonight, Sansa, let him rest," Jon said lowly. " I'm fit to collapse after that journey, Rickon must be crazed." Sansa hesitated. "Lock him in a room, let him sleep for now, and let none disturb him. Have a maester check up on him, maybe. We might make a better introduction in the morn."

Reluctantly, Sansa agreed. It was good that Bran wasn't here; she didn't want her brother to see Rickon like this, so raw and wild. Rickon doesn't remember me , Sansa thought, staring at the boy as he was dragged away. There had been no recollection in his eyes. Perhaps it wasn't surprising; Rickon had only been three years old when she had left Winterfell. He was six now, almost seven.

Sansa entrusted Wilhelm and Andric to carry Rickon, all the while she trailed close behind. The boy was still trying to bite the men who pulled him away, still cursing in the Old Tongue. His eyes looked dazed. Sansa followed, and Jon limped beside her.

Just what happened at the Wall? At Skagos? She had heard reports of the former, unbelievable as they were, but nothing at all of the latter.

Behind them, it seemed like the dragon was already asleep.

All around them, the gaggle of faithful lined the godswood's path, but her guards kept them back. The onlookers weren't aggressive, but they were murmuring with their hands outstretched towards Jon. A few of the more daring tried to touch Sonagon's scales. Her half-brother didn't even meet their gazes.

They walked slowly out of the woods, letting the guards clear the way. Jon was staggering heavily with every step, fatigued and weak.

It looks like a severe case of cramps, Sansa noticed. And Jon's legs weren't very strong even on the best of days. Sansa had never seen her half-brother in such a state.

Still, she couldn't let him rest without answering… "How did it fare on Skagos?" she asked finally.

"Poorly." Jon's jaw was tense. "Rickon was adopted by Lord Magnar, Sansa. The lord had no idea of his identity, but he took Rickon into his house. A rite of clan, Lord Magnar called it - he was claimed as the lord's own blood."

"What?" That caught her off-guard. The statement was baffling to her, she wasn't sure if she had misheard. "Why?"

"The Lord Magnar was old and childless, even despite multiple marriages. So he chose his heir instead," Jon explained, keeping his voice low so none would overhear. Sansa had to walk very closely next to him. "Lord Magnar wanted a warg to carry on his line, and Rickon is a powerful one." Sansa's gaze flickered. "By Skagosi law, Rickon is now the new lord of the House Magnar."

The Lord of House Magnar? That was a lot to take in, Sansa had to pause to digest the words. "And then this Lord Magnar?"

"A fool. A stubborn old man." Jon's voice turned foul. "I offered Magnar peace, but the stoneborn were too set in their ways. That isle has been isolated for far too long." He shook his head. "I gave Lord Magnar no chance to resist, I wanted him to surrender without blood, but he instead tried to possess Sonagon - he tried to seize control of the dragon himself."

Sansa's eyes widened slightly. Seize control? Is that a risk we must consider? "Is that possible?"

"Not for him." Jon kept his head lowered as they walked over the cobbles of the courtyard. " I can barely control Sonagon myself some days, and the dragon quite likes me. A dragon is not a wolf, its skin cannot be worn so easily. Lord Magnar was a powerful skinchanger, more powerful than most, but it did him no good."

Sansa wasn't sure how to reply to that. Archmaester Marwyn had been teaching her something of skinchangers and wargs - an archaic magic of the First Men, Marwyn had said. While other magic required spells or rituals, skinchanging was a primal, natural magic. Skinchanging is to spellcraft what swimming in the ocean is to sailing, as Marwyn phrased it. It felt surreal to hear Jon talk about such things so matter-of-factly.

Still, Sansa could not dwell on it for long. "And what of the other stonelords?" she asked as they walked.

"I brought them to heel."

"How?"

His voice didn't even flicker. "I lined up the loudest of the objecters, and I fed them all to Sonagon."

He did what? Sansa didn't speak, but her lips tightened and her brow knotted in concern. Jon must have caught her gaze.

"The Others have a fleet, Sansa," Jon said sharply. "The white walkers are building bone ships on the eastern coast, they plan to sail south. Skagos will shortly become the very front line of that war." They what? Sansa hadn't heard such things; the dragon movedfaster than a raven. "I needed to secure that isle quickly to stand against the Others, and I could not allow any petty disputes by the Skagossons to weaken that effort. I offered them a chance, they refused it - and then afterwards I did not offer a second."

She didn't reply, there was too much to process. The Others have a fleet? That news caused tremors down her spine. They didn't breakstep as they crossed over the courtyard, keeping their voices low as they mumbled to each other. Guardsmen led and trailed behind them, clearing a path through the crowds. Sansa did not want such uneasy talk to spread around the castle.

Ahead of them, it looked like Rickon had finally fallen unconscious as he was carried through the yards.

"A woman named Osha is now one of the strongest voices on Skagos," Jon continued. "She is Lord Magnar's widow. She was pretending to be Rickon's mother, and I believe her loyalty is to him. I left her in a position of power, and promised Winterfell's gratitude for keeping order."

"I see."

She walked quietly for a good while as Jon told her of the state of the north. The Breach and the ruins of Castle Black, the battle at Eastwatch and the siege of the Wall. The evacuation of the Gift. Some of it Sansa had already known, but much was new to her - like the news of the Others assembling a fleet of bone ships at Hardhome. Jon spoke in a grim and tired voice. Such things might have once beggared belief, but Sansa did not dare to doubt them now.

Jon described an army of legions, an unending horde. Millions of wights, both human and beast. Even fish and whales, she heard him say, scarcely believing it. Skagos sounded like it had already been devastated by the Other's attacks, Jon described the isle in language akin to that of an apocalypse.

Sansa felt a cold sweat on her skin. A more foolish girl would have tried to dismiss the words, but Sansa just listened solemnly.

Sansa's eyes lingered on Rickon, wondering if he had seen such things too. Rickon had found a new family, but then Jon had been forced to take him from it. No wonder the child was so distraught.

All the while I lived as Alayne Stone, she realised, Rickon was Stiv Magnar .

They approached the steps of the keep, and Sansa extended her arm to help support Jon up the stairs. It was the cold of night, and a fine layer of frost was already creeping back over the stone. Jon took her arm without a word, ascending the stone steps with staggered limps.

"What happened to Rickon's wolf?" Sansa asked finally. The wolf wasn't the most pressing concern, but it was a nagging concern in the back of her mind.

"Shaggydog was feral," Jon explained lowly. "He killed two of my men trying to chain him, but they managed to muzzle him. Shaggydog is with Ghost now, at Eastwatch. I have assigned men to escort both wolves to Winterfell, but Shaggydog will stay chained and muzzled, at least for now."

"Why?" she asked. "Why go to such lengths to save a feral wolf?"

Jon hesitated for a moment before he replied, as he limped up the steps. "Because I know that Rickon would never forgive me if Shaggydog died."

Sansa paused, as her thoughts drifted back to Lady. She had been thinking about her former pet a lot recently. If my direwolf was still alive, she wondered, then would I be one of these 'wargs' too?

There was a quiet, as they stepped through the gates to the keep. Jon was dragging his feet, as if fit to collapse from fatigue at any moment. Sansa's eyes lingered on the dead shape of Rickon hanging limp in the guard's arms. He had managed to cry and shriek himself into unconsciousness, apparently.

"The coronation will be soon." Sansa said finally. "Will Rickon be fit to attend?"

"I don't know," he admitted, and then paused. "I expected to miss the coronation - I thought you would have crowned Bran already."

"I delayed it for you." He turned to look at her. "It was too dangerous to hold it in your absence," Sansa argued. "Too many still consider you King Snow . There can be no doubt - the whole realm must see you cede your crown, Jon."

"Ack, fine." His jaw clenched. "As soon as possible."

She measured his expression, noting the dark circles under his eyes. "When was the last time you slept?"

He shrugged. "What day is it?"

"You're burning the candle at both ends, Jon," Sansa warned. "Even your dragon is exhausted. You are fighting battles back to back in every corner of the realm, it is too much for any man."

His eyes narrowed. "There's an invasion happening, Sansa."

"Aye, there is. But how long do you think you can keep this up?"

"As long as I must." Jon paused. "You must have heard of the Breach?"

"I have," Sansa admitted. "Bran told me of it first, and then we received refugees saying the same. Many here are still in disbelief."

"Tis true. The Wall is broken - there's a hundred foot gap straight through at Castle Black. The Others resurrected monsters, wingless dragons even larger than Sonagon to tear through it," Jon said, his voice curt. Sansa twitched slightly. "The Others are pressing forward hard with their invasion. They are already renewing their assault, and it will only get worse from here."

Yes, Sansa did not doubt how critical it was. Winterfell was far from the warfront, but they had still seen the streams of refugees heading south. The coalition had captured several hundred unchained wights after the battles to the north, and no man could question the damage the realm had taken.

Even with enforced conscription, Winterfell was struggling to fill its garrisons. Their soldiers had suffered too many losses, they were forced to recruit semi-trained militia. They needed every farmer and cowherd holding spears in their ranks, but they made for extremely poor soldiers.

Sansa knew the mood in the castle - it was like there was a time limit hanging over everybody's heads. How long do we have?

Jon and Sansa stopped walking in the hallway of the castle, turning to look at each other as the guards walked ahead. The shadows of the torches danced around them, and a hundred eyes were watching from the corridors. Their voices dropped further. "I cannot linger here for long, Sansa," Jon whispered. "I must fly back north at all haste."

Sansa shook her head. "You cannot. You must go south instead."

He stared at her, his eyes narrowing. "Sansa…"

There was no surprise, only indignation. So he did receive my letter . Sansa hadn't been sure if the missive she had penned would catch him in time. Sansa could see the raw emotions across his face - he was too fatigued to hide him them.

He looked ready to object, but she cut him off. "Daenerys Targaryen is coming. She brings what might be the largest army in the world," she said sharply. "She is an undisputed Targaryen - the rightful heir to the Iron Throne to many. She comes with a fleet as large as Nymeria's, and legions of followers. And she has dragons, Jon - three dragons." Jon's gaze flickered, but he nodded. "Aegon meansto unite with Daenerys against us. You must stop that."

He bristled. "You want me to marry this woman?"

"I do." She nodded. "There must be an alliance, and a betrothal is the best means. If Daenerys has any sense, she will consider it."

"Sense? She is the Mad King's daughter!" Jon shook his head. "And there are battles to be fought here."

"There will always be battles to be fought," she retorted. "But there is only one dragon and the front line must hold without you."

"You don't know what you're talking about," he said sharply. "Do you have any idea of the size of the Other's army?"

"Oh, I can see it in your eyes." Sansa nodded. "But still, you must go south. Firstly, there is a Vale fleet sailing in the Bite that only a dragon can clear. And then our envoys must reach southwards - there is Daenerys, and Aegon. We must ensure an alliance with at least one of them."

His eyes narrowed, hands clenched. A flash of anger flickered over his features. "I am not asking you to do anything I wouldn't," Sansa added. "I am prepared to betroth myself to Aegon Targaryen to secure an alliance with him as well."

He scoffed. "You remember what happened the last time a Targaryen took a northern daughter?"

"Jon, that's unfair…"

"There is bad blood between us and House Targaryen, and yet your plan is to marry two of them?"

"My plan is to secure aid," she argued. "We cannot last like this."

"But how long will that take?" he snapped. "The longer the Others roam, the larger their army becomes. I have seen their army, you have not."

His voice was growing too loud, too agitated. Perhaps this was a bad time to have this discussion, Sansa admitted. Still, she steppedforward, glaring up at him and lowered her voice to a breathy whisper.

"Think of Robb, Jon," she hissed. "Robb fought all of his battles too."

His gaze darkened. They were attracting too much attention standing in the middle of the hall, Sansa could see people staring. With a grimace, Sansa wrapped her arm around Jon's and urged him to keep on walking, side by side.

"Robb was too focused on the battle in front of him as well," Sansa whispered. "Robb never sought out alliances either. Just think, where might we be now if he had reached out - not only to his aunt, but to all the Vale houses, or to Highgarden, or even Dorne?

"Sansa, it is not the same…"

"Oh, it is. Robb lost because he was too busy fighting those battles. Robb was too focused on the battle today; he did not prepare for the war tomorrow." Jon did not reply. They turned a corner, walking towards the lord's wing of the castle. "You said it yourself, Jon - the Others are unending. Their armies don't eat, but ours do. They hardly even need to fight us; they could just sit outside our castles and wait until we starve. An alliance is the only thing that might stop that from happening."

The very mention of Robb seemed to drain all the protest from him. He didn't look happy with the thought, but he didn't object either. The only sound was their footsteps as they walked down the gloomy corridor.

"We cannot make the same mistake," Sansa said finally. "We cannot be like Robb."

The sound of another pair of footsteps caused them both to twitch. Someone else was walking towards them, with slow and quiet steps. A shadow loomed in the flickering torchlight; a figure coming into focus. Sansa saw pale blond hair and blue eyes.

Lady Val of Whitetree was standing at the other end of the corridor, watching them without a word. Both Sansa and Jon froze under her gaze. Lady Val was a beautiful woman in the dark, Sansa considered, but it was only on a closer look that she saw the shadowed circles under her eyes and the gauntness to her cheeks. She wore a thick cloak wrapped around her even despite the warmth, and then Sansa saw the empty sleeve hanging from her shoulder.

Jon stopped instantly, meeting Val's gaze. Sansa hadn't known that the woman was walking about already.

Sansa looked between the both of them, reading the silence. Neither of them spoke, and the moment stretched outwards.

"I will leave you two alone," Sansa offered, stepping backwards.

Jon nodded. His gaze lingered on Val's missing arm.

Still, Sansa hesitated before she left. "The coronation will be soon, Jon," Sansa added. "And then we are putting father's bones to rest."

He only nodded.

She turned and walked away, and then Jon stepped forward. Sansa left him alone on the corridor with Val, but just before she turned the corner Sansa saw him stepping forward to embrace her.

The hallways were stiff and uneasy. Sansa took a deep breath as she walked.

There was so much to do, so much to worry about but still… Rickon, Sansa thought. I have my baby brother again .

The entire castle was already awake - she doubted anyone could sleep through the dragon's arrival. Sansa stepped out the way she came, and there was already a crowd milling in the hallway.

They were waiting for Jon, she knew. A few of them gazed at her, but the rest were waiting on word from the prince and dragonrider.

Lords, knights and envoys were pushing their way forward, a mumbling rising through the hall.

Sansa's attention turned towards a tall and grey-haired man, with a slight frown on his face. Half of Ser Brynden's face was hidden beneath his eyepatch, the other half looked concerned.

The Blackfish was staring at where Jon had disappeared. Sansa was curious about his reaction - the old knight must have seen them walking together. "So that is Jon Snow, is it?" Ser Brynden said finally, his voice a murmur.

"Yes." She nodded as she stepped closer. "It is."

"He looks little like his father."

"The likeness has faded," she admitted. "I will introduce you to him, ser, but that would be best saved for the morn."

"Aye." Ser Brynden paused distractedly. "This is my first time seeing Jon Snow in person. Oh, I've heard about him aplenty - south of the Neck, they whisper of him as if he were king of all Seven Hells. I expected someone taller."

"I put little trust in talk, ser."

"I do not trust him, Sansa." The Blackfish shook his head warningly. "Your mother never trusted him."

Trust him? Sansa mused on that for a moment. It was a curious thought. "I know him, ser. I trust Jon's intentions."

"Cat told me once that Jon Snow threatened to steal Robb's seat," Ser Brynden said, with foulness in his voice. "Your mother had poor words concerning the bastard. When I heard of his 'northern coalition', I was certain that Cat had been proven right."

"I am here now only because of him." Sansa reminded. "Bran and Rickon are only here because of Jon too."

The Blackfish didn't object the point, but his eye didn't relax either.

Yes, Sansa had heard similar things before. Ser Brynden had known of King Snow for months, but he had refused to travel north to serve him. Lord Reed had confided to Sansa that the Blackfish had once considered Jon Snow to be worse than the Boltons - it had only been

news of Sansa and Bran that convinced Ser Brynden to change his mind and come to Winterfell.

Sansa paid no mind; she did not doubt her great-uncle's commitment, and a little bit of suspicion was oft a healthy thing.

Ser Brynden had proven himself, regardless. Lord Reed was too infirm for battle, and in his stead the Blackfish was the one who led House Reed's forces against Moat Cailin. The battle for Moat Cailin had been the final conflict in the Bolton war, against the last remnants of their Bolton supporters. The Blackfish had lost an eye to a Dustin bowman, as he scaled the Moat's wall along with crannogmen under cover of darkness.

The princess stepped away, and then she noticed another familiar figure hovering by the staircase. Lord Reed was halfway up the stairs, clutching the bannister tightly.

The lord's eyes were fixed on the lower level, on where Jon had disappeared. He watched us arrive, she realised, he must have been staring at Jon . Still, Sansa couldn't even guess Lord Reed'sthoughts; his gaunt face was guarded, his green eyes were indecipherable to her.

Something about his gaze made Sansa look at him more closely. "My lord?" the princess called. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Lord Reed didn't reply for some time. "I think I might have," he muttered, so low she could barely hear.

Sansa paused, then chose to walk away.

She settled in for a long night. She didn't even try to go back to sleep again; she knew she wouldn't be able to.

Instead, she walked up to the royal tower, where Bran was left stirring anxiously in his quarters. Bran would have wanted to see Jon

arrive too, Sansa knew, but the little king was trapped in his chamber without his litter and the escorts to carry him.

Bran's face lit up when Sansa told him of Rickon. "It's true," she remembered saying, "Rickon is home."

Bran wanted to see Rickon straight away, but Sansa had to urge him to wait until the morning. She could only hope Rickon would be in a more approachable mood after some rest.

During the final hours of the night, Sansa found herself dropped behind the chair in her study. There was a nearly complete missive addressed to King Aegon that Sansa had spent days writing with painstaking care. She was so tired she could have just dropped, but instead she settled over the parchment with her quill, determined to see the letter finished.

She would write the peace offer for King Aegon, and then Jon could fly south on his dragon to deliver it.

Across the castle, the morning light rose sluggishly.

As soon as she left, she saw Archmaester Marwyn waiting outside of the hallway of her chamber. The archmaester looked anxious. "Your Grace, concerning the dragon," he said urgently, with no greetings, "You promised that I could further my research - if only I could have your permission to run a few tests on the dragon?"

"It is Prince Snow's permission you need, not mine," she replied curtly. "And the prince is distracted."

"Your Grace, those cultists are allowed near the dragon."

The cultists are the ones guarding it, Sansa thought to herself. Mother Mole and her Circle had all but fortified the godswood around the dragon's roost and the heart tree. "It is Prince Snow's right to decide who accesses his dragon." Sansa's eyes narrowed. "But you

have other matters to attend to, archmaester. You promised that you could establish spells to protect against wraiths, did you not?"

"I did." The man grimaced. "But such wards take time, it is not-"

"Well, you have a day," Sansa ordered. "It will be Bran's coronation shortly, and I would see the Great Hall secured against such beings. Then we may talk about Prince Snow's dragon."

Marwyn looked like he might have protested, but he chose to swallow the objection instead. He promised that he could draw runes on the walls that might help, and she watched as the stocky man shuffled away.

As he left, it occurred to Sansa that she was left with the quandary of how to test such a thing. How could they know if these 'wards' worked or not? Should they hope for a shadow to appear just to prove the archmaester's words? It was a headache no matter how she viewed it. The uncertainty was torturous. Damnable magic .

Underneath her dress, Sansa kept two daggers strapped to her thigh. As a child, she would never have dreamt of keeping a concealed weapon, but recently she had realised the need. It was not ladylike to carry a blade, but it was comforting. The weight of the blades reminded her of her sister, sometimes.

The first weapon was the Valyrian steel dagger she had stolen from Littlefinger, and the second was a small weirwood stake. Protection against both white walkers and shadow assassins, she reasoned. In truth, she knew that both weapons would likely be useless against such threats - the shadow assassin had moved faster than a man could blink, she had been told - but it made her feel better to have some degree of control.

She left it until near noon before she went to go see Rickon. Sansa dressed herself properly, and approached hesitantly towards Rickon's quarters. They had assigned him his former room, but Sansa knew the smell of other occupants still stained the bed. The

guards kept the door locked; none but family were allowed to approach.

As she stepped through the chamber, she saw the mattress and sheets were torn and crumpled into a ball, but they hadn't been slept on. The chamber was empty. For an instant, her heart leapt into her throat, and then she heard sniffling coming from somewhere. Rickon had crawled underneath the bed, she realised. The boy was hiding beneath it like a wolf in its den.

She took a deep breath as she lowered herself to her knees and bent onto the stone floor.

"Rickon?" she called gingerly. "Rickon, it's me… Sansa. I'm your sister, do you not remember…?"

As she lowered herself down, she saw red, weeping eyes from the shadows. The boy seemed half-feral. She tried to urge him out from the bed, but then he snapped into shrieking curse words.

"Never break!" Rickon barked, writhing away from her. " Never break! "

He snapped the words like a curse, chanting them as he spat at her from the shadows under the bed. Never break. They are the words of House Magnar, Sansa realised slowly.

Sansa heard from the staff that they had tried to serve him a morning meal, but the prince had thrown the bowl of porridge into a serving girl's face. As she lingered in his room, Sansa could hear quiet sobbing from underneath the bed frame.

By the time she finally stepped out of Rickon's room, she was in a grim mood. She felt exhausted and lost. Sansa was left wondering how her mother would deal with such a tantrum. As a girl, she had seen Mother growing distraught over Arya's rebellious behaviour, but she had never really understood what it felt like.

My mother. My family . Seeing Rickon again brought back so many raw feelings.

In the hallway, Ser Brynden was waiting anxiously. The tall knight gave a grimace as he saw her expression. "Your brother," the Blackfish said finally. "Is he well?"

"He is… healthy." Her voice was faint. Sansa cradled a circular scratch on her knuckles, where Rickon had bit her hand. His gummy teeth had even drawn a dribble of blood.

"I heard that the boy was distraught," Ser Brynden admitted. "He has been through a lot."

We all have, Sansa could have replied. She kept silent instead.

The Blackfish hesitated. "If you want, perhaps I could try to reach him?" he offered. "Mayhaps a man's voice might-?"

"No." Sansa shook her head, and then reached a decision. "Allow my brother space for now. Forgive me, ser, but we must hold Bran's coronation soon. This afternoon, if we can manage it. May you inform Lord Reed?"

The knight paused, and then bowed. Sansa was already striding forward. She forced herself to focus on matters she could deal with.

With a few words, the preparations for the coronation were in full swing. The crowning ceremony had been planned days ago, but placed on indefinite hold until Jon returned. Sansa knew that Jon was intent on flying off quickly, and she could not miss this chance again.

There was no time to waste.

The guests were already in Winterfell, she needed to gather them. She needed to ensure the guards were alert and the keep was

secured. She could not allow the cultists to make another mess of the proceedings, she had to make sure everyone had their role.

Originally, she had intended for it to be Lord Manderly who would place the crown on Bran's head, but Sansa was more inclined to grant the honour to Lord Reed. The Greatjon was still not well-enough to stand, but he was at least stable enough to be carried to the hall. The Lords Manderly, Umber and Reed represented the strongest of House Stark's supporters, they all needed to be present.

Meanwhile, Tormund Giantsbane, the Weeper, and that insufferable witch woman would head up the free folk clans. It was a headache just to imagine the northern lords on one side and the wildlings on the other.

And the guards, she mentally added. The last time there had been a congregation of important figures, that shadow assassin had appeared. Sansa couldn't allow the same to happen again. She ordered that every guard in the hall would be readied with both weirwood and obsidian weapons.

Quickly, the entire afternoon was consumed by activity and preparations. They could not hold a coronation today, but Sansa was determined to see it next morning.

She wanted Rickon to attend, but it seemed certain that the child would only make a scene. He would be left to his room.

In her chambers, the crown of white silver and weirwood rested atop her cabinet. She held it for a time, tracing her fingers along the patterns. It wasn't Robb's crown, regrettably - as far as anyone knew, that crown of bronze and black iron had been lost at the Red Wedding - but this would serve, she supposed. It certainly looked the part. Previously, Sansa had kept the crown hidden in an old dress at the back of her closet so that none would steal it.

As night fell, Sansa and Wynafryd were left sorting out clothes to wear. A velvet dress with a white bear fur shawl for her, while

Wynafryd preferred to wear wool and silk, with a sealskin cloak. She even spent time picking out Jon's and Bran's clothes; a shadowskin cloak and a fine mink tunic for Jon to make him seem civilised, while Bran would wear a thick wolfhide cloak to make the boy look larger and older on the throne.

It was easier to distract herself with such things, rather than obsess over problems she never knew how to solve.

Her guards relayed messages to and from her ear. Jon had removed himself to his quarters along with Val, and many who wanted the prince's attention were instead trying to go through her. Marwyn continually pestered her about the dragon, while Lord Manderly insisted on having Jon address an assembly. Salladhor Saan vehemently wanted a meeting with the dragonlord, the emissary from the Iron Bank knocked thrice looking for Prince Snow, and even Lord Reed sought a meeting. Sansa ordered her guards to tell all comers that Jon was preoccupied.

It was only at dusk that Sansa realised she hadn't even seen Jon all day. Sansa herself kept uneven sleeping patterns - she half-expected him to find her during the night, but he didn't.

As the next morning approached, she was shaken from a short snooze by the sound of bells ringing. It was official; the coronation of Brandon Stark would be held today.

Sansa could stand on the balcony and watch the crowd of guests all milling towards the great hall. She idly paused, trying to recognise the highborn from their outlines. She saw Lord Wyman Manderly struggling up the steps, his granddaughters by his side, and then she saw the litter as men-at-arms carried the Greatjon Umber into the hall. Lord Salladhor Saan was unmistakable - the pirate was still wearing his wide brimmed hat. Then there was Ser Ian Poole, Lyra Mormont, Lord Rickon Holt, Lord Bennard Waterman, Lord Norvel Mollen, Lord Alger Bole, Lord Werrick Cray and his wife…

Others walked hesitantly, Sansa could almost see their nerves even from balcony. Sansa watched as she recognised saw Robin Flint escorting his portly and grey-haired mother Lady Lyessa through the doors. Lady Sybelle Glover walked with her two sons, Garen Glover, the six year old Master of Deepwood Motte, and her babe Erena Glover. Young and dark-haired Lady Alys Karstark walked alone. The two Tallhart boys, Beren and Brandon, had no family left - they had to be escorted by a man-at-arms.

Widows and orphans, Sansa considered. This war had left a lot of each.

There was much to do, but Sansa's head had been aching all morning. She distracted herself for a time, trying to name the figures and which loyalty they had held. A good bunch of the guests had previously supported House Bolton, before they bent the knee; there was Arthor Karstark, Barthogan Rose, Lord Harwood Stout, Ser Kyle Condon, Lord Edric Ryder, Rickard and Roose Ryswell…

Sansa sighed, rubbing her brow. She could feel the stress of a hundred different concerns wearing to her. She needed to drink half a goblet of wine, just to calm herself…

In the distance, Sansa saw the dragon bursting from the godswood, to soar over the fields of Winterfell.

She took a deep breath.

Sansa ordered the serving staff to bring the prince his outfit for the ceremony, but then they reported that his chamber was empty. She frowned. "Where has Prince Snow gone?" the princess demanded.

The woman couldn't reply. Sansa assigned her guards to find him.

It was the early hours of the morn, there were a thousand things she had to see to, and her guards were already rushing to find the prince.

Then, Lord Gregor reported that Prince Snow had been spotted heading to the First Keep, and Sansa understood. The Captain of the Guard offered to summon him for her, but Sansa shook her head and instead walked to meet him.

He had gone to see their father's tomb.

All around her, the yards were hectic as Sansa paced over the grounds towards the oldest section of the castle. The worn gargoyles of the First Keep loomed at her.

Even despite herself, she felt uneasy - the large ironwood door heading downwards from the lichyard had always made Sansa twitch. As children, Arya and Jon had once played games around the crypts, but Sansa had never joined in. She ordered her escorts to wait outside, and she took a lantern from the wall. The stone staircase winding downwards felt confined and stuffy, she was already sweating.

Most of the unnatural heat had faded away on the surface, but underground it still felt warm. The hot air wafting up from the tunnels made her think of a dragon's breath.

It was dark, but she heard her footsteps echoing. They had always told her that the vaults below were larger than Winterfell itself, but Sansa had never explored them. The lowest levels were partially collapsed, and other corridors had never been walked in decades. Two stone direwolves stood guard as the passageway opened up into a great cavern - the darkness so thick it threatened to snuff out her torchlight.

A shiver went down her spine as she walked between the rows of stone columns. She could barely name half of them. The stone eyes of Kings Jon Stark, Rickard, Eyron, Theon the Hungry Wolf, Edric Snowbeard, Brandon the Shipwright, Brandon the Burner, Rodrik, Jorah and Jonos, Benjen the Sweet, Benjen the Bitter, Walton the Moon King, Brandon the Bad, and Edwyn the Spring King lingered on her as she passed. Whether aged or younger, the statues were

all grim and silent, with stony clothes and armour that made them seemed dressed for war. Their crowns were stone, and their eyes were cold.

The Lords of Winterfell had a different look to them than the Winter Kings, she noticed. Their faces seemed sterner, more focused. Lords Torrhen, Cregan, Brandon, Barth, Jonnel, Rodwell, Beron, Donnor, William and his brother Artos the Implacable, and Edwyle. Their statues stood sentinel, some gripping iron swords tightly, others whose hands marred red with rust.

There was torchlight ahead, where the passageway branched. The final tombs in the crypt - those of Rickard, Lyanna, Brandon and Eddard Stark.

Then, Sansa saw the statue of Lyanna Stark standing in her enclave. The moisture in the warm air glistened over the surface, as if her stone face was weeping. Father had always averted his eyes from that statue when walking down here, Sansa remembered.

Ahead of her, there were only empty tunnels reserved for future generations of her family. That was an uneasy thought.

Jon was standing before their father's bones, his head lowered. He heard her footsteps, but didn't turn around. She walked slowly and quietly, but even a pin's drop would echo in these tunnels.

Eddard Stark did not have a proper tomb yet. They had carved her father's likeness into a statue years ago - but there had been no bones to bury back then. Father had nothing but a statue and a place reserved, while his bones were still lying in a steel box tucked into a corner. Years late, but maybe we might finally put him to rest .

Sansa hadn't opened the box that Howland Reed brought with him. After so long, a part of her wondered if the bones might have just withered away into dust.

Sansa's gaze lingered on their father's statue. A stonemason must have carved it during the brief time Bran sat in Winterfell, before the sack. It didn't look like Father to her, but for the life of her she could not even remember what he had looked like. She could visualise his smile, his warmth, his eyes, his smell, but not him.

Jon's gaze was on the box of bones. She stepped forward.

"Sansa," Jon called, without turning around. "I heard the bells. Am I late?"

"No." She spoke low in the crypts, keeping her voice to a murmur. It seemed sacrilegious to raise her voice in this place. "The guests are still gathering."

"Forgive me, I lost track of time."

"I understand." She looked at the box, sealed with a lock and an iron direwolf. "I come here often myself."

There was a long silence. Sansa took her place next to her half-brother, facing the unbuilt tomb. Her brother's eyes were only on the craggy features of the statue looming over them. Sansa looked away, she found herself staring at that box.

It was a small box. Hard to imagine a fully-grown man fitting in there.

But then Sansa remembered the sound of the sword swinging downwards, the roar of the crowd before the Sept of Baelor. She hadn't seen the cut at the time - she had closed her eyes and turned away - but in her mind's eye there had been a vivid gush of blood spurting out from the open wound.

The thought made her twitch. Vaguely, she wondered what Jon thought of when he looked at the box. Just what were his last memories of their father?

"What do you think he would say if he saw us now?" Jon whispered finally, his voice barely breaking the silence.

"I… I honestly can't even imagine," she admitted honestly. So much time had passed since they'd left Winterfell all those years ago, they were both like different people now. Her father would be a stranger to her. She paused, glanced at him. "How do you think he'd react?"

Jon shrugged. "Angrily, most like."

That answer gave her pause. "At you?"

He hesitated. Her brother opened his mouth, looked like he was about to say something, and then he paused, closing his mouth. It was a while before he finally spoke.

"I did what I needed to do," he eventually said, speaking lowly. "There's much that I wish I could have done better, but wishing won't change a thing."

That didn't quite answer the question, Sansa noted, but she made silent note of it, letting the comment pass.

Neither of them spoke after. Sansa hesitated, and her fingers twitched. Then after a timeless moment, Sansa reached out her hand, and Jon took it without a word. Their fingers wrapped together. His skin felt callused and rough, but warm.

They stood together, side by side, holding hands before their father's grave.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps. Uneven feet pattered over the stone floor, broken by the tap of a walking stick. Jon flinched with the sound and turned around, breaking the grip with her hand, but Sansa recognised the sound, the familiar gait. The sound of wheezy breaths snorted through the air.

"Lord Reed?" Sansa called, and her voice echoed - " Reed, reed, reed… "

The short lord was approaching, limping on his cane. Even the walk down the staircase had left him panting for breath, struggling to breathe in the musty air. He looked between the both of them, and then hesitated. "Your Grace," he gasped. "Am I intruding?"

The sight of the lord surprised her, and Jon's gaze flickered back to her. "No," she replied after a pause, "you were father's friend, you deserve to be here too."

Jon took a slow step forward, extending a hand. "Lord Howland Reed, I hear?"

The lord nodded. "It is good to finally meet you, Prince Snow."

"Likewise." They shared a somewhat uncertain handshake. There was a pause, as if both were sizing the other's grip. "I have heard of much of you, my lord. Bran speaks fondly of your daughter."

"As does Meera of him." Lord Reed's eyes lingered over Jon, his face guarded.

"And I hear that you are to be named as Bran's regent?"

"So I'm told." Lord Reed gave a humourless smile. "I shall say the same thing I told your sister; I will do what I must. If I can aid by serving as regent, then I will."

Sansa found that she quite liked Lord Reed. They had spoken at length with each other over the last few days, especially about dealing with the south. The lord had been reluctant to be regent, which made Sansa all the more convinced he would be a decent one. Lord Reed had a calm demeanour, and a thoughtful presence.

"I understand," Jon said with a nod. His gaze flickered back to their father's stone face. "You have my thanks for bringing my father's

bones home."

"None required. I owe Ned much and more. I always will." Lord Reed kept himself composed, but Sansa noted something queer in his voice. He was staring at Jon, his eyes unusually intent.

Lord Reed cleared his throat, and the musty air was broken by coughing. "I owe a debt to you as well, Prince Snow." Lord Reed said after a long moment, turning back to Jon. "My son, Jojen."

"Ah." Jon looked momentarily perturbed. "I heard of him. Bran told me that he was missing."

"Missing, but not lost." Lord Reed nodded. "Jojen was found by the Night's Watch, although none knew who he was," he explained. "My son was there at the Battle of the Wall, and then he fled among the refugees. He remembers seeing you, in fact. He was among the refugees fleeing to Winterfell, my guards found him coming through the gates."

Jon blinked. "I did not know that."

"I understand," Lord Reed wheezed, his voice dry, almost a rasp. "But you have my gratitude nonetheless. The refugees only escaped the battle thanks to your actions. If not for your relief force, I very much doubt that my son would be alive right now."

"That battle… it was a hard one."

"Oh, I'm well aware. I've spoken to men who followed you, and they all say the same - they say that you were the very first into battle and the last to fall. There were a thousand men behind you, but none fought harder." He lowered his head fractionally, in a slight bow. "I know of the threat to the realm, Your Grace - and I know that you are fighting against it."

The prince seemed taken back at the comment. "That… that is good to hear."

Lord Reed's voice was quiet and solemn. He stood with his arms crossed, leaving a respectful distance between himself and Jon and Sansa.

Her gaze passed between the two of them. Lord Reed broke away from Jon and limped forward into the crypts. He turned in the chamber, looking between Brandon's and Lyanna's tombs. "The last time I stood here," Lord Reed mused, "was when they put Lyanna's bones to rest. Gods, eighteen years ago."

"Has it changed much?" Sansa asked.

"Unfortunately, yes." He gave a hoarse sigh, and his deep green eyes turned to linger over their father's statue. "I never wanted to come back here."

Neither of them spoke. The crypts were entirely silent, and yet it still felt too loud.

Finally, Sansa felt the need to say something, to fill the gloom of the crypts. "He would have wanted to be here." Her voice was low. "Next to his father, his brother and sister."

"And Robb," Jon added. "We must build a tomb for Robb too."

Sansa paused. She hadn't thought of that, she hadn't wanted to. "Do we have Robb's bones?"

"No," Jon replied darkly. "I don't know what Walder Frey did with them. Robb's remains are lost." For a moment, Jon paused, his eyes going distant. She noticed his fist clenching. "As are Benjen's, and Arya's."

Her lips pursed. "And my mother's." Sansa's voice was a whisper.

They would need to carve an empty tomb for Catelyn Stark too.

"There are no bones in Brandon's or Rickard's crypts either," Lord Reed said suddenly, pointing towards the two tombs. "Those coffins

are empty."

Sansa glanced at him. "Truly?"

"Oh yes. Ned had them commissioned in remembrance. The Mad King never surrendered their remains, but the wildfire would have left little behind regardless." Sansa noticed Lord Reed's eyes flicker. "Lyanna was the only one we managed to return after the Rebellion."

"I did not know that," she admitted. Father never told me.

"It happens." Lord Reed nodded. "We do not always get to say our goodbyes so properly. This place," he nodded towards the shadows, "it's more for remembrance. So many Starks have died in battle through the ages, I'd be surprised if half these tombs were filled."

Moments passed. Jon looked to Lord Reed curiously. "You fought against the Targaryens once," Jon noted finally. "Did you ever imagine that my father's children would be considering a betrothal to them?"

Lord Reed went silent for a long time. "I have long since stopped being able to guess the future, Your Grace," he said finally.

The only sound was the whisper of the flames. The silence grew agonising.

"Jon, we should go," Sansa said eventually. "The ceremony awaits, there is still preparation to be done. We do not want to be late." We have lingered long enough.

"Aye." Jon nodded, and turned. "It was good to meet you, Lord Reed."

Sansa turned to leave, and Jon followed, but then Lord Reed grimaced. He kept on glancing back towards Jon. "Your Grace, if you have a moment…?"

"My lord?" Jon frowned. They both stopped.

"I have wanted a chance…" Lord Reed sounded hesitant, unsure. "What is it, my lord?"

"Well, you mentioned the Targaryens, and I know of your intentions towards Daenerys Targaryen. It feels important to ask…" Lord Reed said with the utmost caution. "May I ask, how much do you know of the Rebellion?"

"Enough," Jon said with a nod. "I've heard of it all my life - I was born during it."

"How much did your father tell you?" His voice was probing, uncertain. Sansa frowned. What is he asking? Sansa wondered. Lord Reed had been acting strangely around Jon this whole time.

"He told me what happened, how it started. The Mad King demanded father's head, and Arryn, Stark and Baratheon replied with defiance. Father went to war to avenge his brother and father, and to rescue his sister."

"Lyanna." Lord Reed nodded. "Did he ever tell you of her?"

"Little," Jon admitted. "Father did not like to speak of her."

"He told us some." Sansa nodded. "He said that she was very beautiful, strong-willed, kind." They said she was like Arya .

"That she was," Lord Reed agreed. "Lyanna was fierce and determined, none could deny that. I met her at Harrenhal, a lifetime ago. She was the one to introduce me to your father." He took a deep, wheezy breath. His strained breaths slurred his words as he spoke. "I had a fancy for her once. Oh, it was but a foolish child's admiration, but Lyanna often had that effect. I think that half of Harrenhal was smitten on her, the other half on Ashara. Robert went through a woman a week, but with Lyanna he was smitten and speechless - not that she ever gave him a second glance." He

sighed. "If Lyanna had asked me to run off with her, well, I doubt that I could have refused."

Run off. That was a queer thing to say, the choice of phrase made Sansa frown. "'Run off'?" Sansa repeated. "She was kidnapped?"

Howland Reed pursed his lips. "That… that is not wholly accurate, Your Grace," he admitted. "It was a simplification, a convenient half-truth to tell after the rebellion. Tempers were still high, and to call it kidnap allowed blame to be assigned more easily."

Sansa had to stop to process that statement. Next to her, Jon had a slight frown on his face. "Rhaegar did not steal her?"

"Not at first." Lord Reed shook his head. "It was very hard to prove anything, but I strongly suspect that Rhaegar and Lyanna eloped together. Many others suspected the same."

"That…" Sansa hesitated, processing the statement. "I did not know that."

"It was not oft spoken. Some things were best left forgotten after the war," Lord Reed admitted. "But as you now intend to ally, even betroth with the Targaryens, I feel it is important to tell you this."

"Please." Sansa crossed her arms. "Do."

The lord seemed uncharacteristically on-edge. He wanted to say something, Sansa realised. Lord Reed's eyes lingered on her, but he kept glancing to Jon.

"Lyanna was young and defiant, Rhaegar dashing and charming," he explained uneasily. "They collided at the tourney at Harrenhal. I suppose it could be called love at first sight. Or perhaps Lyanna just wanted to escape her betrothal, perhaps Rhaegar just wanted to leave his wife - but they abandoned the world and left the riverlands together. Lyanna chose not to return north, Rhaegar did not go back

to the capital. I know of no evidence of duress." There was a pause. "They were… they were in love."

Truly? Sansa thought. That surprised her, but she did not think Lord Reed was one to lie. Next to her, Jon's frown deepened. "I heard that Rhaegar was a monster," he said. "That he raped and stole Lyanna - the Targaryen's madness."

"Some matters are too easily obscured, Your Grace. At the war's end, there was a…. bias to paint history a certain colour."

Sansa turned towards Lyanna's statue, cold and still. The air in the crypts felt suffocating. "It was only afterwards," Lord Reed continued, "that matters grew more dire."

"When Rhaegar's father murdered Lyanna's father and brother," Jon noted.

"Quite," he explained. "After that deed, Lyanna wanted to leave. She wanted to return home. But Rhaegar did not allow her, he instead had her confined and removed in secret."

"Why did he do that?" Sansa asked lowly. A slow feeling of despair washed over her. She had not known any of this.

"As a hostage? To keep her protected?" Lord Reed shook his head. "To Rhaegar's mind, Lyanna's entire family were rebels, and she was important. He secluded her and kept her in secret, even from his own family. Perhaps he feared that Aerys would execute her himself? I cannot speak to Rhaegar's motives, but to Lyanna it was imprisonment. Lyanna always hated being controlled.

"When Ned and I arrived at the Tower of Joy," he continued dourly, "we met the last of the Targaryen Kingsguard. Ser Arthur, Oswell, Gerold… they were always more loyal to Rhaegar than to their liege. He ordered them to keep Lyanna under lock and key. When we finally reached her, her fingernails were torn and bloody - she had been scratching and screaming at the door, trying to escape." His

voice grew sad and silent. "Lyanna's tale was a whirlwind love with a bitter ending."

The statement was met by a hush.

Sansa was the first to speak. "I… I did not know that."

"Tis a painful memory. I understand why Ned did not wish to speak of it." He hesitated, still looking at Jon. "But are you sure your father never mentioned this? What happened at Harrenhal or afterwards?"

"He did not," Jon replied.

"I see." Lord Reed's mouth curled.

There was more silence. Sansa inspected the lord, trying to read his expression. He kept himself too guarded, but he still seemed conflicted. Why is he bringing this up? Sansa wondered. Is this due to our offer of alliance?

"You talk about Rhaegar almost kindly, my lord." Sansa noted. "He was Daenerys' brother, supposedly this Aegon's father? I heard that Robert used to curse his name."

"Rhaegar… he was complicated." Howland Reed sighed. "I have had eighteen years to find peace with what happened, and yet I have found little." He leaned backwards, resting fractionally atop the dusty tomb of Rickard. "The tourney at Harrenhal was where it all began."

In his quiet, wheezy voice, Howland Reed started to speak of Harrenhal. He described a great feast and festivity, of a thousand banners and knights stretching as far as the eye could see. It had been the greatest tourney of its time. There was a sense of wonder in his voice as he described it.

The lord had a presence that seemed to fill the crypts with quiet.

Sansa and Jon only listened.

"I first met Lyanna as she chased off three attackers with a wooden sword," he explained softly. "I was attacked by three squires that targeted me for my queer dress as I travelled. She took me to her tent to bandage my wounds, and introduced me to her brothers. Brandon had to restrain her from hunting down the miscreants that assaulted me. I was but a crannogman so far out of my element, but Lyanna still danced with me during the feast. Every highborn son and daughter of the realm, lords and princes alike, they were all in attendance in the feast. Your father was too nervous to ask - Brandon had to convince Ashara Dayne to dance with Ned, but your father was a shy man in those days. Brandon took the next dance. I remember Prince Oberyn playing knife games over the table, Robert drank three great lords under the table, and then Prince Rhaegar sang a song so beautiful that Lyanna wept.

"The day afterwards, your uncle offered me a spare suit of armour and a horse for the tourney, to avenge myself on my attackers. I would have only made a fool of myself, but Lyanna overheard." He shook his head. "She chose to join the jousts herself, as a mystery knight - 'the Knight of the Laughing Tree', she called herself. She muffled her voice with a scarf, and challenged the knights of the squires who attacked me."

Sansa raised her eyebrow. Despite himself, a fond smile lingered on Lord Reed's lips with the memory. A childish fancy, he had phrased it.

"Lyanna bested three different knights in her guise, and then disappeared mid-tourney," the lord continued. "It was quite a stir. Aerys likely believed it to be part of some conspiracy or another - he ordered the crown prince to chase the mystery knight."

Lord Reed took a deep breath. "And that was how Rhaegar and Lyanna met," he explained, with a twitch in his weedy voice. "Rhaegar was going to tell the king of her, but Lyanna challenged him to a duel for his silence. They sparred with each other, Lyanna still clad in her mismatched armour. Lyanna won. Rhaegar lied to his

father and told the king he never found her. They were both entranced with each other after that."

"And then Rhaegar won the tourney," Sansa muttered, "and crowned her queen of love and beauty."

"He did." His voice turned sad.

Sansa had never heard the way he described it before… in her mind's eye, she saw two young and vibrant youths entranced with each other. Romantic, even. Like a story from a song .

That made it all the more painful to look back at Lyanna's statue - to see that lifeless stone standing so cold and stiff. Sansa wished she could have met her.

The memories seemed to weigh heavily on Lord Reed's words. Perhaps it was the crypts and the tombs, making them all feel overly melancholic.

Next to her, Jon had his arms folded. "Why are you telling us this, my lord?" Jon said, with something of suspicion in his voice.

"Because I feel like you should know," the lord replied.

In the distance, they heard a muted chime echoing through the ground. The bells of Winterfell. The coronation. The sound shook Sansa from her reverie - they were going to be late. "Jon," Sansa said finally. "We must leave."

"Of course, of course," Lord Reed mumbled, but still he seemed reluctant to leave things like that. "But… Jon, may I have a word?" Lord Reed asked, with an uncomfortable look towards Sansa. "In private?"

There was an unspoken flicker between them. Jon hesitated, glancing at Sansa standing by the exit. "Anything you can say to me," Jon replied coolly, "you can say before my sister too, my lord."

"We're going to be late," Sansa warned.

"This will only take a moment, I think I need to…" Lord Reed grimaced. "It is… personal."

Jon smiled humourlessly. "Is this about my mother?"

Lord Reed looked shocked. Sansa blinked.

"I guessed from all the talk of Harrenhal," Jon admitted. "You were my father's companion in Dorne, you must have been with him at Starfall." Lord Reed hesitated. "You were there when he brought me north?"

"I… I was." He seemed put off-guard by this sudden turn of the conversation.

"I understand why you are so cautious, my lord." Jon nodded. "But I already know of the rumours. My mother was Ashara Dayne."

Lord Reed paused, and blinked. "… Ah ."

Sansa frowned. "Truly?"

He nodded again. "They met at Harrenhal, out of wedlock," Jon explained simply. "He must have been taken with Ashara. And I was born later in the middle of the war." Jon looked at Lord Reed, who fell silent. "And I am guessing that House Dayne has some distant Valyrian blood somewhere? I have heard the Daynes oft bear silver hair."

Sansa was left confused, but Jon said it so straightforwardly. "I never heard that." I heard of the fisherman's daughter. Was Lord Borrell mistaken?

Jon only shrugged. "My mother is unimportant. I've long since stopped caring for her. It does not change who I am, or what must be done."

Lord Reed only hesitated. For one painful moment, he looked torn.

"Your mother…" Lord Reed cleared his throat. "Ashara Dayne was pregnant, but it was not with Ned's child. Ned only danced with Ashara, as did a dozen others. It was Brandon who took her to bed after the feast."

There was no reply. Jon frowned.

"But after the fall of King's Landing," Howland Reed continued, "we met with Ashara again. We found her hiding amongst those taking shelter from the sack. Ned promised her safe passage to Dorne.

Robert was on the warpath hunting down the last of the loyalists. She was scared for her family's life." His quiet voice grew pained. "Ashara revealed to us in confidence where Lyanna and the last of the Kingsguard were hiding - she was the one to point us to the Tower of Joy. Ashara trusted Ned, you see - she believed that we could reason with her brother Arthur before Robert found them, that perhaps we could convince Ser Arthur to surrender.

"But instead, we arrived at the Tower of Joy and there was no reasoning with them. We were forced to kill him." Howland sighed grimly. "Ashara blamed herself for her brother's death. In grief, Ashara Dayne jumped from the tower at Starfall, with her baby in her arms."

Jon blinked. Sansa looked to her half-brother. Perhaps Lord Reed was waiting for Jon to ask the question, but he didn't. Jon didn't speak, he just went quiet.

"It was Ned who carried you to Starfall, Jon. You were born at the Tower of Joy."

"That doesn't make sense," Jon's voice was a mumble. "How could….?"

The air went still.

The moments in the crypts turned tense. In the distance, they heard the bells ringing. Lord Reed's soft voice sounded like a confession.

"Ned swore me to secrecy," the lord admitted. "That is a vow I have just broken. Ned loved you like a father and he only ever wanted you to be happy. He believed that the truth would only bring you pain."

It took a few seconds for the realisation to drip over her. For her to finally connect the dots. She stared in dumb shock as she realised what he was saying.

Jon was born at the Tower of Joy. But that means…

Your mother, Jon," Lord Reed continued, "was not Ashara Dayne. That was simply a convenient lie that your father and Lord Dayne let spread, one that neither of them denied or acknowledged. The whole realm knew she was pregnant, most simply assumed. Your true mother lies in the tomb over there."

He was pointing behind them. At the frozen statue of Lyanna. The statue's arms were crossed. The stone woman had never looked so mournful.

Silence reigned. Perhaps Lord Reed was waiting for a reply. Jon gave none.

"I am telling you this now because of the words of that woods witch," Lord Reed admitted, as the silence stretched uncomfortably long. "I swore that I would take this secret to my grave, but Ned could not have known these circumstances. I feel you need to know."

"The woods witch?" Sansa muttered mutely.

He nodded. "That night… the things she said. That woman knew of the vow that I made. I can only assume that whatever magics she used revealed it." Lord Reed grimaced. "And I did not want you to learn of your parentage from a biased source, Jon. I want you to know the full truth, and nothing less."

Sansa remembered that night. The witch - Mother Mole - had been covered in blood, raving in the dark. She had mentioned something of an oath, of red sands? Sansa hadn't understood what it had meant at the time, but Lord Reed clearly had been disturbed by the words. Secrets she could not have known, Sansa realised.

Unsure, Sansa glanced to Jon, but his face was like stone. He didn't look at her, he didn't respond. All around them, the stone statues and direwolves loomed in the torchlight.

Lord Reed took a deep, uneven breath. "Jon, you are the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark."

END Of BOOK 1

The next chapter will be an epilogue and an appendix. After that (chapter 52), will be the start of Book 2: Fire…

There are three kings in Westeros, and one queen. Queen Daenerys Targaryen sails her fleet west to reclaim her birthright and to liberate her people. The enemies she expected to face are vanquished, and Aegon Targaryen, Jon Snow and Euron Greyjoy each have intentions of their own concerning her. She arrives with a legion of former slaves and a horde of savages, all following Daenerys on the promise of safety and freedom - but there is little of either to be had in the west.

This kingdom has been broken by war, and dark forces plague the living. The old magics are returning, ancient powers are awakened, and the realm faces a Doom like nothing they have ever seen before.

Prince Jon Snow must fight to secure desperately needed aid for his newfound kingdom, yet the God-King Euron Greyjoy stands in his path.

Meanwhile, Lord Commander Samwell Tarly must try to hold a broken barrier against an unbeatable and never-ending enemy. The Wall is breached, and winter is here.

The battle of ice and fire looms ever closer.

Epilogue & Appendix

Epilogue

The Red Dragon

The cage was forged from gold and magic, the chains from silver and blood. Rubies glinted in the metal of the slave collar, and the chains were fastened securely to the granite of the mountain. Great claws clenched, scraping over the mosaic tiles lining the gilded cage. The red dragon growled, stirring uselessly against its bonds.

The cage was as large as a castle, but it still barely fit the dragon. There was no space to move, no slack to struggle or even squirm against. Leg and claw, snout and wing, neck and tail - the great beast's every muscle was bound in chains of spellforged silver. It was barely even able to breathe through its gilded muzzle. The dragon was bound like a worm, given not even the slightest chance to struggle. All it could do was slowly scrape its horns against the golden bars, while the shining metal hissed against its scales. The dragon was bound by enchantment after enchantment of blood and fire, each one foul and horrible.

The dragon's scales shone crimson in the morning light. It could feel nothing but pure rage. Its black eyes stared unblinking over at the fine marble plaza housing its cage, built into the side of a mountain so high that it loomed over the lowermost clouds. A 'stable', the slavers called it. In the distance, other dragons were soaring over the surrounding mountains, and it could see black stone buildings and archways scattered over the jagged landscape. Down in the valleys below there were overcrowded slums filled with humans, but the mountain peaks were dominated by huge palaces, built from solid black or crystal white stone.

It had been trapped here for what felt like a lifetime. A low hatred drummed unending in its chest as the dragon stared at the world

beyond the golden bars.

"A beautiful beast, don't you think?" a smooth, almost liquid voice laughed. Footsteps tapped over the courtyard, coming ever closer. "My finest."

Beady black eyes flicked, and the dragon saw them. They were silver-haired men with pale skin and violet eyes, looking down from the terrace above. They scuttled around like insects that the dragon longed to crush. They were walking along the shaped marble pavilion, laughing as they talked, sipping wine from golden goblets. The stink of their perfume burned the dragon's nostrils.

"He's a wild dragon, is he not?"

"Oh yes, my father was the one to capture him," the voice replied, in that infuriating high-pitched human chirping. "Older now, but he's never lost his fire."

"I have never trusted the wild stock." The other man turned his nose up. "They are too unstable."

"Unstable?" His partner laughed. "Try ferocious . In the last championship games, he brought down Prince Aeragon's mount - and thatdragon was nigh twice his size. I've never known a beast with half as much fury as this one."

The pale man stepped closer, fearlessly staring over the mountainous red dragon, so close that his hand hovered over the dragon's red scales. He was a weedy, tall figure - with a slim build, slicked back silver hair, and a hooked nose, wearing white and red robes. His purple eyes were narrowed and shadowed.

The dragon's blood boiled with hatred. A small gust of smoke billowed from its nostrils, but the silver-haired man only smiled.

" Ivaryx," the slaver whispered.

The red dragon wanted to roar, to flame, but then there was pain burning across its scales. The enchantments upon its ruby collar started to burn. The metal contracted, clenching around its throat. The beast tensed, but it wasn't even allowed to twitch in pain. It could not crush these bugs, even though every instinct in its body was screaming to destroy.

The other man only laughed. "You named your dragon after the god of war?"

"If you saw its rage, you would too."

"You're as bad as Gaemon, Alexys," the other silvery man said snidely. "He has no creativity in his names, either. I mean, Balerion ? What a clichéd name - I swear that half the dragons on the lists are named after some god or another."

"It is often done." The slaver shrugged. "Our gods are defunct, but their names are still decent."

" I for one would never buy a dragon named such."

"As if you could ever afford to purchase a dragon such as this," the man snorted with derision. "This cage alone is more than you could ever hope to own. Ivaryx requires more bindings than any other dragon in this realm."

Dragonlords, these fools called themselves. Dragon slavers. The red dragon despised them with a fury like none it had ever known. It hated even the unnatural stink of their blood, the sound of their voices.

And yet still they were standing before it, pointing and chattering.

Its slavemaster placed a hand on its snout. The red dragon longed to bite it off.

The two men were laughing, teasing each other as they paced idly around the dragon's cage. Their tiny yet shrill voices ached the red dragon's ears. It wanted to fly, wanted to hunt, wanted to soar. Instead, it was trapped in a cage.

But most of all, it wanted to kill. The vision of burning these insects into ash flickered before its gaze, over and over.

It wanted to shatter these bonds, to explode in an inferno of flame and fury…

But each time it even thought of such, it felt the pain under its scales. The enchantments were woven by that accursed horn, they caused agonising pain with every spark of defiance.

What should have been a roar of fury only emerged as a low, strained snarl. The slavers looked up at the dragon, and then laughed.

The beast was bound as much by foul sorcery as it was by gilded steel.

"Wild dragons are too unpredictable," the man said. "Ferocious, maybe, but what use is fury without control? You would lose against any bonded rider in the games."

"I do not care for games," the slaver sneered. He flicked his fingers, and a hooded figure rushed to serve more wine. "These jousts bore me. Ivaryx was not meant for the games, he was meant for war ."

"You may well have your chance soon enough. I hear that the Consul is summoning riders to stop these eastern barbarians."

"The horse scum?" he scoffed. "Look at how far we have fallen - the greatest concern to us are some invaders from over the mountains? No, these Dothraki are distractions."

"There's a horde of them, from what I hear, and more coming west. Already they threaten our outer colonies."

"You fear their horses ?" he sneered. "No, these invaders only show how lax we have become. Unchallenged . Whatever happened to the days of true Valyria, where we could bring conquest from the skies?"

They both took a long sip of wine. "You always were ambitious."

"I am not alone." There was something in the way he said those words, the other man's eyes narrowed. "Our dragons were not meant for this - this peace is suffocating us." His arms waved, motioning over the wide courtyard and intricate statues. "What happened to the days of expansion?"

His partner's voice was guarded. "The Senate says otherwise."

"The Senate." The words were twisted with anger. "A bunch of scared old fools, rotting atop the bones of their ancestor's glories. Cowards all. They have no right to rule the Freehold."

"The Forty Families each have their say-"

The silver-haired man slammed his hand onto the cage's bars, his golden rings chiming against the metal. All around him, the hooded slaves flinched. "Yes, there is no shortage of saying ! The Senate twists and turns, debates and holds motions - and all the while Valyria rots from the inside."

The other man did not reply. The slaver took a step backwards, anger wafting from him. His hooked nose peered down at his wine. "I want an expansion," he said finally. 'Is it not our right to rule the world? How can the Senate be satisfied with what little we have?"

There was a long pause of consideration. The two men both turned tense.

"The grey plague has left the Senate scared," his partner said after a time. "That damnable curse still hangs over us all."

Fear," the slaver scoffed. "Fear makes Valyria weak. These 'Dothraki' are just the latest in a line of plebs trying to topple us."

His partner paused, the silence stretching a bit longer. "I do not disagree, Alexys," he said finally. "But expand where ? The eastern lands? The jungle?

"Qarth prefers to pay us off in spices, there is no war there," he continued. They were both looking intently at each other, as they stepped back over the terraces. "After Qarth? Those monkey men are a quagmire on their own, and further east still no dragon is welcome under the Shadow. The southern forests, that is a cursed land, disease in every breath. No," he shook his head. "Sothoryos is folly, the Belaerys girl proved that. What does that leave us with? The lands beyond, a scattering of desolate tribes and primitives? Savages incapable of even paying tribute, scarcely even worth the effort of ruling."

"And the sunset kingdoms?"

"The Senate will never step forward in those lands, they fear the old lore… The trees…"

"Soothsayers and foolish prophecy!" the slaver cursed loudly, violet eyes flashing. His goblet chimed off the ground, he had thrown it over his shoulder. "The Senate is made of old men clutching their withered dicks…"

They were walking away from the dragon, it was hard to hear the words. The human tongues were nigh-incomprehensible to the dragon.

As they walked, the man clicked his fingers, and a faceless slave hurried over with another goblet. "This Freehold has grown stagnant,

brother. Thanks to the Senate, we cannot act - ours is the greatest might in all the world, but we are not allowed to use it? Allowed ?"

His partner shrugged. "Your family is the same. As is mine. The Forty Families have long since grown comfortable with the cities and colonies they already own. No Lord Freeholder will beseech themselves to move for more, our fathers are too preoccupied with their little power struggles."

"Then they have forgotten themselves. They have grown fat and lazy. They have lost their way, they have forgotten the ideal from which we were born!" His voice was louder, sharper than his partner's. "The only gods are the ones that we have created."

"Brother, this talk…"

"It is not just talk." His voice grew low, the dragon could barely make out the sound. "Others are thinking the same. The red comet heralds the era of change, it is written in the stars.

"No, what Valyria is truly lacking, brother," the slaver muttered, "is an emperor ."

The dragon could smell them - its slaver was oozing eagerness and ambition, but the other man wafted fear and hesitance. "Those are dangerous words."

"I told you - these are not just words. There is one among us who could make this realm great again. One who would have been Consul, if not for the Senate's lack of spine." The other figure stiffened, and the dragonslaver peered through the corner of his eyes, inspecting his partner with suspicion. "I have already pledged my support to him, and if you were to pledge yours… well, I wonder… how many of our comrades among the Forty might be thinking the same as us?"

They were muttering in low voices as they walked away. The dragonslavers supped on fruit and wine as they talked eagerly

amongst themselves. The red dragon heard the words, but it could not understand or care for half of what they said.

They were the princes of Valyria, being served on hand and foot by hooded slaves. The slaves were each wearing blindfolds - it was forbidden for such to even look upon the sons of the blood. They hid themselves under cloaks, their eyes blind under their hoods, and scuttled around the terrace by touch alone. The slaves kept their heads low, so that the dragonslavers need not even see their faces.

If the slaves ever disappointed, they were simply fed to their master's dragons.

The days passed slowly. The red dragon was left trapped in its cage, watching other dragons - the ones that embracedtheir slavery - fly over the mountains. The red dragon hated them too. It hated them for their weakness, it hated them for their freedom. Its hate for them was no less than it was for their masters.

Something was happening in the palace. There were more dragons coming and going, more discussions happening in the palace and on the terrace. Steadily those conversations grew larger, louder, and more frenzied.

The red dragon could smell it in the air. The stink of fear, apprehension and ambition. The stench of conspiracy, brewing thicker and thicker.

Its slaver was fond of holding his meetings out on the terrace overlooking the ocean, where he could show off his collection of dragons to his guests. The red dragon watched as more and more were summoned - a collection of foul-blooded men and women filling up the manse. Each one of them rode dragons of their own, and each one was followed by chained and branded slaves wearing hoods.

The silver-haired youths sat out on the terraces, underneath the glittering night sky. At dusk, the comet shimmered above and cast its

own shadows.

They were all young, all wealthy, and all eager for change.

"Why should we fear the nattering of lesser men?" the slaver announced. "What does the dragon care for the insect? We are the sons of Valyria, the future is ours to seize!"

"It is dangerous to defy prophecy," a voice protested. "The warnings…"

"You sound as bad as that 'Targaryen' bitch," another sneered. "Should we fear the raving of some mad girl?"

"Their family is the weakest of the Forty, their prince a superstitious coward. Targaryen is unimportant," a man argued. "But the Houses Germantes, Belaerys, Vestaeron, or Camaegor… if we can subdue the traditionalists among the Lords Freeholder…"

"The Consul will not allow it!" another voice protested. "You are talking of an uprising - we do not have the support."

"We have the dragons," another prince argued. "Others are mustering for us - Aurion has already left for the colonies, to gather support in our liege's name. This must be done quickly; we burn the Senate, kill the Consul, and the rest will bend."

Others sounded aghast at the thought. "You expect sons to murder fathers, for kin to overthrow the heads of their houses?"

"This is for the future of Valyria, not the future of your houses!" a voice cried, from one of those who stood near the slaver. "It is because of the Senate that our families are left divided!"

Voices rose in protest, a scramble of cries and objections. The red dragon's slaver stepped forward, raising his hands high. "Look around you! The Lords Freeholder sitting in the Senate grow old and hold ceaseless votes, but we are the youth who fly our dragons into

battle! Everyone here has been scorned by the freeholders - scorned by those who expect blind obedience and give nothing in return! Our fathers scheme by day and assassinate by night, and our empire rots!"

There was a murmur of agreement. "There have been too many weak Consuls!" one called over the din. "It is conspiracy, clear for all to see. This last election - a farce by any account."

"The Senate is done! The Senate withers away, while we defend Valyria, not they! Their dragons have grown fat, weak and lazy, but ours?" The slaver motioned dramatically, pointing towards the red dragon's cage. " Our dragons are fighting strong and battle-hardened!"

"Hear, hear!" a prince clapped from the crowd.

His voice raised higher. " We are the might of Valyria!" the slaver boomed, to the stomping of feet. " We are its future!"

"We are Valyrians !" another shouted, picking up the cry. "We shall forge our own future!"

The slaver stood up at the centre of the feast and raised his crystal goblet high. The wine glinted in the comet's light, red liquid sloshing out from the goblet's brim.

"We shall perform the Grand Rite!" he declared. "And we shall ensure Valyria's greatness for the next thousand years!"

From its cage, the red dragon just watched. The dissenters were falling quiet, one by one. There were still some objectors to the plan, but those were quickly silenced with promises or threats. One silver-haired youth continued to object - he threatened to tell the Senate - and then the slaver drew a blade of black steel. The youth's corpse dropped to the stones, his throat cloven in two.

The dragonlords only laughed and cheered as their comrade bled out. "Long live the emperor!" they cried. "Long live Valyria!"

Out on the terrace, it was a celebration. The youths were getting drunk on wine and dreams, chanting their support. The corpse was left in the centre of the feast for all to see.

When they finally walked away, they absentmindedly left the body for their slaves to clear up. Without a word, the slaves bowed and blindly obeyed. The faceless slaves dragged the silver-haired corpse over the stones towards the dragon's feeding trough.

But as soon as their masters left, the red dragon saw the slaves starting to huddle. They spoke in low mutters, but they moved with purpose. All the while the princes had been plotting and scheming, they never even gave a second thought to all the hooded slaves waiting around them. Waiting and listening.

To the dragon's nostrils, the slaves stank of death. Underneath their hoods, their faces were false. The dragon could feel their malice in the air, the stink of their illusions, but the silvery-haired men were blind. They couldn't see the ill intent hovering through the manse, hidden in the shadows beneath their slaves' hoods.

The red dragon growled, and it felt the whisper of shadows dance around him.

…

It was a night of fire, battle and blood.

The dragon sensed when it began. It had been building like a storm hovering over the mountains, the skies growing tense and stuffy with expectation. It was slow to build, but quick to unravel. It unleashed like a thunderstorm, a hurricane of wings and fire. The dragon could feel the death in the air as the civil war cut through the heart of Valyria.

It was a bloody red night as the teams of slaves unfastened the silver chains. On the orders of their master, the hooded slaves prepared the red dragon for war, and its great body shivered.

The dragon was clad in an outer shell of black steel, armoured by a spiked helm with sheathes of chainmail over its wings. The steel breastplate alone was as large as a ship's hull. In full battle dress, the red dragon looked even larger and more formidable, its joints clanging with every movement.

The slaver himself was saddled onto the red dragon's back, with burning whip in hand as it forced the red dragon into the fray.

Red wings blocked out the moon. The dark skies shone crimson with the comet's light, illuminating the city in a bloody glow. The dragon was let loose to burn, but the one who truly deserved to die - its 'master' - stood in command. The accursed sorcery forced the beast to obey.

A blue dragon lunged at it from a nearby mountain, but the red dragon was larger and fiercer. The red beast tore it out of the sky, but there was another, then another. Most were fledglings only a third or less its size - and they were barely even fodder against the crimson dragon.

All around it, the waves of dragons roiled and collided in the sky.

The slaver's whip cracked. The man was laughing. "Burn, Ivaryx, burn !"

The Red Death obeyed. Flames exploded from its jaws, and instantly a crystal palace was consumed by the fire. Black smoke plumed everywhere like a storm, even the ground was burning.

As far as the eye could see, dragons were being ripped out of the sky, the battle spreading outwards over the golden city. Towers of smoke littered over the horizon, and the battle was growing over all the mountains.

The red dragon roared in the dusk. The humans had turned on each other. A civil war raged in the sky.

The youth of Valyria didn't want a Freehold anymore, they wanted an Empire. They wanted an Emperor.

Over the horizon, pale grey wings unfolded, and an immense beast took to the sky. A gargantuan, one of the very few dragons even larger than the red. It was so large that it crushed a smaller beast in its jaws, easily shaking a yellow dragon apart. The air was burning as the grey beast lumbered into the fray, its wings straining just to lift its own weight.

It was a dragon of a Lord Freeholder, one of the largest on the opposing side. One of the largest dragons in the world, over twice the red's size. The flaming whip cracked, and the red dragon was pushed into battle.

All the other dragons avoided the grey behemoth, but the red dragon swooped downwards and engaged.

The grey dragon was massive, but it was also old and heavy. It hadn't seen battle in a long, long time, it had been centuries since it last hunted or was challenged. The grey dragon might have overpowered the red with pure size and strength, but the red was armoured and faster. The grey struggled to maneuverer, while the red swept above it. Burning jaws went straight for the nape of its wings.

Atop of the red dragon, the slaver was laughing. "Kill, Ivaryx!"

The old man riding the grey dragon died in a fiery blaze, scorched straight off his mount's back. The dragon's teeth bit straight into the grey wings.

The dragon screeched so loud that the earth trembled, they both collided in a fiery blaze in mid-air.

The grey dragon was tumbling downwards, but it was still fighting. It didn't fall easily. Huge claws twisted around and scraped at the red dragon's armour, tearing through the metal breastplate and dragging the red dragon down with it. They were both tumbling downwards.

It was too heavy, the red dragon couldn't shake it loose. For one fearful moment, it looked like they would both hit the ground together.

Then a black dragon swept downwards, claws outstretched. Great talons ripped straight through the old grey, and burning blood splattered. The grey dragon went limp.

It crashed onto the earth with a dull thud, flattening two dozen buildings beneath it.

The red dragon was panting as it tried to gain height again. The grey dragon's talons had torn off its breastplate and half its armour, but it didn't care. Its blood was singing with the thrill of battle.

Above it, the black dragon soared. An immense black dragon with bright red eyes, and old scars across its scales. A war dragon. A crowd below was cheering.

The Emperor of Valyria had taken to the skies. The man himself was a strong and broad figure for a human, every bit a warrior. His hair was shining silver, and one eye was vivid purple, and the other burning red. He wore pitch black armour that shimmered with magic, and held a blindingly bright, glowing sword in his hand.

There was fighting in the streets, while crowds of men and women chanted his name with frenzy.

The red dragon flew right next to the black as they devoured the Lords Freeholder in flames.

Most of their enemies never even had time to release their dragons from the cages they were kept, only a few of the opposing

dragonriders managed to take to the skies. A dozen great dragons were slain in their cages, burnt to death and crushed as the structures collapsed down onto them.

The battle was quick, devastating and bloody. The red dragon watched from the skies as the imperialists stormed the white crystal structure of the Senate and put all dissenters to the sword. Old men with silver hair - the former lords of their houses - were dragged out in chains.

The slaver's schemes had come to fruition; he had rallied the princes of the Freehold to declare one of their own Emperor. The dragon's slaver expected to be the right hand of the Emperor, the strongest supporter of the new dynasty.

The coronation happened upon the tallest of the fourteen peaks, on the mouth of the greatest mountain above a maw of bubbling magma. The dragon watched as the first Emperor of Valyria was crowned in blood and ash, at the heart of fire, all the while a thousand dragons soared in the sky.

"This is the start of a new era!" they proclaimed. "Long live Valyria!"

The red dragon roared, but even its sound was drowned out by the boom of the shrieking crowd. The mouth of the volcano was surrounded by countless bodies, as dragons soared above on the warm updrafts.

The very first act of the new Emperor was to drop all of the old guard into the fire. The prisoners of war were clamped in a line of chains, and forced to walk one by one over the edge and into the magma. Pale-haired, wrinkled old men and women fell screaming into magma.

The fires were bubbling hotter and hotter with every body that fell into the volcano's maw.

The red comet blazed in the sky as dusk crept over the world. The dragons were dancing, but the red dragon was in agony. Its 'master' was away, so the red took the chance to struggle against its bonds. Blinding pain seared through it with every motion. Flaming whips lashed against its skin.

All of Valyria was in attendance around the mountain's heart - some willingly, others in chains.

The crowd was chanting, some sort of ceremony was happening. Beneath the red dragon, the flames gushed hungrily, devouring everything that was thrown.

"Valyria forever!" the crowds chanted. "Valyria forever!"

The whole crowd was staring at a podium of black stone, awaiting their new Emperor. The dragons were left to soar as the men prepared for the ceremony. The frenzy in the air reached fever pitch.

And then something changed.

The red dragon knew it before anyone else. The red dragon felt the very moment its 'master' perished. The enchantments bound over the dragon's scales suddenly shattered.

Freedom. It felt like freedom.

Its huge heart was pounding, blood rushing, and suddenly the red dragon's wings clapped like thunder. A triumphant boom exploded from its mouth, and the whole mountain quaked.

Its master was dead. The dragon didn't know how, but its tormentor was finally dead.

Above, the black dragon with red eyes roared too. Other dragons were reacting, they could feel it as well. Some were confused, some were angry, some were scared. The red dragon was exhilarated.

It had happened with no warning. No one witnessed it. The first Emperor of Valyria died along with the elite of his supporters as they were getting dressed for the ceremony. One moment the red dragon was struggling against invisible bonds, and in the next the magical chains snapped apart.

Already, the dragon was writhing. Roaring, clawing, going berserk. The surrounding enslaved dragons tried to stop it, but the red dragon powered through. They collided in mid-air in a flurry of colours and glittering scales.

Below them, the crowd was still chanting. They hadn't realised what happened, they never knew…

The sky was filled with roars, the ground was shaking…

and the man who stepped out to perform the ceremony was not the same man. It was a figure that looked like him and was wearing his clothes, but it was someone else. Some thing else. It had no smell, no shadow and no warmth.

It was a figure wearing the dead man's face, stepping out onto the screaming podium.

The 'emperor' raised his arms high, and the Grand Rite began. Sorcerers and dragonlords had formed a circle around the mountain's bubbling maw, chanting unearthly words. Their voices raised, echoing across the world as more prisoners, hundreds, thousands were dropped into the flames.

The red dragon raged in the sky, flapping furiously to escape as a half dozen other dragons struggled against it. The black dragon was roaring, sweeping down and forcing it backwards.

The two dragons collided in a clap of fury, spinning around each other as they wrestled. The red was being forced downwards, the black was pushing him back…

Beneath them, the flames bubbled and roared.

It felt growing power in the air, spouting forth from the mountain's mouth in an endless flood. The sorcerers were chanting, unearthly cries echoing across the mountain, hands raised towards the flaming circle in the magma. A burning circle that was glowing, like a hole in the world.

The dragon hadn't felt fear - not true fear - since that night in the mountains when it had first been enslaved. But it felt fear now, the other dragons could feel it too. The red dragon could see it in their eyes, could smell it in the air.

Something was coming.

The red dragon finally managed to escape the black's grip, slipping past and shaking its claws free. It didn't even try to fight, the red dragon only wanted to flee. The black one was slower to react - it roared, still roaring for its master.

There was power all around the sorcerers, reverberating upwards from the earth.

The entire world was quaking.

The night fell, and it felt the magic rising from the ground…

The red comet in the sky shone brighter than ever as it fell towards the earth…

For the briefest of moments, it looked as though the faceless man smiled.

Then the flames burst upwards, a tower of fire roaring through the crowds.

…

Boom .

…

The sky went black. The ground ruptured, flames everywhere. Fires so hot they burnt even through a dragon's scales.

The sound was deafening, the earth itself cracked open.

It felt the mountains shatter.

Dragons were falling from the sky. Some were being burnt by the flames, but most were overwhelmed by scorching clouds of darkness. It saw immense flying chunks of rubble launching into the air, pasting dragons on impact against crumbling mountainside.

A wave of ash rippled outwards, painting the whole world in darkness.

Multicoloured wings glistened in the air, before they were swallowed by the black.

It was an explosion that even a dragon couldn't survive. The beasts were left like insects before the storm.

The red was flapping with all its might, out of its mind with panic. The black dragon was right behind it, and then it was consumed by an explosion of ash. Even the immense black beast was crushed like a bug by the raw power.

Behind it, the mountains were being swallowed by the earth.

They had summoned a miracle, and the gods had answered.

The red dragon didn't drop, it was flying onwards with all its unchained fury. The flames seared against its scales, but it didn't fall. The pain was agonizing, yet it clung to the air with every ounce of strength it had left.

It was riding the shockwave, even as dust and burning debris whooshed around it.

Behind it, the cataclysm split open the land, the entire earth cracking apart, almost as though an unearthly sword had stabbed through the continent. It saw the earth's molten blood por forth in floods out from the gaps, the crust itself was flowing like turbulent water. Smoke and steam howled everywhere.

A solid pillar of smoke was rising upwards, an immense tower of pure darkness larger than a mountain. It was reaching up, spewing outwards and extending over the heavens. Columns of smoke branching apart like the roots of a tree. Or like a hand . It was like a giant hand reaching upwards - a hand so large it might have crushed the sun in its grip. The dragon felt its aura begin to flood over the world like the beating of a crazed heart.

The red dragon just flew, faster and more desperate than ever before. Its body was stained black from the rain of ash clattering around it, its hide was seared by burns.

Everywhere it looked, shadows were gushing out of the blackness, men dissolving into wispy figures going mad…

All was being devoured, it was like a storm concentrated from a single point. Everything was consumed by a single maw of endless hunger, as the shadowy fingers reached for the sky…

…

The dragon flew. It flew longer and harder than it had ever flown before. It flew over black waves and howling storms, even as it grew delirious with panic and pain.

It flew to the very edge of the earth, but the black skies followed. The black clouds were growing and growing in its wake.

The whole world was trembling, and the red dragon flew, and flew, and flew.

Time became meaningless. The dragon pushed itself to the very brink of collapse. It was crazed in pain and confusion, black burns seared across its scales. It flew for what felt like several days straight, but it never saw sunlight. The skies above had been smothered black.

The ash and clouds covered half the world. It could still smell the death and smoke on the wind, and the echoes of a million dying cries.

The dragon could feel it in its bones. This was the end of days.

Other dragons had also fled the cataclysm, but the red dragon had watched them all fall one by one. Only the red dragon managed to hold on. Its wings were strained, its breaths hoarse, its fire was flickering. Its strength was bleeding away.

Beneath it, the oceans were black with soot, and for a while the dragon feared it might never see land again.

The traces of those cursed enchantments - the slaver's bindings - still burnt against its skin, searing into its muscles. The black magic was polluting the world, the burns from the fires were tainted with darkness.

The pain was beyond agony.

But then there was land. In the falling light, the dragon saw land at the horizon's edge. It could smell it wafting over the seas; earthy and foreign.

The dragon didn't know why it had come here. It followed some engrained instinct. An aura of magic still lingered here, the dragon could feel it. The power was like a memory embedded into the bones of this land, ancient and enduring. A refuge from the cursed flames devouring the world.

The dragon's strength had long since given out. For too long it had been flying on but the memory of strength. It couldn't even feel its wings anymore, exhaustion had long since given way to pain, to agony, to pure numbness. But the time had come - it could flap no more.

Finally, the dragon began to fall from the sky. It tried to beat its wings one last time, but it did not have the strength. It could only watch as it fell downwards into the ocean.

It wasn't even strong enough to reach the coast. The wounded beast crashed into the salty waves, letting loose a strangled cry as the cold water swallowed it whole.

The dragon had to drag itself onto the beach, panting for breath. All around it, the land was desolate and barren. It dragged itself up onto the peninsula, a stony coast surrounded by rocks and desolate cliffs. Old ash still coated the ground, the rocks were twisted and deformed by ancient fires. The caves were screaming in the wind, and the feeling of death clung to the coast.

The red dragon felt cold. It had never felt cold before.

For a time, the dragon just curled up on the beach, half-in and half-out of the water, shivering in pain. Then the beast tried to take flight, but collapsed downwards onto the black rocks.

It was wheezing, strewn out and shivering on the brink of death.

Black flecks dusted against its snout. Wispy dark flakes, falling from the sky.

Snow. The snow was stained black from the ashen clouds.

The dragon limped onwards, searching desperately for refuge against the pain.

Around him, it was a new world. A strange world, cold and harsh. It had never flown this far before. The dragon didn't know what it was doing, but it knew it had to escape. The cold offered shelter, and the dragon ran for it.

…

The days blurred in agony.

At first, it couldn't see the sun, it couldn't see the moon. The red comet had vanished. The clouds of ash were so heavy in the sky, thick and black and unending. The black clouds continued to twist overhead for what might have been months, but eventually, the snows began to push them back. Gradually, a weak sun began to emerge from behind the ash in the sky, grey and cold.

The dragon was starving, it was maddened, ferocious. The days passed in unending pain. Its wounds were festering, lingering black burns that were slowly killing it.

The red dragon went on the warpath over the wasteland.

It burnt. Everything burnt. The touch of those deathly flames still hissed across its scales. Its once crimson hide had been stained black.

The dragon roared in mad pain, dying spurts of fire shooting from bloody teeth. Even its flames were failing - what used to be a brilliant jet of power had guttered into a smoky hiss.

Strange men in furs and queer voices were screaming, scuttling around the snow like so many insects. They tried to flee, but they couldn't escape.

All around, a village of tents and furs was broken and burning. The dragon howled as it stormed through, shattering a totem of tusks.

The dragon roared, shivering at the agony arcing up and down its hide. Blood dripped from its maw, black blood hissing against the snow. There were so many skeletons crushed in its jaws, broken beneath its teeth that its gums were bleeding. It devoured them all, it devoured everything. It kept eating until it vomited, but the hunger never ended.

The dragon took its rage out on absolutely everything that it could find. It left a trail of devastation in its wake as it moved west over the forests, mountains and icy plains.

It was harder and harder to fly; the festering wounds had grown worse and worse. Instead the beast was left limping on the ground, dragging itself by its claws, hobbling over the snow and rocks. A lesser beast would have long since fallen, but the red dragon refused to die. The hatred kept it alive.

Where it had ended up was a land of jagged mountains and frozen valleys, heavy with snow and white glaciers. In the sky, heavy black clouds writhed over the mountains.

Nostrils sniffed the air, taking it all in. It could feel it. It could feel something in the air, something that had drawn the dragon here. It wasn't sure what, but the aura of forgotten power lingered over this place, in the heart of the mountains.

The dragon felt like there was something calling it, just over the horizon. In the distance, the snows danced over the peaks.

Then there was a cry from somewhere to its right. A bone spear bounced over its scales. The dragon stiffened, a growl bursting from its throat.

There were men scuttling about the frozen ruins, trying to surround it. They were figures clad in shaggy furs, armed with wood and bone. They were following the dragon, trying to hunt it.

"Kill the demon!" their indecipherable voices cried. "Kill the demon!"

It roared, hoping to scatter them, but they did not stop coming. Spears and arrows whistled from the cliffs. They were like insect bites, but they hurt. Most clattered harmlessly off thick scales, but some were thrown at its eyes and snout. The dragon didn't have the strength left to burn them, but it refused to fall.

Its tail whooshed outwards, whipping through frozen ruins. Shards of rubble and ice scattered through the air, cratering into the drifts, shattering the men's bodies.

A dozen died, but still there were more coming.

The cries of battle echoed over the hills, and a pained mewl burst from the dragon's throat.

Its wounds were killing it. The cold was draining its strength. These creatures would pester it until it dropped, the dragon knew.

It had killed droves of them, but it could feel still more coming over the mountains.

The beast limped onwards into the mountains, but then the ice and ground under its feet gave way. The dragon lost its footing amidst the avalanche. It was sent tumbling hopelessly down the mountainside, helpless against the thousands of tons of snow.

Crash . Its huge body thudded into the rocks, and a monstrous whine of pain echoed over the desolate landscape. It was thrashing, trying to claw its way free, but more and more snow was tumbling down the mountain.

It was being buried, consumed by the avalanche of white. "Enough of this. Dragon, you are not welcome here."

A voice, loud and clear. The dragon's teeth bared as it saw human figures heading towards it from the valley path. Enemies. They just kept coming.

There were five of them, all wearing white. Two were as tall as men, two others were short like children, and one was a thrice the size of any man - an inhumanly large, hairy figure dragging a sleigh. They had strange smells to them. They were clambering over the rocky footpath, the sleigh groaning behind them.

The dragon roared with all the strength it had left, but still they kept on coming. Around it, another avalanche scattered down the mountains.

The giant hoisted the sleigh upwards, while one of the men broke off from the group, crawling on his hands and knees over the snow closer to the writhing dragon.

"I see you, I see you," the man's voice called, as he cautiously clambered over the snows. "I know you're scared, I know…"

They were all terrified, but they were still approaching. The dragon growled, sniffing the air. The man at the front had his hands raised, his eyes lowered. His voice was slow, reassuring. The dragon could not understand the words, but it felt the meaning behind them.

"I know…" he muttered, the man in white. He had dark hair, and weather worn features. "I know…"

The dragon bared its teeth. Men . Men had been its slavers, its tormenters. The men had tortured it, hunted it.

The dragon dragged its body upwards, its neck outstretching, its teeth screaming. It tore free from the snow.

"Greenseer!" one of the companions shouted in alarm.

"It's alright! Stay back, stay back !" His voice was loud and grim, his full attention on the massive dragon before him. "I mean you no harm! I know you're wounded, I know you're lost. I cannot save you, but I can help you."

The dragon could feel it. It could feel the human trying to touch it, it could feel the human's mind extending towards its own. The touch was soft, even comforting, but the dragon reacted with only blind rage.

Humans . It growled and lunged.

The dragon's jaws opened to swallow them all whole. It shot forward like a snake, but then the snow gave way beneath it. It collapsed down the slope, claws losing leverage. Its jaws slammed wide into the rocks, while the man scrambled for cover.

A sudden wind swept through the valley - a gale of snow pummelling against the dragon's eyes. Its vision was obscured, the wind was writhing around it. The dragon roared, angry and confused.

They were doing something. It could smell the strange magic on the wind. The two small ones were singing. In front of them, the man stood tall, glaring down the slope.

It could sense the man's presence. He was extending his mind, still trying to connect with the dragon, trying to reach it. The dragon only let loose an enraged snarl.

The humans were hastily trying to unwrap something from the sleigh they pulled. There was something cradled between them, a long shape that even the giant struggled to lift.

It was a horn, the dragon realised. A white horn. The dragon could suddenly feel the magic radiating from it.

The last time the red dragon had seen such a horn, the cursed thing had been the slaver's tool. A horn of binding. The dragon could not be bound again, it could not fall. The beast growled and scrambled, trying to claw at the cursed thing.

The man set his hands on the horn, slowly closing his eyes and letting out a breath. The dragon couldn't stop him, it wasn't strong

enough to pull itself free. The beast could only hiss in fury.

The man in white held himself strong atop the slope, despite the gargantuan clawing and raging below. His companions were already scattering, but the black-haired man stood ready by the mouthpiece.

"I dare not kill you, but I can give you peace." He took a deep breath. "I can stop the pain."

The white horn sounded, long and slow, and the boom of a thousand souls echoed over the world. It was so loud that it smothered even the wind. The dragon roared in anguish, suddenly feeling the magic reach out, and resonate…

The last horn had caused immense pain, but this one was different. It felt like a different type of magic. Similar in a way, and yet so different.

The last horn had been sharp and agonizing, but this… it was numb and cold. The dragon felt the chill soothing through its muscles, the agony of its fiery shackles freezing away. The burns from the slaver's enchantments were fading, the pain of all its wounds replaced by numbness.

The dragon roared, but its power was fading. Fire was pain, but the ice drained its strength. Its wings sagged, its body slumped.

It tried to fight, but the power of the horn could not be resisted.

The dragon's head dropped, its breaths turned low. The will to resist was bleeding away. It felt heavy, like its body was turning to stone.

Ice was creeping over its scales, thin hoarfrost started to crawl over its body.

For a moment, there was nothing the dragon wanted more. It just wanted the pain to end .

The hills turned silent, the only sound the whisper of the wind and the soft wheeze of the dragon's fading breaths.

Across from him, the man slumped beside the horn. They were staring at each other, man and dragon. His pale grey eyes against the dragon's black.

"It's alright. It's alright," the man whispered, soothing the dragon. "You are hurting. Let me end your torment."

There was frost spreading around the man's mouth as well, hoarfrost creeping over his skin. The touch of the horn was affecting him too, the dragon realised. The man must have known the cost - he had given his life to bring the dragon peace. A binding of ice.

In those moments, there was no pain or anger. All feeling drained away. There was naught but emptiness.

After being in pain for so long, the numbness felt almost like relief.

The dragon felt itself begin to sag.

Is this what dying feels like?

With his final breath, the man reached out with his mind. This time, the dragon didn't resist. Even as its consciousness faded, it felt the human's presence wrap around the dragon's soul, soft and reassuring.

The ice continued to spread, growing thicker and thicker. Veins of white crept across scales of red.

For that final moment, the dragon just felt lost and scared. The man's aura reached out to touch it, to cradle it in those final moments. The dragon felt a vague confusion, before realising. The man was comforting it, even as they both died.

The dragon had never known a human to be comforting before.

There was nothing but silence, their minds linked and their thoughts passing between them. They were both scared.

I know… I know, the man thought softly, as the ice enveloped them both. Be at peace. In the name of House Stark, I bind you .

…

The mountains were quiet. The northern winds softly sang over the drifts, and the last of the avalanches scattered downwards. The only movement in the valley was snows lightly dusting over the body of the frozen white gargantuan, slow but unending.

The dragon, the greenseer, and the horn were all buried together.

In 114 BC, there was a civil war in Valyria. The old guard of the Freehold, versus the new blood following an Emperor. The culmination of centuries of political bickering and partisan assassination, the one-night coup d'etat turned Valyria from an oligarchy of Lords Freeholder into an Empire. The new Emperor meant to launch a new age of expansion.

The civil war was obliterated from history by the Doom. No one capable of recording it survived that night. The first and nameless Emperor of Valyria reigned for only six hours before his empire was destroyed by fire and blood.

The blood magic ceremony that was supposed to ensure Valyria's future instead summoned its Doom.

The only surviving witness to the ceremony was a single red dragon, who fled around the world to the northern wilds, before eventually succumbing to the cold.

…

APPENDIX

LORDS AND KINGS OF WESTEROS

THE KING OF THE NORTH

KING OF THE WINTER THRONE

The Starks trace their descent from Brandon the Builder and the Kings of Winter. For thousands of years, they ruled from Winterfell as Kings in the North, until Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, chose to swear fealty to Aegon the Dragon rather than give battle. When Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell was executed by King Joffrey, the northmen foreswore their loyalty to the Iron Throne and proclaimed Lord Eddard's son Robb as King in the North. During the War of the Five Kings, Robb won every battle, but was betrayed and murdered by the Freys and Boltons at the Twins during his uncle's wedding.

In the Red Wedding's aftermath, its perturbator, Roose Bolton, was raised as Warden of the North. House Bolton held Winterfell, but then a northern coalition formed around Stark loyalists, led by Jon Snow, Robb Stark's bastard brother. After a bloody civil war, the northern coalition retook Winterfell and raised Brandon Stark as Robb's heir and as King in the North.

The words of House Stark are "Winter is Coming".

KING BRANDON STARK, called BRAN, the King in the North and the King Beyond the Wall, Lord of Winterfell. Also called Bran the Broken, Bran the Immortal, the twice-killed, and the next greenseer,

SUMMER, his direwolf. Currently roaming the Wall around Castle Black,

his trueborn siblings;

{ROBB STARK}, his elder brother, previously King in the North, King of the Trident, Lord of Winterfell, called THE YOUNG WOLF. Slain at the Red Wedding by Bolton and Frey treachery,

{GREY WIND}, his direwolf. Slain at

the Red Wedding,

his wife, JEYNE WESTERLING,

widowed and held hostage at Casterly Rock. Currently under the care of Lord Tyrion Lannister,

PRINCESS SANSA, his elder sister, married Tyrion of House Lannister (annulled), also known as Alayne Stone. Serves as the King's Mercy in the Winter Court.

{LADY}, her direwolf, killed at Castle

Darry,

PETYR BAELISH, also called

LITTLEFINGER, Sansa's pretend father, her mentor and her enemy,

{PRINCESS ARYA}, his sister, a girl of twelve, thought to have died at Winterfell in suspicious circumstances,

NYMERIA, her direwolf, prowling the

riverlands,

PRINCE RICKON, a boy of six, believed dead for four years, also known as Stiv Magnar. The Prince of Skagos and Lord of House Magnar, returned to Winterfell,

SHAGGYDOG, his direwolf, the

unicorn killer, black and savage. Currently at Eastwatch,

his adopted mother, OSHA, a wildling

woman once captive at Winterfell, now the widow of Lord Magnar. Surrendered to the North,

his adopted father, {LORD BJARG

MAGNAR}, de facto ruler of Skagos and skinchanger. Killed attempting to possess the dragon Sonagon,

his bastard half-brother, PRINCE JON SNOW, former King Beyond the Wall, formerly of the Night's Watch, also called the BASTARD KING, Dragonlord of the North, Defender of the Realm, and leader of the northern coalition's armies. Wielder of the sword Dark Sister. Surrendered his kingship to his half-brother, serves as the King's Claw in the Winter Court,

Prince Snow's skins;

SONAGON the White Doom, ice

dragon of the north, remnant of Old Valyria,

GHOST, his direwolf, white and silent.

Currently at Eastwatch,

PHANTOM, his shadowcat, dark and vicious. Currently at White Harbour,

WRATH, his mammoth. Currently at

Castle Black,

{HULLEN}, his goat. Died beyond the

Wall,

his father, {EDDARD STARK}, former Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Executed for treason before the Great Sept of Baelor, on the command of King Joffrey Baratheon,

his mother, {LADY CATELYN}, of House Tully, former Lady of Winterfell. Murdered by Roose Bolton at the Red Wedding,

his other kin:

his uncle, {BENJEN STARK}, First Ranger of the Night's Watch, lost beyond the Wall,

his aunt, {LYSA ARRYN}, former Lady Regent of the Vale of Arryn, widow of Lord Jon Arryn. Murdered when pushed out of the Moon Door,

her son, ROBERT ARRYN, Lord of

the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale, a sickly boy,

his uncle, EDMURE TULLY, Lord of Riverrun, taken captive at the Red Wedding, held hostage at Casterly Rock. Currently under the care of Lord Tyrion Lannister,

Edmure's pregnant wife, {LADY

ROSLIN}, of House Frey. Died during the Scouring of the Twins,

his great-uncle, SER BRYNDEN TULLY, called THE BLACKFISH, formerly castellan of Riverrun, hunted and then harboured at Greywater Watch, named Warden of the Southern Marches.

King Brandon's Winter Court;

Regent - Lord Howland Reed,

The King's Claw - Prince Jon Snow,

The King's Mercy - Princess Sansa Stark,

Minister of War - Lord Jon Umber,

Minister of Seas - Lord Wyman Manderly,

Minister of Justice - Ser Ian Poole,

Minister of Commerce - unfilled,

Minister of Harvests - unfilled,

Minister of Tithes - unfilled,

Minister of the Interior - unfilled,

Captain of the Guard, Lord Gregor Forrester,

Wardens in the North;

Warden of the Bite - Ser Marlon Manderly,

Warden of the Northern Mountains - Andrik Knott,

Warden of the Stone Isle - the Lord of Bones,

Warden of the Eastern Hills - the Weeper,

Warden of the Wolfswood - Lord Alger Bole,

Warden of the Western Coast - Lyra Mormont,

Warden of the Southern Marches - Ser Brynden Tully,

Prince Snow's Dragonguard (now defunct);

{FURS OF OLD MOTHER'S CROCK}, slain during the Battle of the Snows,

{HATCH THE HALFGIANT}, slain during the Battle of the

Snows,

{HALDUR TWO-NOTCH}, slain during the Battle for the

Wall,

{TOREGG}, son of Tormund Giantsbane, survived the Battle of the Snows, slain by wraith assassin at Winterfell,

{BULLDEN HORN}, unicorn hunter, assigned to search for Rickon Stark on Skagos, killed during the journey,

{STIGA OF THENN}, slain during the Battle of the Snows, slain during the Battle of the Snows,

{URWEN ROCKFIST}, slain during the Battle of the

Snows,

{GREGG SHEEPSTEALER}, slain during the Battle of the

Snows,

{MO}, slain during the Battle for the Wall,

{HARLE THE HUNTSMAN}, slain during the Battle of the

Snows,

{BLACK MARIS}, slain during the Battle of the Snows,

ERYN, son of Alvin Whaletooth, assigned to search for Rickon Stark on Skagos, survived,

DARK GERWICK, seventh son of Old Man Harwick, assigned to search for Rickon Stark on Skagos, survived,

{HARLOW}, actually {RAMSAY SNOW}, betrayed and poisoned the rest of the Dragonguard. Slain during the Battle of the Snows,

GRENN, of the Night's Watch, only surviving member at Castle Black,

{EWAN BOLE}, slain during the Battle of the Snows,

SER ALEK, survived the Battle of the Snows, resigned afterwards,

{ROLF}, slain during the Battle of the Snows,

xxxxxxxx… plus nine others, all slain during the Battle of the Snows,

WEX PYKE, squire to the Dragonguard, handler of Prince Snow's wolf,

Household of House Stark;

{THEON GREYJOY}, dubbed Theon Turncloak by northmen, Lord Eddard's ward and hostage, self-proclaimed Prince of Winterfell. Imprisoned, tortured and renamed REEK by Ramsay Bolton. Died during the fall of Winterfell after the Battle of the Snows,

{WALDER FREY}, called BIG WALDER, once a ward of Lady Catelyn, eight years of age. Served as a squire to Ramsay Bolton, slain during the fall of Winterfell after the Battle of the Snows,

{WALDER FREY}, called LITTLE WALDER, once a ward of Lady Catelyn, eight years of age. Served as a squire to Ramsay Bolton, slain during the fall of Winterfell after the Battle of the Snows,

WYNAFRYD and WYLLA MANDERLY, Princess Sansa's handmaidens,

GAWEN GLOVER, a ward of Winterfell, a boy of six, and new Master of Deepwood Motte,

BEREN and BRANDON TALLHART, wards of Winterfell, orphaned boys of twelve and six, the new Master of Torrhen's Square and his brother,

BENNARD LOCKE, called BEN, fourteen years old, Lord Ondrew Locke's grandson, squire to Prince Jon Snow,

MARRION MANDERLY, eleven years old, Lord Wyman Manderly's cousin, squire to Prince Jon Snow,

LARENCE SNOW, fourteen years old, natural son of Lord Halys Hornwood, squire to Prince Jon Snow,

{MAESTER LUWIN}, counsellor, healer and tutor. Perished to wounds sustained during the sack of Winterfell.

ARCHMAESTER MARWYN, counsellor, healer and personal advisor to Princess Sansa Stark. Resident expert on the

arcane and magical, scholar of unearthly mysteries, and dragon researcher,

MAESTER HENLY, junior maester. Formerly in service with House Slate, now at Winterfell,

MOTHER MOLE, former woods witch, now Mother Reverend of the Circle and tutor of King Bran Stark,

TYCHO NESTORIS, representative of the Iron Bank of Braavos to the North, a guest in Winterfell,

{VAYON POOLE}, head steward of Winterfell. Killed during the purge of the Stark household in the Red Keep,

{JEYNE POOLE}, his daughter. Vanished during the purge of the Stark household in the Red Keep. Never seen since,

{SER RODRIK CASSEL}, master-at-arms and castellan of Winterfell. Killed by Ramsay Snow during the battle at Winterfell,

BETH CASSEL, his daughter. Imprisoned at the

Dreadfort,

{JORY CASSEL}, his nephew, captain of Lord

Eddard's guards. Killed by Ser Jaime Lannister's men.

Lord Eddard's guardsmen;

{ALYN}, guardsman, founding

member of the brotherhood without banners. Now dead.

{TOMARD}, guardsman, called FAT

TOM. Killed by gold cloaks during the arrest of Ned Stark.

TOMTOO, his son. Fate

unknown.

{WYL} and {HEWARD}, guardsmen. Killed by Jaime Lannister's men.

{DESMOND}, guardsman. Killed

during the arrest of Ned Stark.

{CAYN}, guardsman. Killed by Sandor

Clegane during the arrest of Ned Stark.

{PORTHER}, guardsman. Killed

during the purge of the Stark household in the Red Keep.

{VARLY}, guardsman. Killed by Janos Slynt during the arrest of Ned Stark.

{HALLIS MOLLEN}, Jory Cassel's successor as Captain of the Guard. Escorted Eddard Stark's bones to Greywater Watch, joined with House Reed forces, perished during the taking of Moat Cailin,

QUENT, JACKS AND SHADD, guardsmen. Escort Lord Eddard's bones to Greywater Watch, joined with House Reed forces,

Winterfell's guardsmen, before the sack;

{ALEBELLY}, {HAYHEAD},

{SKITTRICK}, {WAYN}, {POXY TYM}, guardsmen. Slain during the sack of Winterfell.

Winterfell's guardsmen, after the retaking of

Winterfell;

LORD GREGOR FORRESTER, new

Captain of the Guard,

WILHELM, BODERICK, WATT, KEG

and DUNCAN, guardsmen.

{HULLEN}, master of horse. Killed during the purge of the Stark household in the Red Keep.

HARWIN, his son, a guardsman. Founding member of the brotherhood without banners. Currently with Lady Stoneheart's band of outlaws.

JOSETH, Hullen's successor as master of horse, imprisoned at the Dreadfort after the sack of Winterfell,

BANDY and SHYRA, his twin daughters, now imprisoned at the Dreadfort.

{SEPTA MORDANE}, tutor to Lord Eddard's daughters. Killed during the purge of the Stark household in the Red Keep.

{SEPTON CHAYLE}, keeper of Winterfell's sept and library. Drowned as a sacrifice to the Drowned God during the capture of Winterfell.

{MIKKEN}, blacksmith and armorer. Killed by Theon Greyjoy during the capture of Winterfell.

{FARLEN}, kennelmaster of Winterfell. Killed by Theon

Greyjoy.

PALLA, his daughter, a kennelgirl. Imprisoned at

the Dreadfort.

{GAGE}, the cook, imprisoned after the sack at Dreadfort,

TURNIP, his child. Imprisoned at the Dreadfort,

OSHA, of the free folk, imprisoned and served as kitchen drudge. Fled with Prince Rickon Stark to Skagos, adopted Rickon as her own child, and married Lord Bjarg Magnar, now widowed,

NAN, known as {OLD NAN}, storyteller and once a wet-nurse. Imprisoned at the Dreadfort, probably dead,

her grandson, WALDER, known as {HODOR}, a simple-minded stable boy. Perished after the sack of Last Hearth.

LOYALTY OF THE GREAT HOUSES OF THE NORTH TOWARDS THE BATTLE OF THE SNOWS

HOUSE BOLTON OF THE DREADFORT - Supported House Bolton, HOUSE CERWYN OF CERWYN - Supported House Bolton, HOUSE DUSTIN OF BARROWTON - Supported House Bolton,

HOUSE FLINT OF FLINT'S FINGERS - Remained mostly neutral, nominally House Bolton,

HOUSE FLINT OF WIDOW'S WATCH - Supported northern coalition, with some betrayers,

HOUSE GLOVER OF DEEPWOOD MOTTE - Split between House Bolton and northern collation,

HOUSE HORNWOOD OF HORNWOOD - Split between House Bolton and northern collation,

HOUSE KARSTARK OF KARHOLD - Supported mostly House Bolton, nominally northern coalition,

HOUSE LOCKE OF OLDCASTLE - Supported northern coalition, with some betrayers,

HOUSE MAGNAR OF KINGSHOUSE - Remained neutral towards civil war, slanted against wildlings,

HOUSE MANDERLY OF WHITE HARBOUR - Supported northern coalition,

HOUSE MORMONT OF BEAR ISLAND - Supported northern coalition,

HOUSE REED OF GREYWATER WATCH - Supported northern coalition,

HOUSE RYSWELL OF THE RILLS - Supported House Bolton, HOUSE STARK OF WINTERFELL - Supported northern coalition,

HOUSE TALLHART OF TORRHEN'S SQUARE - Supported House Bolton,

HOUSE UMBER OF LAST HEARTH - Supported northern coalition,

ASSEMBLED NORTHERN MOUNTAIN CLANS - Mostly supported northern coalition, many betrayers.

THE NORTHERN COALITION

An alliance between the free folk under Jon Snow, the Night's Watch and Stark loyalists among the northern lords, established to seek justice for the Red Wedding, to resist House Bolton and to restore House Stark to the Throne of Winterfell.

House Manderly of White Harbour;

LORD WYMAN MANDERLY, the Lord of White Harbour, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, Lord Marshal of the Mander, and Knight of the Order of the Green Hand. Vastly fat, leader of the northern coalition, serving as Minister of Seas on the Winter Court,

{SER WYLIS MANDERLY}, his eldest son and heir, very fat, held captive at the Twins and rescued by Lord Reed. Later killed during the Battle of the Snows,

Wylis' wife, {LEONA} of House Woolfield, betrayed the northern coalition and supplied information to the Boltons. Killed at Winterfell by wraith assassin,

WYNAFRYD, their eldest daughter,

WYLLA, their younger daughter,

{SER WENDEL MANDERLY}, Wyman's second son, slain at the Red Wedding,

SER MARLON MANDERLY, heir to Lordsport, Wyman's cousin, commander of the garrison at White Harbour. Sieged and captured the Dreadfort from Bolton loyalists,

{SER MADRICK MANDERLY} of Lordsport, brother to Marlon. Killed at Winterfell by wraith assassin,

his son, MARRION MANDERLY, eleven years old, squire to Prince Jon Snow,

SER WYLAN WHITWICK, castellan of New Castle, from family of candle-makers.

MAESTER THEOMORE, counsellor, tutor, healer. Born Theomore Lannister of Lannisport, exiled on suspicion of treason,

{SER BARTIMUS}, an old knight, one-legged, one-eyed, and oft drunk, castellan of the Wolf's Den, killed leading the defence during the Attack on White Harbour,

GARTH, a gaoler and headsman, a convert to the Circle,

THERRY a young turnkey,

SERA, a maid in the New Castle,

Houses sworn to Manderly of White Harbour: House Manderly of Lordsport, House Woolfield of Ramsgate, House Ashwood, House Poole of Laketon, House Whitehill, House Waterman, House Holt of Westwood and House Saan of the Bite.

LORD DYWEN POOLE, Lord of Laketon, an old man,

his son, SER IAN POOLE, heir to Laketon, married to Baldor Icewall's wildling daughter, serving as Minister of Justice on the Winter Court,

his daughter, widowed in Robb Stark's

campaign,

{VAYON POOLE}, Lord Dywen's brother, former head steward of Winterfell. Killed during the purge of the Stark household in the Red Keep,

{JEYNE POOLE}, his daughter, vanished in the south. Vanished during the purge of the Stark household in the Red Keep. Never seen since,

{LORD MALCOLM WOOLFIELD}, Lord of Ramsgate, accused of conspiring with the Boltons, executed for treason,

his son, Ser GARTH WOOLFIELD, led the defence on the Attack on White Harbour, currently imprisoned in New Castle,

Lord Malcolm's sister, {LEONA} of House Woolfield, wife to Ser Wylis Manderly, betrayed the northern coalition and supplied information to the Boltons. Killed at Winterfell by wraith assassin,

LORD RICKON HOLT, Lord of Westwood,

his daughter, married to the wildling Gerrick

Kingsblood,

a second daughter,

{LORD ETHAN WHITEHILL}, conspired against the northern coalition, executed by Prince Jon Snow for treason,

LORD BENNARD WATERMAN, married a wildling chieftain's daughter,

LORD SALLADHOR SAAN, Lord of the Bite, also called the Shark Lord. A former pirate lord and prince of Lys, established a new lordly house in the north after aiding in the Attack on White Harbour. Named Admiral in the Northern Fleet,

House Mormont of Bear Island;

{MAEGE MORMONT}, Lady of Bear Island, the She-Bear. Killed at Winterfell by wraith assassin,

{DACEY}, her eldest daughter, slain at the Red

Wedding,

{ALYSANE}, her daughter, the young She-Bear, slain during the Battle of the Snows,

her son, LORD WILL MORMONT, the

Little Bear, three years old, the new Lord of Bear Island,

her daughter, nine years old,

LYRA, the Middle Bear, castellan of Bear Island, named Warden of the Eastern Coast,

JORELLE,

LYANNA, her youngest daughter,

{JEOR MORMONT}, her brother, 997th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, slain by wights in the Haunted Forest,

{SER JORAH MORMONT}, his son, an exile. Envoy of Daenerys Targaryen and defender of Sansa Stark, slain during the Attack on White Harbour. Posthumously pardoned of his crimes in the North,

his wife, LYNESSE HIGHTOWER,

abandoned Ser Jorah after his disgrace, now is the chief concubine of Tregar Ormollen in Lys,

The words of House Mormont are "Here We Stand".

Houses sworn to Mormont of Bear Island: House Artos, House Cruden, House Lightfoot, House Woodhall.

House Umber of Last Hearth

JON UMBER, called THE GREATJON, Lord of the Last Hearth. Held captive at the Twins, rescued by Lord Reed, fought through the Battle of the Snows and survived the attack at Winterfell by wraith assassin. Serving as Minister of War on the Winter Court,

his first wife, {ROSEANNE}, slain in a wildling raid two decades prior,

his eldest daughter by his first wife, VALERIE, slain in a wildling raid two decades prior,

his youngest daughter by his first wife,

REBEKAH, slain in a wildling raid two decades prior,

his second wife, {SHELLA}, died of fever,

{JON, called THE SMALLJON}, the Greatjon's eldest son and heir, slain at the Red Wedding,

{STEFFON} his son, missing after the sack of

Last Hearth,

{KOL}, his son, missing after the sack of Last

Hearth,

{MIKAEL}, his youngest son, a babe, crucified

by Ramsay Bolton during the sack of Last Hearth,

MORS called CROWFOOD, uncle to the Greatjon, joint castellan at the Last Hearth. Injured at the sack of Last Hearth, and accused of being traitor against the northern coalition. Brought to Winterfell to stand trial,

{HOTHER called WHORESBANE}, uncle to the Greatjon, joint castellan at the Last Hearth. Slain during the sack of Last Hearth,

Houses sworn to House Umber of Last Hearth: House Mollen of Brandon's Crossing, House Moss, House Lake, House Mull, House Emberly.

LORD NORVEL MOLLEN, Lord of Brandon's Crossing, a possible but unproven betrayer at the Battle of the Snows,

{LORD HOSTER MOSS}, conspired against the northern coalition at the Battle of the Snows, executed by Prince Jon Snow for treason,

House Glover of Deepwood Motte;

{GALBART GLOVER}, Master of Deepwood Motte, unwed. Accused of treachery against the northern coalition, but unproven. Killed at Winterfell by wraith assassin,

{ROBETT GLOVER}, his brother and heir, executed for treachery against the northern coalition,

Robert's wife, SYBELLE of House Locke, held hostage with their children to force her husband's compliance, but released,

their eldest son, GAWEN GLOVER,

the new Master of Deepwood Motte, a boy of six, a ward of Winterfell,

their daughter, ERENA GLOVER, a

babe,

Houses sworn to Glover of Deepwood Motte: House Forrester, House Bark, House Bole, House Branch, House Gravel, House Woods.

LORD GREGOR FORRESTER, Glover's bannerman, serving as Captain of the Guard at Winterfell,

his daughter, married Ygon Oldfather's son,

LORD ALGER BOLE, minor lord of the Wolfswood, named Warden of the Wolfswood,

his son, {EWAN BOLE}, served on Prince Snow's Dragonguard,

House Reed of Greywater Watch;

HOWLAND REED, Lord of Greywater Watch, a crannogman,

his wife, JYANA, of the crannogmen,

their children;

MEERA, a young huntress,

companion of Bran Stark. Rescued Bran Stark from imprisonment by the Bastard's Boys, considered a likely future match to the king,

JOJEN, a boy blessed with green

sight, companion of Bran Stark. Thought lost after the sack of Last Hearth, but recovered at the Wall,

Houses sworn to House REed of Greywater Watch: House Blackmyre, House Boggs, House Cray, House Fenn, House Greengood, House Peat, House Quagg.

EDWYLE FERNDOWN, Lord Reed's man-at-arms,

House Flint of Widow's Watch;

LYESSA FLINT, Lady of Widow's Watch, a widow. Accused of conspiring against the northern coalition, unproven,

ROBIN FLINT, Lyessa's eldest son and heir, the only surviving member of Robb Stark's personal guard. Held hostage at the Twins, rescued by Lord Reed, serving as castellan at Widow's Watch,

SER BYAM FLINT, Lyessa's second son and a man of the Night's Watch. Abandoned his post and deserted during the Battle of the Snows,

The words of House Flint of Widow's Watch are "Ever Vigilant".

Houses sworn to House Flint of Widow's Watch: House Flint of Cloven Cove, House Skye, House Thistlewood.

House Locke of Oldcastle

LORD ONDREW LOCKE, Lord of Oldcastle, an old man. Accused of conspiring against the northern coalition, unproven,

his eldest son, {SER DONNEL LOCKE}, a knight, slain at the Red Wedding,

his son, BENNARD LOCKE, squire to

Prince Jon Snow,

{JEREMY LOCKE}, his second son and heir. Slain by Val at the Battle of the Snows, suspected conspirator against the northern coalition.

his daughter, SYBELLE, married to Robett Glover. Held hostage at Deepwood Motte but released, mother to Gawen and Erena Glover,

The words of House Locke are "Bar the Way".

Houses sworn to House Flint of Widow's Watch: House Benton, House Ceomore, House Dean.

The Northern Mountain Clans;

the chiefs among the mountain clans:

{HUGO WULL} called BIG BUCKET, or THE

WULL, died from wounds taken at the Battle of the Snows,

{BRANDON NORREY}, called THE NORREY, conspired against northern coalition, executed by Prince Jon Snow,

BRANDON NORREY, the Younger, his son, imprisoned at Winterfell,

two daughters of The Norrey,

murdered by wildlings before the northern coalition was founded,

TORREN LIDDLE, called THE LIDDLE, an old

man,

DUNCAN LIDDLE, his eldest son, called BIG LIDDLE, a man of the Night's Watch and castellan of Castle Black,

{MORGAN LIDDLE}, his second son,

called MIDDLE LIDDLE, slain at the Battle of the Snows,

RICKARD LIDDLE, his third son,

called LITTLE LIDDLE,

{TORGHEN FLINT}, of the First Flints, called THE FLINT, or OLD FLINT, conspired against northern coalition, executed by Prince Jon Snow,

{BLACK DONNEL FLINT}, his son and heir, executed at Winterfell,

ARTOS FLINT, his second son, half-

brother to Black Donnel, rejoined the northern coalition,

{ERIC BURLEY}, called THE BURLEY, slain at Winterfell by wraith assassin,

{RONNEL HARCLAY}, a man of the Night's Watch, died during the battle at the Wall,

ANDRIK KNOTT, eldest son of clan Knott, fought at the Battle for the Wall. Named Warden of the Northern Mountains.

HOUSE BOLTON SUPPORTERS

The resistance led by Roose Bolton, Warden of the North, opposing the northern coalition in the name of King Tommen Baratheon. House Bolton was raised to power after the death of Robb Stark, which they claim was justified, and they rallied objectors to northern coalition to resist the King Snow and his wildlings' conquest of the north.

House Bolton received considerable support from allies south of the Neck, especially the remnants of House Frey and an undetermined number of financial and political backers.

House Bolton of the Dreadfort;

{ROOSE BOLTON}, Lord of the Dreadfort, Warden of the North, called the Leech Lord. Conspired with Lord Walder Frey to topple King Robb Stark during the Red Wedding, was raised to Warden of the North for his efforts. Was defeated by the northern coalition during the Battle of the Snows, was taken captive, and later died in his cell,

{DOMERIC}, his sole trueborn heir by his

second wife, died of suspected poisoning,

{LADY WALDA FREY}, Lord Roose's third wife, called FAT WALDA, slain during the fall of Winterfell after the Battle of the Snows,

WALTON, called STEELSHANKS, Lord Bolton's captain. Held siege inside the Dreadfort for months, eventually surrendered to the northern coalition,

{RAMSAY BOLTON}, born Ramsay Snow, called THE BASTARD OF BOLTON, natural son and heir. Self-styled Lord of the Hornwood and Lord of Winterfell. Disguised himself as a common man, and infiltrated the Dragonguard, took the King Snow hostage and was slain by the wildling Val during the Battle of the Snows,

{DONELLA HORNWOOD}, Ramsay's first 'wife'. Perished after being imprisoned without food,

{"ARYA STARK"}, Ramsay's second wife. Perished during the fall of Winterfell after the Battle of the Snows, in mysterious circumstances,

{WALDER FREY} and {WALDER FREY}, called

BIG WALDER and LITTLE WALDER, Ramsay's squires,

the Bastard's Boys, Ramsay's men-at-arms:

{BEN BONES}, kennelmaster at the

Dreadfort,

{YELLOW DICK}, {DAMON DANCE-

FOR-ME}, {LUTON}, {SOUR ALYN}, {SKINNER}, {GRUNT}, {MERWYN}, {LOU}, WERWICK}, all Bastard's Boys, all dead,

The words of House Bolton are "Our Blades Are Sharp".

House Bolton is extinct after the Battle of the Snows. Their lands and fiefs are dissolved, and granted to newly raised free folk lords. Houses previously sworn to House Bolton of the Dreadfort: House Deoredge, House Long, House Pikeworth, House Rose of the Red Knife, House Stonehull, House Towers,

BARTHOGAN ROSE, Master of the Red Knife. Previously a Bolton bannerman, surrendered to the northern coalition after the battle.

House Cerwyn of Cerwyn;

{MEDGER CERWYN}, Lord of Cerwyn, perished from wounds at Harrenhal,

{CLEY CERWYN}, his son, next Lord of

Cerwyn, killed at Winterfell by Ramsay Snow,

{JONELLE CERWYN}, his daughter, next Lady of Cerwyn, a maid of two-and-thirty. Slain during the fall of Winterfell after the Battle of the Snows,

The words of House Cerwyn are "Honed and Ready".

House Cerwyn is extinct after the Battle of the Snows. Their lands and fiefs have been claimed directly by House Stark of Winterfell. Houses previously sworn to House Cerwyn of Cerwyn: House Condon, House Gates, House Beck, House Wells;

Ser Kyle Condon, a knight in service to Lord Medger. Allied with House Bolton next to his liege lady, but surrendered to the northern coalition after the Battle of the Snows.

House Dustin of Barrowton;

{LORD WILLIAM DUSTIN}, Lord of Barrowton. He died fighting at the end of Robert's Rebellion at the Tower of Joy, alongside Eddard Stark,

{LADY BARBREY DUSTIN}, widow of the late Lord Dustin, the Lady of Barrowton. Supported House Bolton against the northern coalition, was defeated and executed. Died without issue and without a designated heir,

LORD ARNOLD DUSTIN, formerly ARNOLD SPARROW. Formerly a petty knight who fought for the Boltons, but surrendered Barrowton quickly to the northern coalition. Raised to Arnold Dustin for his efforts,

Houses sworn to House Dustin of Barrowton: House Stout of Greengrass, House Coffin, House Graveton, House Marsh;

LORD HARWOOD STOUT, Lord of Greengrass, a one-armed old man. Allied with House Bolton next to his liege lady, but surrendered to the northern coalition after the Battle of the Snows,

House Flint of Flint's Fingers;

LORD CEDRIC FLINT, Lord of Flint's Fingers, Lord of Cape Kraken. Made token contributions to House Bolton during the civil war, but mostly removed himself from the conflict,

Houses sworn to House Flint of Flint's Fingers: House Greybane of Reaver's Folly, House Hoardridge of Ulwell Pier, House Ironsmith of Forge Hall, House Saltstone of Sandbanks,

House Hornwood of Hornwood;

Lord {HARLYS HORNWOOD}, slain at the battle on the Green Fork,

Lady {DONELLA HORNWOOD}, his wife, the cousin of Lord Wyman Manderly, widowed and then forced to marry Ramsay Snow, and then imprisoned and starved to death,

{DARYN HORNWOOD}, his son and heir, slain at the battle in the Whispering Wood,

LARENCE SNOW, the natural son of Lord Halys, 14 years old, fostered at Deepwood Motte. Appointed a squire of Prince Jon Snow,

his sister, {BERENA}, wife of Leobald Tallhart. Once captured by Ironborn at Torrhen's Square, then rescued by House Bolton. Died during the fall of Winterfell after the Battle of the Snows.

(MAESTER MEDRICK}, a maester serving House Hornwood. Executed for treachery at Winterfell,

The words of House Hornwood are "Righteous in Wrath".

The heir apparent of House Hornwood is in question after the Battle of the Snows. Their lands and fiefs have been largely reallocated between House Manderly and new free folk houses. Houses previously sworn to House Hornwood of Hornwood: House Overton, House Slate of Blackpool, House Plumbridge, House Staffin, House Shepton;

LORD ANDERS OVERTON, an old warrior. Allied alongside the northern coalition,

{LORD HAROLD SLATE}, Lord of Blackpool. Allied alongside the northern coalition, but accused of conspiracy against them and treachery at the Battle of the Snows. Executed at Winterfell,

{MANDON SLATE}, his son and heir. Conspired against the northern coalition at the Battle of the Snows, executed by Prince Snow at Winterfell,

MAESTER HENLY, a junior maester of the Citadel, once serving House Slate, now serving House Stark,

House Karstark of Karhold;

{RICKARD KARSTARK}, Lord of Karhold, beheaded by the Young Wolf for murdering prisoners,

{HARRION}, his eldest son, captured and executed at Maidenpool,

{EDDARD}, his son, slain in the Whispering

Wood,

{TORRHEN}, his son, slain in the Whispering

Wood,

LADY ALYS KARSTARK, his daughter, the Lady of Karhold, a maid of fifteen, forced to marry her cousin Cregan and then widowed,

his uncle {ARNOLF}, castellan of Karhold, allied alongside Roose Bolton with the rest of his house. Slain at the Battle of the Snows, commanding the rearguard,

{CREGAN}, Arnolf's elder son, Lord of

Karhold after marrying his cousin Alys. Fought against the northern coalition, but surrendered after the capture of Karhold. Forced to fight alongside the northern coalition at the Battle of the Snows, but later died 'accidentally' falling from his horse,

Three sons of Lord Cregan,

two of them slain during the capture of Karhold or the Battle of the Snows,

ARTHOR, Arnolf's youngest son,

surrendered to the northern coalition after the Battle of the Snows,

(MAESTER TYBALD}, a maester serving House Karstark. Executed for treachery at Winterfell,

The words of House Karstark are 'The Sun of Winter'.

Houses sworn to House Karstark of Karhold: House Covenry, House Karmist, House Grey, and House Hunter;

House Ryswell of the Rills;

LORD RODRIK RYSWELL, Lord of the Rills. SUpporter of HOuse Bolton, slain leading the flank in the Battle of the Snows,

his eldest daughter {LADY BETHANY,} the

second wife of Roose Bolton, died of a fever,

his daughter, {LADY BARBREY}, Lady of Barrowton, widow of Lord William Dustin. Executed at Winterfell,

his sons, all fought at the Battle of the Snows;

{ROGER RYSWELL}, slain in Battle

of the Snows,

RICKARD RYSWELL, the new Lord

of the Rills, surrendered after the Battle of the Snows, hostage at Winterfell,

ROOSE RYSWELL, surrendered after

the Battle of the Snows, hostage at Winterfell,

Houses sworn to House Ryswell of the Rills: House Ryder of Rillswater, House Ryswell of Saltshield, House Ryswell of the Spit, House Rysdene, House Rysett, House Glenmore, House Stirling, House Stonehaven, House Fisher of Stony Shore

LORD ERIC RYDER, Lord of Rillswater, allied with House Bolton next to his liege lord, but surrendered to the northern coalition after the Battle of the Snows,

House Tallhart of Torrhen's Square;

{SER HELMAN TALLHART}, Master of Torrhen's Square, slain at Duskendale,

{BENFRED TALLHART}, his son and heir, slain by ironmen on the Stony Shore,

{EDDARA}, his daughter, briefly Lady of Torrhen's Square. Held captive at Torrhen's Square by ironborn, rescued by House Bolton taken as a ward of Winterfell. Died during the fall of Winterfell after the Battle of the Snows.

{LEOBALD}, his brother, castellan of Torrhen's Square, killed at Winterfell by Ramsay Snow,

Leobald's wife, {BERENA} of House Hornwood. Held captive at Torrhen's Square by ironborn, rescued by House Bolton. Died during the fall of Winterfell after the Battle of the Snows,

their eldest son, BEREN, a boy of

twelve, the newest Master of Torrhen's Square. Likewise held captive at Torrhen's Square by ironborn, taken as a ward of Winterfell. Survived the Battle of the Snows,

their youngest son, BRANDON, a boy

of six, likewise held captive at Torrhen's Square by ironborn, taken as a ward of Winterfell.

The words of House Tallhart are "Proud and Free".

Houses sworn to House Tallhart of Torrhen's Square: House Broadford, House Greenhill of Greenhil, House Shallowstone.

THE NIGHT'S WATCH

A military order dedicated to holding the Wall, the men of the Night's Watch wear only black, and are known as black brothers. This order has came into much conflict with the free folk beyond the Wall.

After a failed Great Ranging against the wildlings and after the conquest of King Jon Snow, the black brothers were forced to accept a truce with the free folk. The Night's Watch stands as the first line of defence against the threat of the Others from the north.

The sworn brothers;

SAMWELL TARLY, of Horn Hill, nine-hundred-and-ninety-eighth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch,

{LORD JEOR MORMONT}, called the Old Bear, nine-hundred-and-ninety-seventh Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Slain at the battle of the Haunted Forest by the Others.

Stewards:

EDDISON TOLLETT, called DOLOROUS EDD, appointed Lord Steward,

{MAESTER AEMON (TARGARYEN)}, healer and counsellor, a blind man, one hundred and two years old, accidentally slain during an assassination attempt against King Snow,

Aemon's steward, CLYDAS, acting

maester at Castle Black,

{THREE-FINGER HOBB}, steward and chief cook, slain by Malvern,

{DONAL NOYE}, one-armed armorer and smith, slain at the gate by Malvern,

{SEPTON CELLADOR}, a drunken devout, slain

by Malvern,

{DAREON called LOVER}, a singer, slain by

Malvern,

{SATIN}, a recruit-in-training, slain by Malvern,

OWEN called THE OAF, SMALL PAUL, {TIM TANGLETONGUE}, MULLY, CUGEN, {LEFT HAND LEW}, TY, DANNEL, {ORPHAN OSS}, {MUTTERING BILL}, {RED

ALYN OF THE ROSEWOOD}, {ARRON}, BASS, BORCAS, CUGER,

DANNEL, EASY, {HAKE}, {OLD HENLY}, MASLYN, {WALLACE MASSEY}, {MULLY}, RUDGE, and {WYCK} all stewards,

Builders;

OTHELL YARWYCK, First Builder,

ALBETT called PIMPLE, ALF OF

RUNNYMUDD, {HALDER}, {HARETH}, {YOUNG HENLY}, {KEGS}, SPOTTED PATE OF MAIDENPOOL, {SPARE BOOT}, all builders

Rangers;

HARLE THE HANDSOME, First Ranger,

BIG LIDDLE, castellan of Castle Black,

SER ENDREW TARTH, master-at-arms at Castle

Black,

{JANOS SLYNT}, former commander of the City Watch of King's Landing, later Lord of Harrenhal, then a brother of the Night's Watch, and then turned wight by the Others. Slain by Samwell Tarly,

{SER ALLISER THORNE}, former master-at-arms, executed by Sigorn of Thenn,

{IRON EMMETT}, former master-at-arms at Eastwatch, slain by Malvern,

{THOREN SMALLWOOD}, senior ranger, slain by Val at the battle of the Haunted Forest,

{SER MALLADOR LOCKE}, senior ranger, slain at the battle of the Haunted Forest,

SER WYNTON STOUT, former castellan at Castle Black, old and witless,

TOM BARLEYCORN, senior ranger and scout

leader,

{BLANE}, senior ranger, slain at the battle of the

Haunted Forest,

{BEDWYCK called the GIANT}, died commanding the siege weapons during the collapse of the Wall,

GRENN called AUROCHS, named to the

Dragonguard,

{TODDER called TOAD}, slain at the ambush at

Castle Black,

AETHAN, {ALAN OF ROSBY}, {BANNEN}, {BEARDED BEN}, {BLACK BERNARR}, BROWN BERNARR, {JARMEN BUCKWELL}, {BLACK JACK BULWER}, DORNISH DILLY, {DYWEN}, ELRON, EMRICK, {DEAF DICK FOLLARD}, {FORNIO}, {FULK THE FLEA}, GARSE, GARRETT GREENSPEAR, {GARTH GREYFEATHER}, {GARTH OF OLDTOWN}, GEOFF, GOADY, GRUBBS, {HAIRY HAL}, RONNEL HARCLAY, {KEDGE WHITEYE}, {KETTER}, LUKE OF LONGTOWN, MATTHAR, {MAWNEY}, {RORY}, SER JAREMY RYKKER, RED JACK CRABB, RUSTY FLOWERS, RYLES, TIM STONE, TUMBERJON, {ULMER}, ALADALE WYNCH, {OTTYN WYTHERS}, all rangers,

At the Shadow Tower;

{SER DENYS MALLISTER}, commander of the Shadow Tower. Refused to surrender to the approaching wildling army, killed during of the Shadow Tower when the dragon Sonagon assaulted it,

his steward and squire, {WALLACE

MASSEY},

{MAESTER MULLIN}, healer and

counsellor,

{QHORIN HALFHAND}, {SQUIRE

DALBRIDGE}, {EGGEN}, rangers, all slain beyond the Wall,

{STONESNAKE}, a ranger, lost afoot

in Skirling Pass, used as a sacrifice by the Others,

At Eastwatch-by-the-Sea;

{COTTER PYKE}, a bastard of the Iron Islands, commander of Eastwatch. Surrendered to the wildlings, continued to uphold his vows, later slain during the Night of the Dead, the Other's naval invasion,

{MAESTER HARMUNE}, healer and counsellor, oft drunk, executed on suspicion of treason against the northern coalition,

{SER GLENDON HEWETT}, master-

at-arms at Eastwatch, died resisting the wildlings,

{OLD TATTERSALT}, captain of the

Blackbird,

SER MAYNARD HOLT, captain of the

Talon, fled from the battle in the Skagosi straits,

{RUSS BARLEYCORN}, captain of

the Storm Crow .

Free folk who took the Black:

{WULF}, Samwell Tarly's bodyguard, died at the Battle of Castle Black,

WUN WEG WUN DAR WUN, called WUN WUN, the first giant to take the black, survived the Battle of Castle Black,

ERIK BEARCLAW,

BONE ERIK,

BROGG BIG-CHIN,

THUNDERING MAMMOTH,

JAX,

LEATHERS,

LEMMY,

TWO-TOED DIRK,

ONE-EYED WULF,

{MARV THE RED HAND},

{MARTHE OF THE ANTLERS}, died at the Battle

of Caster Black,

AKI THE WROTH,

{STUTTERING ANDRIK},

ANDRIK BONESTEW,

{LEFT-HANDED YOLDO}

{QUORT HARLESSON},

{IVAR THE RESTLESS},

KYLEG OF THE WOODEN EAR,

{YVON OF WHITETREE},

BIG ASTA,

HENRIK THE HOG,

and many more.

Betrayers, once men of the Night's Watch:

{CHETT}, {DIRK}, {SOFTFOOT}, {OLLO

LOPHAND}, {LARK THE SISTERMAN}, {ROLLEY OF SISTERTON}, {CLUBFOOT KARL}, {MASLYN}, and {SAWOOD}, deserters, attempted to abandon post at the Fist of the First Men, all slain,

{BOWEN MARSH}, former Lord Steward, slain

perpetrating the assassination attempt against King Snow,

{DONNEL HILL called SWEET

DONNEL}, {WICK WHITTLESTICK}, {GARTH OF GREENAWAY}, {JEREN}, {HAKE}, {RAST}, and {PYPAR called PYP}, all slain perpetrating the assassination attempt against King Snow,

SER BYAM FLINT, led a group of deserters fleeing the battle at the Wall.

In 297, when Jon Snow joined, the sworn brothers of the Night's Watch numbered 966 men.

After several defeats and the conquest of the Wall by the free folk, the sworn brothers were diminished to 432.

Their ranks were later bolstered by approximately 3000 free folk who took the black.

After Others assault on the Wall, less than 2000 sworn brothers remain.

THE WILDLINGS, or THE FREE FOLK

Formerly threats to the realm, under King Jon Snow they were pushed into northern coalition. Any free folk who renounces the

wildling ways is granted a blanket pardon from all previous crimes and citizenship in the North.

The most prominent among the free folk were granted lordships of the castles at the Wall, in return for fortifying them.

NAMED LORDS AT THE WALL;

Eastwatch, granted to the Lord of Bones,

Greenguard, granted to Gavin the Trader,

The Torches, granted to Gerrick Kingsblood,

Long Barrow, granted to Big Agnes,

Rimegate, granted to Aki Twentysons,

Sable Hall, granted to Ygon Oldfather,

Woodswatch-by-the-Pool, granted to Kyleg

Stonehand,

Oakenshield, granted to Soren Shieldbreaker,

Castle Black, granted to Mance Rayder,

Queensgate, granted to Morna Whitemask,

Deep Lake, granted to Old Man Harwick,

The Nightfort, still unmanned, under

reconstruction,

Icemark, granted to Baldor Icewall,

Hoarfrost Hill, granted to Haldur Bullspear,

Stonedoor, granted to Asta the Swimmer,

Greyguard, granted to granted to Blind Doss

Sentinel Stand, granted to Marrik One-Foot,

The Shadow Tower, granted to Sigorn of Thenn.

Westwatch-by-the-Bridge, granted to Soren of

Thenn.

Chieftains, leaders and warlords:

{MANCE RAYDER}, former King-Beyond-the-Wall, named Lord of Castle Black, acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, slain holding the Wall in the Other's assault,

his wife, DALLA, now widowed,

their newborn son, born in battle, as

yet unnamed,

LADY VAL OF

WHITETREE, Dalla's older sister, the wildling princess, paramour of Jon Snow,

GARTH, Val's friend and companion, named one of the Wardens of the Exodus,

LORD OF BONES, mocked as RATTLESHIRT, named Lord of Eastwatch, a raider and leader of a war band,

SIGORN OF THENN, Magnar of Thenn, Lord of

the Shadow Tower,

his father, {STYR}, former Magnar of

Thenn, died in prison after being captured by the Night's Watch,

his cousin, STIGA, named to the

Dragonguard, perished during the Battle of the Snows,

his cousin, SOREN, named Lord of Westwatch-by-the-Bridge, castellan of the Shadow Tower as well,

TORMUND, Mead-King of Ruddy Hall, called GIANTSBANE, TALL-TALKER, HORNBLOWER, and BREAKER OF ICE, also THUNDERFIST, HUSBAND TO BEARS, SPEAKER TO GODS, and FATHER OF HOSTS,

his eldest son, {TOREGG THE TALL},

named to the Dragonguard, slain by wraith assassin,

his other sons, {TORWYRD THE

TAME}, DORMUND, and {DRYN},

his daughter {MUNDA}, murdered

after being captured by the Night's Watch,

THE WEEPER, called THE WEEPING MAN, a notorious raider and leader of a war band,

{HARMA, called DOGSHEAD}, slain in the battle in the Haunted Forest,

{HALLECK}, her brother, named one

of the Wardens of the Exodus, slain during the Other's assault on the Wall,

{VARAMYR} called SEVENSKINS, a skinchanger and warg. Named on of the Wardens of the Exodus, perished at the assault on the Wall,

his skins; three wolves, one snow

bear, one shadowcat, one eagle, one horse,

BORROQ, called THE BOAR, a skinchanger,

much feared,

GERRICK KINGSBLOOD, of the blood of

Raymun Redbeard, named Lord of the Torches,

his three daughters,

OLD MAN HARWICK, clan patriarch,

many, many sons and daughters,

DARK GERRICK, his seventh son,

named to the Dragonguard,

SOREN SHIELDBREAKER, a famed warrior, named Lord of Oakenshield,

MORNA WHITE MASK, the warrior witch, a raider, named Lady of Queensgate,

YGON OLDFATHER, a clan chief with eighteen wives, named Lord of Sable Hall,

{THE GREAT WALRUS}, leader of the Walrus Men from the Frozen Shore, died resisting Jon Snow as king,

another Great Walrus was elected,

LORD OF SEALS, later renamed himself THE ADMIRAL OF SEALS, commander of the free folk fleet. Turned craven and fled from the battle in the Skagosi straits,

{ALVIN WHALETOOTH}, died at the battle of

the Hardhome,

his son, ERYN, named to the

Dragonguard,

BIG AGNES, named Lady of Long Barrow,

BALDOR ICEWALL, named Lord of Icemark,

HALDUR BULLSPEAR, named Lord of

Hoarfrost Hill,

GAVIN THE TRADER, named Lord of

Greenguard,

DEVYN SEALSKINNER, captain in the free folk

fleet,

AKI TWENTYSONS, named Lord of Rimegate,

HARLE THE HANDSOME, joined the Night's Watch, appointed First Ranger,

HARLE THE HUNTSMAN, named to the

Dragonguard, died at the Battle of the Snows,

KYLEG OF THE WOODEN EAR, joined the

Night's Watch,

KYLEG STONEHAND, named Lord of Woodswatch-by-the-Pool,

BROGG BIG-CHIN, joined the Night's Watch,

MARRIK ONE-FOOT, named Lord of Sentinel

Stand,

BLIND DOSS, named Lord of Greyguard,

THE BLOODTOOTH, captain in the free folk

fleet,

ASTA THE SWIMMER, captain in the free folk

fleet,

THE OWL LORD, a skinchanger, speaks only in

hoots,

HOWD THE WANDERER, a free folk chieftain, left to parts unknown,

LARS THE PRETTY,

MARTHE OF THE ANTLERS, a clan chief of ill-repute, joined the Night's Watch,

ERIK BEARCLAW, joined the Night's Watch,

{NED BEARCLAW}, executed by Rattleshirt,

{BALDR BOARHUNTER}, executed by

Rattleshirt,

{LARRS STONEBROCK}, executed by

Rattleshirt,

{ERIKKSON OF THE WEST RIVER}, executed

by Rattleshirt,

Raiders, warriors and spearwives;

{YGRITTE}, a spearwife, Jon Snow's once lover. Captured and enslaved by the Others, perished during the Battle of Castle Black,

{LONGSPEAR RYK}, a raider, Ygritte's friend. Captured and enslaved by the Others, perished during the Battle of Castle Black,

{JARL}, an experienced raider, Val's brief lover. Missing after the Frostfangs,

OSHA, a free folk woman, imprisoned and served as kitchen drudge at Winterfell. Fled with Prince Rickon Stark to Skagos, adopted Rickon as her own child, and married Lord Bjarg Magnar, now widowed,

{CRASTER}, a man of ill-repute who lived in a keep near the Wall. Slain by warbands in the aftermath of the battle of the Frostfangs,

GILLY, Craster's daughter and wife. Fled Craster's keep with the free folk host, found safety at Hardhome and converted to the cult of the dragon. Currently at Castle Black,

Gilly's unnamed babe, the last of

Craster's sons,

{BULLDEN HORN}, a raider, named to the Dragonguard. Perished after being tasked to search for Rickon Stark,

{ORELL, called ORELL THE EAGLE}, a

skinchanger slain by Jon Snow in the Skirling Pass,

ROLF, BONE ERIK, STEN, HALDUR HALFWIT, RAGS, MHARKA, LEWIE, STUMP, SVEN, CRAB MORS, TWO-NOTCH HALDUR, FURS, LEFT-HANDED YOLDO, SHIELDFACE, AND ULF THREE BLADES, all raiders,

THISTLE, ROWAN, MO, HOLLY, SQUIRREL,

WILLOW WITCH-EYE, FRENYA, MYRTLE, spearwives,

The Circle of Witches and Wargs

The Circle, also known as the Dragon Cult, or the Cult of the White Dragon, a zealous offshoot of Old God worship. The Circle revolves around the ice dragon Sonagon, and has grown highly intolerant of other religions.

MOTHER MOLE, formerly a wood's witch, now

the Mother Reverend and Prioress of the Circle.

her apprentices;

SIGRID of Antlerstone, greater

apprentice,

apprentices GUNHILDE, ARSI,

HELTHA, SOLVI, and two-score others,

Wargs and skinchangers;

THE OWL LORD,

BORROQ THE BOAR,

TORVI ICETOOTH,

BRIAR, GRISELLA,

GRIGG, ERROK, BODGER and more.

Giants;

{MAG MAR TUN DOH WEG, called MAG THE MIGHTY}, a giant, slain by the Others at the Slaughter in the Frostfangs,

WUN WEG WUN DAR WUN, called WUN WUN, a giant, serving at Castle Black,

LEG LUN DAR TAR, a giant chieftain,

MAG DE GAR, a giant chieftain,

two dozen giant clans, approximately

300 remaining,

Beyond the Wall;

In the caverns beneath the haunted forest;

THE THREE-EYED CROW, also called THE LAST GREENSEER, sorcerer and dreamwalker, once a man of the Night's Watch named BRYNDEN, now more tree than man,

his servant, COLDHANDS, also

called the STRANGER, clad in black, once perhaps a man of the Night's Watch, now a mystery,

RAMSAY, an unchained wight taken

from the battle for the Wall,

the children of the forest, those who sing the song of earth, last of their dying race:

ACORN, LEAF, ASH, SCALES,

BLACK KNIFE, SNOWYLOCKS, COALS.

THE OTHERS

The Others, also known as white walkers, cold gods, white shadows and children of the moon, are beings of ice that exist the north far beyond the Wall. They had not been seen for many thousand years and were considered extinct, but in modern times they are leading an invasion south, already conquering all lands north of the Wall. It is feared to be the second Long Night.

The Others are described as beautiful, ethereal creatures with bright blue eyes, that are prone to playing with mortals before they kill them. They seek to conquer the world, and to turn every mortal creature 'immortal'.

THE WHITE WALKER KING, the Dread, an immortal and mysterious figure leading the Others' invasion. Said to be the most dangerous creature in the world, and said to be half-human, half-Other,

{THE NIGHT'S KING}, a legendary figure from the Age of Heroes, a fearless warrior named as the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He attempted to make peace between humans and Others by marrying one of them, but ended up declaring himself king and her his queen, and ruling from the Nightfort for thirteen dark years. They still tell tales of the atrocities of his reign, though all records of him were destroyed and his very name was forbidden,

THE CORPSE QUEEN, a name given to the Night's King's bride, a woman with skin as cold as ice and eyes like blue stars. Supposedly she took his soul as well as his seed,

{MALVERN}, the name given to an ambitious white walker who tricked his way through the Wall. Was wounded in the crossing, but remained strong enough to raise a host of corpses after the Battle of the Snows, and was critical in assaulting the Wall. Later slain after being lured into a trap by Samwell Tarly.

CLAIMANTS TO THE IRON THRONE, LORD OF SEVEN KINGDOMS

{THE QUEEN REGENT}

House Lannister and House Baratheon loyalists once held the Iron Throne as the sons of King Robert Baratheon, under the regency of Queen Cersei of House Lannister. After the deaths of several key figures, Cersei Lannister was accused of crimes of infidelity and murder by the Faith, leading towards a stand-off between crown and faith around the Red Keep that lasted for 77 days. Her reign ended in spectacular collapse during attack on the Great Sept and the Great Fire of King's Landing, after crimes against men and gods, and the Iron Throne was conquered by King Aegon Targaryen.

The Queen Regent and her children were declared as illegitimate, stripped of all right, land and deed.

King Tommen's banner once showed the crowned stag of Baratheon, black on gold, and the lion of Lannister, gold on crimson, combatant.

{CERSEI LANNISTER}, the First of Her Name, widow of {King Robert I Baratheon}, Queen Dowager, former Protector of the Realm, former Lady of Casterly Rock, and former Queen Regent. Also called the MAD QUEEN; accused of infidelity and high treason, held siege inside the Red Keep for 77 days, dabbled in sorcery and

set fire to King's Landing in madness, and then slain in circumstances unknown,

her children;

her eldest son, {JOFFREY HILL}, also called KING JOFFREY I BARATHEON poisoned during his wedding feast by his uncle Tyrion,

her daughter, {MYRCELLA HILL}, also called PRINCESS MYRCELLA BARATHEON, a girl of ten, a ward of Prince Doran Martell at Sunspear, betrothed to his son Trystane. Murdered at Starfall by Ser Gerold Dayne, the Darkstar, at the behest of her uncle Tyrion,

her youngest son, {TOMMEN I HILL}, also called KING TOMMEN I BARATHEON. Once the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. A boy of eight years, supposedly murdered by his uncle Tyrion.

his kittens, SER POUNCE, {LADY

WHISKERS}, {BOOTS},

his wife, {QUEEN MARGAERY} of

House Tyrell, thrice wed, twice widowed, once murdered. Accused of high treason, held captive in the Red Keep by Cersei Lannister, murdered by Cersei Lannister and 'resurrected',

Margaery's lady

companions and cousins, {MEGGA}, {ALLA}, and {ELINOR TYRELL}, accused of treachery, all held hostage and slain in the Red Keep,

Cersei's brothers:

SER JAIME LANNISTER, called THE KINGSLAYER, twin to Queen Cersei, Lord Commander of the

Kingsguard. Presumed dead, supposedly executed by the outlaw Lady Stoneheart,

TYRION LANNISTER, called THE IMP, a dwarf, accused and condemned for regicide and kinslaying. Now Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and pardoned fully by King Aegon Targaryen,

PODRICK PAYNE, Tyrion's former

squire, a boy of twelve, captured by outlaws,

Cersei's father, {TYWIN LANNISTER}, former Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and Hand of the King, murdered on the privy by his son Tyrion,

Cersei's uncles, aunt and cousins;

Cersei's uncle, {SER KEVAN LANNISTER}, named Lord Marshal and Warden of the West. Committed suicide during the Great Fire of King's Landing.

his wife, {LADY DORNA SWYFT},

murdered by the outlaw Lady Stoneheart,

their children: {SER LANCEL

LANNISTER}, a knight of the Holy Order of the Warrior's Sons. Murdered and 'resurrected' by Lord Qyburn.

{WILLEM}, twin to Martyn, murdered

at Riverrun,

MARTYN, twin to Willem, a squire,

murdered by the outlaw Lady Stoneheart,

JANEI, a girl of three, murdered by

the outlaw Lady Stoneheart,

Cersei's aunt, GENNA LANNISTER, fled from the outlaw Lady Stoneheart,

her husband, {SER EMMON FREY},

briefly Lord of Riverrun, executed by the outlaw Lady Stoneheart,

their children: {SER CLEOS FREY},

killed by outlaws, his son;

SER TYWIN FREY, called

TY, Cleos' son,

WILLEM FREY, a squire,

Cleos' son,

SER LYONEL FREY, Lady Genna's

second son,

{TION FREY}, a squire, Genna's son,

murdered at Riverrun,

WALDER FREY, called RED

WALDER, Genna's son, a page at Casterly Rock,

Cersei's uncle, {SER TYGETT LANNISTER},

his wife; DARLESSA MARBRAND,

his son, {TYREK LANNISTER}, a

squire, vanished during the food riots in King's Landing,

LADY ERMESANDE

HAYFORD, Tyrek's child wife, widowed before she was weaned,

Cersei's uncle, {GERION LANNISTER}, lost at

sea,

JOY HILL, his bastard daughter,

{SER STAFFORD LANNISTER} also called Uncle Dolt, Cersei's cousin, died during Robb Stark's campaign in the riverlands,

CERENNA LANNISTER, Cersei's cousin, daughter of her late uncle Stafford, her mother's brother,

MYRIELLE LANNISTER, Cersei's cousin and Cerenna's sister, daughter of her late uncle Stafford,

{SER DAVEN LANNISTER}, her cousin, Stafford's son, named Warden of the West, died at the Scouring of the Twins,

SER DAMION LANNISTER, a more distant cousin, married Shiera Crakehall, named castellan of Casterly Rock, defeated and captured by Tyrion Lannister,

SER LUCION LANNISTER, their son,

LANNA, their daughter, m. Lord

Antario Jast,

LADY MARGOT, a cousin still more distant, m.

Lord Titus Peake,

After a mass outcry against House Lannister, the main branch of Lannister has been all but extinguished, and Tyrion Lannister (once condemned) stands as the Lord of Casterly Rock under King Aegon.

Queen Cersei's small council:

{SER KEVAN LANNISTER}, Lord Marshal,

Warden of the West,

{LORD ORTON MERRYWEATHER}, Hand of the King. Murdered by assassin unknown along with his wife and Great Maester Pycelle in the Red Keep.

{LADY TAENA MERRYWEATHER}, Lord Orton's wife, and Queen Cersei's paramour, and secret spy of House Tyrell. Murdered by assassin unknown along with her

husband and Great Maester Pycelle in the Red Keep. Their deaths sparked Queen Cersei's paranoia,

{GRAND MAESTER PYCELLE}, counsellor and healer. Murdered by assassin unknown along with Lord and Lady Merryweather in the Red Keep,

SER JAIME LANNISTER, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Missing, presumed dead,

AURANE WATERS, the Bastard of Driftmark, grand admiral and master of ships. Fled to sea with the royal fleet, turned pirate lord - styling himself the Lord of Waters,

{SER HARYS SWYFT}, lord treasurer and master of coin. Murdered by assassin unknown during the siege of the Red Keep,

LORD QYBURN, master of whispers. A disgraced maester and necromancer, Queen Cersei's last supporter. Resurrected a small army of abominations, masterminded the Attack on the Faith, later abandoned the Queen Regent's cause and fled the city,

Queen Cersei's former small council;

{LORD GYLES ROSBY}, lord treasurer and master of coin, dead of a cough,

King Tommen's Kingsguard:

SER JAIME LANNISTER, Lord Commander,

{SER MERYN TRANT}, executed for extreme negligence, then resurrected by Lord Qyburn,

{SER BOROS BLOUNT}, executed for extreme negligence, then resurrected by Lord Qyburn,

{SER BALON SWANN}, died in Dorne with Princess Myrcella, slain by either Gerold Dayne or Obara Sand,

{SER OSMUND KETTLEBLACK}, captured by the Faith, turned accuser against Cersei, died in the burning of the Great Sept,

{SER ARYS OAKHEART}, dead in Dorne,

SER LORAS TYRELL, the Knight of Flowers,

survived captivity in the Red Keep, left crippled,

SER ROBERT STRONG, a grotesque animation created by Lord Qyburn. Abandoned Queen Cersei along with Lord Qyburn, fled the city,

Tommen's court at King's Landing:

{SER OSNEY KETTLEBLACK}, brother to Osmund and Osfryd. Tasked by Cersei Lannister to assassinate the High Septon, but failed and was captured by the Faith. Tortured for a confession, his accusation against the Queen Regent formed the chief allegation against her. Later died in the burning of the Great Sept,

{SER OSFRYD KETTLEBLACK}, brother to Osmund and Osney, former commander of the City Watch of King's LAnding. Captured by the Faith, turned accuser against Cersei, died in the burning of the Great Sept,

{JOCELYN SWYFT}, Queen Cersei's handmaid.

Murdered and harvested for Lord Qyburn's experiments,

{LEWYS PIPER}, {GARRETT PAEGE}, hostages and squires at the Red Keep. Murdered and harvested for Lord Qyburn's experiments,

{MOON BOY}, the royal jester and fool.

Murdered and harvested for Lord Qyburn's experiments,

{PATE}, a lad of eight, King Tommen's whipping boy. Murdered and harvested for Lord Qyburn's experiments,

{ORMOND OF OLDTOWN}, the royal harper and bard. Murdered and harvested for Lord Qyburn's experiments,

NOHO DIMITTIS, envoy from the Iron Bank of Braavos. Fled the city,

{SER GREGOR CLEGANE}, called THE

MOUNTAIN THAT RIDES, dead of a poisoned wound,

{RENNIFER LONGWATERS}, chief undergaoler of the Red Keep's dungeons. Murdered and harvested for Lord Qyburn's experiments,

{WAT}, a singer styling himself {THE BLUE BARD}. Murdered and harvested for Lord Qyburn's experiments,

{HAMISH THE HARPER}, an aged singer, died a captive. Murdered and harvested for Lord Qyburn's experiments,

{SER MARK MULLENDORE}, who lost a monkey and half an arm in the Battle of the Blackwater. Fled the fall of the Red Keep, later executed by Lord Tyrell for his cowardice,

{SER TALLAD called THE TALL}, {SER

LAMBERT TURNBERRY}, {SER BAYARD NORCROSS}, {SER HUGH CLIFTON}, all murdered and harvested for Lord Qyburn's experiments,

{JALABHAR XHO}, Prince of the Red Flower Vale, an exile from the Summer Isles. Murdered and harvested for Lord Qyburn's experiments,

{SER HORAS REDWYNE} and {SER HOBBER REDWYNE}, twin boys held hostage in the Red Keep by Queen Cersei. Strapped to a trebuchet and launched into the city in spite,

Vast majority of hostages and captives in the Red Keep suffered horrible deaths during the siege of the Red Keep,

Queen Cersei's Mercenaries:

The Mountain's Men;

JOSS STILLWOOD, RAFF THE

SWEETLING, DUNSEN, SHITMOUTH, EGGON, TOBBOT,

The Brave Companions, or the Bloody

Mummers;

URSWYCK, ZOLLO, TOGG JOTH,

THREE-TOES,

Lannister loyalists;

VYLARR, captain of the red cloak

guards,

LUM, RED LESTER, HOKE,

SHORTEAR, PUCKENS, all guardsmen,

Various sellswords;

YELLOW COCK TOM, BEN RABBITHOLE, LITTLE PEWTY, ALYN, WILKIN, JOHN THE HAMMER, "CRASTER",

Sellswords and disreputables, hired by Lord Qyburn to purge the Red Keep of Tyrell forces and then to stand siege. Most men holding the Red Keep were slain, some few managed to escaped.

The people of the Faith:

{THE HIGH SEPTON}, also called the High Sparrow. Father of the Faithful, Voice of the Seven on Earth, an old man and reformist. Slain in the burning of the Great Sept,

{SEPTA UNELLA}, {SEPTA

MOELLE}, {SEPTA SCOLERA}, high-ranking septas,

{SEPTON TORBERT}, {SEPTON

RAYNARD}, {SEPTON LUCEON}, SEPTON OLLIDOR, of the Most Devout,

{SEPTA AGLANTINE}, {SEPTA

HELICENT}, serving the Seven at the Great Sept of Baelor,

{SER THEODAN WELLS}, called THEODAN

THE TRUE, pious commander of the Warrior's Sons,

{SER BONIFER HASTY}, called

BONIFER THE GOOD, of the Holy Hundred, of the Warrior's Sons,

{SER LANCEL LANNISTER}, called

LANCEL THE REPENTANT, of the Warrior's Sons. Captured and resurrected by Lord Qyburn, surviving only as a deformed abomination,

Hundreds of the "sparrows," the humblest of men, fierce in their piety.

THE DRAGON REBORN, THE KING OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS

The Targaryens are the blood of the dragon, descended from the high lords of the ancient Freehold of Valyria, their heritage marked by lilac, indigo, and violet eyes and hair of silver-gold. To preserve their blood and keep it pure, House Targaryen has oft wed brother to sister, cousin to cousin, uncle to niece. The founder of the dynasty, Aegon the Conqueror, took both his sisters to wife and fathered sons on each. The Targaryen banner is a three-headed dragon, red on

black, the three heads representing Aegon and his sisters. The Targaryen words are Fire and Blood.

After Robert's Rebellion, House Targaryen was deposed and usurped, but the campaign by King Aegon VI Targaryen reclaimed the Iron Throne for his family. King Aegon currently sits in King's Landing, laying claim to all Seven Kingdoms but only owning a third of them.

To some, Aegon VI Targaryen is called the Mummer's Dragon, named such by those who do not believe his right or his identity.

AEGON VI TARGARYEN, Sixth of His Name, called the Dragon Reborn, the Young Dragon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, King of the Iron Throne, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. A young man thought lost as a babe, but returned from exile across the sea. He vanquished the Mad Queen Cersei, and restored the dynasty of House Targaryen to the Iron Throne. Wielder of the sword Blackfyre,

His father, {PRINCE RHAEGAR TARGARYEN}, died at the Trident to the usurper Robert Baratheon,

His mother, {ELIA} of House Martell, slain by Gregor Clegane during the sack of King's Landing,

His sister, {PRINCESS RHAENYS TARGARYEN}, a babe, slain during the sack of King's Landing,

The {PISSWATER PRINCE}, a babe from Flea Bottom, who was murdered in Aegon's place curing the sack of King's Landing,

his aunt, QUEEN DAENERYS TARGARYEN, the MOTHER OF DRAGONS, the Queen of Slaver's Bay and Volantis.

King Aegon's small council;

{LORD JON CONNINGTON}, former Hand of the King, sent as an envoy and executed by Stannis Baratheon,

LORD TYRION LANNISTER, Hand of the King,

Warden of the West,

HARRY STRICKLAND, master of coin,

LORD PETYR BAELISH, master of ships,

Warden of the East,

LORD RANDYLL TARLY, master of laws, Warden of the South,

LYSONO MAAR, master of whispers,

HOLDON HALFMAESTER, temporarily

substituting the duties of Grand Maester,

Advisors;

ILLYRIO MOPATIS, magister of Pentos, King Aegon's supporter and backer,

VARYS, also called the SPIDER, King Aegon's

shadow backer,

SEPTA LEMORE, king's advisor on the Faith of

the Seven,

King Aegon's Kingsguard;

SER ROLLY DUCKFIELD, called DUCK,

assigned to protect Lord Connington on Dragonstone,

SER DAEMON SAND, the Bastard of Godsgrace, assigned to protect Lord Connington on Dragonstone,

SER TRISTAN RYGER,

SER OLYVAR YRONWOOD,

SER RONALD VANCE,

Supporters of Aegon Targaryen;

GOLDEN COMPANY, ten thousand strong;

HOMELESS HARRY STRICKLAND, captain-

general,

WATKYN, his squire and cupbearer,

{SER MYLES TOYNE, called BLACKHEART}, four years dead, the previous captain-general,

BLACK BALAQ, a white-haired Summer

Islander, commander of the company archers,

LYSONO MAAR, a sellsword late of the Free City of Lys, company spymaster,

GORYS EDORYEN, a sellsword late of the Free City of Volantis, company paymaster,

SER FRANKLYN FLOWERS, called the BAD APPLE, the Bastard of Cider Hall, a sellsword from the Reach. Currently serving as Lord Tyrion Lannister's second in command,

SER MARQ MANDRAKE, an exile escaped from slavery, scarred by pox,

SER LASWELL PEAKE, an exile lord,

his brothers, TORMAN and

PYKEWOOD,

LORD TRISTAN DARRY, formerly SER TRISTAN RIVERS, bastard, outlaw, exile. Legitimised and raised by

King Aegon,

CASPOR HILL, HUMFREY STONE, MALO

JAYN, DICK COLE, WILL COLE, LORIMAS MUDD, JON LOTHSTON, LYMOND PEASE, SER BRENDEL BYRNE, DUNCAN STRONG, DENYS STRONG, CHAINS, YOUNG JOHN MUDD, serjeants of the company,

From the crownlands;

House Stokeworth;

{LADY TANDA STOKEWORTH},

former Lady of Stokeworth, an old woman. Died from a broken hip after a fall.

{LADY FALYSE

STOKEWORTH}, her eldest daughter. Died screaming in the black cells after disappointing Queen Cersei.

{SER BALMAN

BYRCH}, Falyse's husband. Killed by Ser Bronn in a duel.

LADY LOLLYS

STOKEWORTH, her second daughter and Lady of Stokeworth. Past thirty, feeble of wits.

SER BRONN OF THE

BLACKWATER, also called the BLOODY LORD STOKEWORTH, once a low-born sellsword, now Lollys's husband and Lord of Stokeworth. Also claimant to Lord of Claw Island, after service to King Aegon,

TYRION

TANNER, of the hundred fathers, Lollys's son of rape and sole heir, and possibly the bastard son Joffrey Baratheon,

House Rosby;

{LORD GYLES ROSBY}, a weak old

man, unwed, previous, Lord of Rosby. Named master of coin by Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, died of his sickness at the Red Keep in 300 AC.

OLYVAR FREY, eighteenth son of Lord Walder Frey, Lord Gyles' cousin amd ward of Rosby. Once a squire to Robb Stark, and now the de facto Lord of Rosby. Allied alongside with Aegon Targaryen, changed his name to OLYVAR ROSBY,

House Massey;

SER JUSTIN MASSEY, once heir of

his house and a knight in service of King Stannis Baratheon. Left wounded and captured after the battle of Hardhome, executed for his liege lord's crimes at White Harbour,

LORD GORMON MASSEY,

previously Gormon Waters. Once a bastard cousin, raised up as Lord after the sack of Stonedance. Allied alongside Aegon Targaryen,

From the riverlands;

House Darry;

LADY AMEREI FREY, called

GATEHOUSE AMI, eldest daughter of Merrett Frey and Mariya Darry. Married to Lancel Lannister but annulled, very quickly married Tristan Rivers for protection,

LORD TRISTAN DARRY, formerly

SER TRISTAN RIVERS, bastard, outlaw, exile. Married to Lady Amerei Frey, legitimised and raised by King Aegon,

LORD CLEMENT PIPER, Lord of Pinkmaiden. Lost two sons at the Scouring of the Twins, rebelled with Aegon

Targaryen,

SER TRISTAN RYGER, former companion of

Edmure Tully. Allied with Aegon Targaryen, later named to Kingsguard,

SER RONALD VANCE, also called Ronald the

Bad, former companion of Edmure Tully. Allied with Aegon Targaryen, later named to Kingsguard,

From Dorne;

OBARA SAND, bastard daughter of Pricne Oberyn Martell, one of the Sand Snakes. Appointed commander of the Dornish spearmen, later died suspiciously in the Battle of the Roseroad,

ANDERS YRONWOOD, Lord of Yronwood, Warden of the Stone Way, the Bloodroyal,

His grandson, OYLVAR

YRONWOOD, named to Aegon's Kingsguard,

FRANKLYN FOWLER, Lord of Skyreach, called

THE OLD HAWK, the Warden of the Prince's Pass,

From the stormlands;

LORD CASPER WYLDE, Lord of Rain House, once fought for Renly, once fought for Stannis, joined Aegon after the landing of the Golden Company,

LORD LESTER MORRIGEN, Lord of Crow's Nest, joined Aegon after the landing of the Golden Company,

From the Reach;

LORD RANDYLL TARLY, Lord of Horn Hill. Previously commander of Mace Tyrell's forces on the roseroad, he

surrendered to King Aegon after the death of his liege lord and the Great Fire of King's Landing,

From the Vale;

LORD PETYR BAELISH, called LITTLEFINGER, Lord of Harrenhal, and Lord Protector of the Vale. Negotiated the surrender of Vale forces in return for being granted title of Warden of East,

THE BROKEN KING

The brother of King Robert and Lord of Dragonstone, Stannis Baratheon pursued his right to the Iron Throne after decrying the children of Cersei Lannister as illegitimate. Spurred by the Red Woman Melisandre of Asshai, Stannis has taken for his banner the fiery heart of the Lord of Light-a red heart surrounded by orange flames upon a yellow field. Within the heart is the crowned stag of House Baratheon, in black.

Although once a serious contender for the Iron Throne, Stannis Baratheon has continually dwindled in strength and influence. Presently he holds only his seat of Dragonstone, and King Stannis' campaign has devolved into skirmishes and raids against first Lannister, and later Targaryen.

As converts to the Red God, King Stannis and his men have grown convinced the Jon Snow is the harbinger of the Great Other, and that Stannis is the champion fated to defeat him. They are fixated on the prophecy of the 'Battle for the Dawn', and they are working towards a Grand Rite, a ceremony to summon a weapon that can defeat the Champion of Night.

KING STANNIS BARATHEON, the First of His Name, second son of Lord Steffon Baratheon and Lady Cassana of House Estermont, Lord of Dragonstone, styling himself Azor Ahai, Champion of the Dawn, and Rightful King of the Iron Throne,

his wife, QUEEN SELYSE of House Florent,

PRINCESS SHIREEN, their daughter, a girl of

eleven,

PATCHFACE, Shireen's tattooed fool,

the queen's uncle, SER AXELL FLORENT, the

Hand of the King,

The High Priestess, LADY MELISANDRE OF ASSHAI, called THE RED WOMAN, a sorceress and priestess of R'hllor, the Lord of Light,

the shadows, also called wraiths, Red Envoys or moonless children. Mysterious beings that haunt Melisandre, occasionally acting as assassins.

SER DAVOS SEAWORTH, Lord of the Rainwood, Admiral of the Narrow Sea, and previous Hand of the King, called THE ONION KNIGHT. Captured at Hardhome and believed dead, held captive at White Harbour. Later unceremoniously released, his location unknown,

King Stannis' Godsguard; Sworn swords to Rh'llor

SER RICHARD HORPE, his second-in-

command,

SER ROLLAND STORM, the Bastard of

Nightsong,

his knights and sworn swords:

{SER GODRY FARRING}, would-be dragonslayer, slain by Jon Snow,

{SER JUSTIN MASSEY}, captured at

Hardhome and later executed at White Harbour

SER CLAYTON SUGGS, captured at

Hardhome and later defected to the Weeper's warband,

LORD ROBIN PEASEBURY,

LORD HARWOOD FELL,

SER WILLAM FOXGLOVE, SER HUMFREY CLIFTON, SER ORMUND WYLDE, SER HARYS COBB, SER CORLISS PENNY, queen's men and fervent followers of the Lord of Light,

{SER NARBERT GRANDISON}, SER BENETHON SCALES, {SER PATREK OF KING'S MOUNTAIN}, {SER DORDEN THE DOUR}, SER MALEGORN OF REDPOOL, SER LAMBERT WHITEWATER, SER PERKIN FOLLARD, {SER BRUS BUCKLER}, {SER MORGATH FOLLARD},

the king's squires, DEVAN

SEAWORTH and BRYEN FARRING,

KING OF THE ISLES AND THE REACH

The Greyjoys of Pyke claim descent from the Grey King of the Age of Heroes. Legend says the Grey King ruled the sea itself and took a mermaid to wife. Aegon the Dragon ended the line of the last King of the Iron Islands, but allowed the ironborn to revive their ancient custom and choose who should have the primacy among them. They chose Lord Vickon Greyjoy of Pyke. The Greyjoy sigil is a golden kraken upon a black field. Their words are We Do Not Sow .

Under Balon Greyjoy, the ironborn declared independence from the Iron Throne and set about a new conquest. Balon Greyjoy perished, and his brother Euron Greyjoy was chosen from the Kingsmoot.

Although Balon attempted to conquer the north, Euron abandoned the northern campaign to focus on the Reach instead. His campaign has been marked by devastating casualties.

Euron Greyjoy led the Drowning of Oldtown, a cataclysmic battle fought amidst a storm. In its wake, the ironborn claimed Oldtown as their new seat of power, renaming it Gods Arising and converting its citizens to their new religion.

EURON GREYJOY, the Third of His Name Since the Grey King, King of the Iron Islands and the Reach. Styling himself the God-King of the Seven Kingdoms, the Drowned God Reborn, King of the Iron Islands and the Oceans, King of Salt and Rock, Son of the Storm, and Lord Reaper of Pyke, captain of the Silence, called the CROW'S EYE,

his bound slave, SH'CAEGLOTH,

LORD QYBURN, the necromancer. Once master of whispers for Cersei Lannister, now Grand Vizier under King Euron. Serving as King Euron's chief advisor, counsellor and executor.

SER ROBERT STRONG, Lord Qyburn's flesh golem and bodyguard - actually the reanimate corpse of Gregor Clegane and others,

his family;

his elder brother, {BALON}, King of the Iron Islands and the North, the Ninth of His Name Since the Grey King. Killed in a fall,

LADY ALANNYS, of House Harlaw,

Balon's widow,

their children:

{RODRIK}, slain during

Balon's first rebellion,

{MARON}, slain during

Balon's first rebellion,

ASHA, captain of the Black

Wind and conqueror of Deepwood Motte, married Erik Ironmaker. Fled from King Euron's rule, presumed dead after House Bolton retook Deepwood Motte,

{THEON}, called by

northmen THEON TURNCLOAK, held captive at Winterfell and tortured. Offered back to his family, but Euron Greyjoy refused him,

his younger brother, {VICTARION}, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet, master of the Iron Victory . Sent to Meereen to fetch Euron's bride, Daenerys Targaryen,

his youngest brother, AERON, called DAMPHAIR. Once Euron's dissenter, now his High Priest,

Euron's Grotesques;

{MALL THE MONSTROUS}, a deformed giant,

GHRAZZAC, a Brindled Man of Sothoryi,

many other slaves and deformities,

{URGARD}, a tortured Red Priest,

many captured warlocks, sorcerers

and mages,

FALIA FLOWERS, bastard daughter of Lord Hewett, and Euron's bedwarmer. Later tortured, disfigured, mutilated and pregnant,

his captains and crewmen:

{TORWOLD BROWNTOOTH}, PINCHFACE JON MYRE, {THE RED OARSMAN}, {LEFT-HAND LUCAS CODD}, QUELLON HUMBLE, HARREN HALF-HOARE, {KEMMETT PYKE THE BASTARD}, QARL THE THRALL, STONEHAND, {RALF THE SHEPHERD}, RALF OF LORDSPORT

{CRAGORN}, who blew Dragonbinder at the

Kingsmoot and died,

{RODRIK FREEBORN}, who blew Krakenbinder at the Drowning of Oldtown and died,

the ships in his fleet;

{The Silence }, captained by Euron Greyjoy,

{The Great Kraken }, the flagship of House Greyjoy, captained during the Drowning of Oldtown by Donnor Saltcliffe,

{The Thunderer }, the ship of House Drumm, once captained by Lord Denys Drumm, taken by the Red Oarsmen,

{The Dusk }, the ship of House Harlaw, once captained by Ser Harras Harlaw, taken by Harren Half-Hoare,

{The Leviathan's Wail }, the ship of House

Volmark, captained by Lord Maron Volmark,

{The Nightflyer }, the ship of House Blacktyde, captained by Lord Waldon Wynch,

{The Hatchet's Edge }, the ship of House Sparr, captained by the Sparr,

{The Silverfin }, the ship of house Botley, captained by Germund Botley,

{The Gargoyle }, captained by Hotho

Humpback,

{The Foamdrinker }

{The Axe Maiden }

{The Bone Reaper }

{The Last Light }

{The Maiden's Tears }

{The Forsaken }

{The Northern Hunter }

{The Salt Bitch }

{The King Joffrey's Valour}, stolen from the

Arbor prior to completion, its name kept ironically,

most ironborn ships were lost in the

Drowning of Oldtown,

his lords bannermen:

ERIK IRONMAKER, called ERIK ANVIL-BREAKER and ERIK THE JUST, Lord Steward of the Iron Islands, castellan of Pyke, an old man once renowned, m. Asha Greyjoy,

lords of Pyke:

GERMUND BOTLEY, Lord of

Lordsport,

{WALDON WYNCH}, Lord of Iron

Holt,

lords of Old Wyk:

{DUNSTAN DRUMM}, The Drumm,

the Bone Hand, Lord of Old Wyk, perished trying to hold Southshield,

his son and heir, {DENYS

DRUMM}, slain after challenging Euron Greyjoy to a duel,

NORNE GOODBROTHER, of

Shatterstone,

THE STONEHOUSE,

lords of Great Wyk:

GOROLD GOODBROTHER, Lord of

the Hammerhorn. Once Euron's dissenter, now Lord of Gods Arising,

his eleven daughters and

three sons,

TRISTON FARWYND, Lord of

Sealskin Point,

THE SPARR,

MELDRED MERLYN, Lord of

Pebbleton,

lords of Orkmont:

{ALYN ORKWOOD}, called

ORKWOOD OF ORKMONT,

LORD BALON TAWNEY,

lords of Saltcliffe:

LORD DONNOR SALTCLIFFE,

LORD SUNDERLY

lords of Harlaw:

RODRIK HARLAW, called THE

READER, Lord of Harlaw, Lord of Ten Towers, Harlaw of Harlaw. Currently sitting uneasily in Ten Towers while Euron is away,

SIGFRYD HARLAW, called SIGFRYD

SILVERHAIR, his great uncle, master of Harlaw Hall,

{HOTHO HARLAW}, called HOTHO

HUMPBACK, of the Tower of Glimmering, a cousin,

BOREMUND HARLAW, called

BOREMUND THE BLUE, master of Harridan Hill, a cousin,

lords of the lesser isles and rocks:

GYLBERT FARWYND, Lord of the

Lonely Light,

the ironborn conquerors:

on the Shield Islands (lost);

ANDRIK THE UNSMILING, briefly

Lord of Southshield, his lands now recaptured by Reachmen,

{NUTE THE BARBER}, briefly Lord of

Oakenshield, his lands now recaptured by Reachmen,

{MARON VOLMARK}, briefly Lord of

Greenshield, his lands now recaptured by Reachmen,

{SER HARRAS HARLAW}, the Knight

of Grey Gardens, briefly Lord of Greyshield, his lands now

recaptured by Reachmen. Slain challenging Euron Greyjoy to a duel,

at Moat Cailin (lost);

{RALF KENNING}, castellan and

commander,

{ADRACK HUMBLE}, short half an

arm,

{DAGON CODD}, who yields to no

man,

at Torrhen's Square (lost);

{DAGMER, called CLEFTJAW},

captain of Foamdrinker, slain by Bolton forces during the retaking of Torrhen's Square,

in Oldtown, renamed Gods Arising,

GOROLD GOODBROTHER, Lord of

the Hammerhorn, Lord of Gods Arising,

Defectors against King Euron;

BAELOR BLACKTYDE, Lord of Blacktyde, executed for not acknowledging Euron Greyjoy as king, and hacked into seven pieces,

AERON GREYJOY, briefly, attempted to rally the Drowned Men to raise a rebellion against Euron Greyjoy, before submitting to the God-King,

ASHA GREYJOY, the kraken's daughter, captain of the Black Wind . Last seen at Deepwood Motte, reported dead,

her lover, QARL THE MAID, a

swordsman, her former lover,

TRISTIFER BOTLEY, heir to

Lordsport, dispossessed of his lands,

her crewmen, ROGGON

RUSTBEARD, GRIMTONGUE, ROLFE THE DWARF, LORREN LONGAXE, ROOK, FINGERS, SIX-TOED HARL, DROOPEYE DALE, EERL HARLAW, CROMM, HAGEN THE HORN and his beautiful red-haired daughter,

her cousin, QUENTON GREYJOY,

her cousin, DAGON GREYJOY,

called DAGON THE DRUNKARD,

{LORD DENYS DRUMM}, the Bone Hand, {SER HARRAS HARLAW}, the Knight of Grey Gardens, LORD GOROLD GOODBROTHER, LORD MARON VOLMARK and ANDRIK THE UNSMILING, attempted to defect from Euron Greyjoy after the loss of the Shield Isles, but they either submitted or were slain.

THE DRAGON QUEEN

Although Aegon Targaryen claims to have restored the line of House Targaryen, there are many who doubt Aegon's lineage. Aegon Targaryen sits as the de facto Targaryen king, there is another from the same bloodline with unquestioned heritage. Daenerys Targaryen, the daughter of King Aerys, has also made her interest in retaking the Iron Throne clear.

She is regarded as the most beautiful and powerful woman in the world. Aegon Targaryen attempts to resolve the disputing claim through marriage, but Daenerys Targaryen's interests in such are unknown.

DAENERYS TARGARYEN, the First of Her Name, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Breaker of Chains, called DAENERYS STORMBORN, the UNBURNT, MOTHER OF DRAGONS, the

QUEEN OF ASH.

See below, under 'Queen Across the Water'.

HOUSES GREAT AND SMALL

HOUSE ARRYN

The Arryns are descended from the Kings of Mountain and Vale. Their sigil is a white moon-and-falcon upon a sky blue field. The Arryn words are As High as Honor .

House Arryn remained neutral throughout the War of Five Kings, and only began to support Aegon Targaryen late in the war.

ROBERT ARRYN, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, a sickly boy of eight years, called SWEETROBIN. Currently being warded at King's Landing,

his mother, {LADY LYSA of House Tully}, widow of Lord Jon Arryn, pushed from the Moon Door to her death,

his guardian, PETYR BAELISH, called LITTLEFINGER, Warden of the East, Lord of Harrenhal, and Lord Protector of the Vale,

ALAYNE STONE, Lord Petyr's natural daughter, actually Sansa Stark,

SER LOTHOR BRUNE, a sellsword in Lord

Petyr's service, captain of guards at the Eyrie,

OSWELL, a grizzled man-at-arms in Lord

Petyr's service, sometimes called KETTLEBLACK,

{SER SHADRICH OF THE SHADY GLEN}, called THE MAD MOUSE, a hedge knight in Lord Petyr's service, actually working for the Varys the Spider,

{SER JORAH MORMONT}, an exiled knight in

Lord Petyr's service, actually working for Queen Daenerys,

SER BYRON THE BEAUTIFUL, SER MORGARTH THE MERRY, hedge knights in Lord Petyr's service,

{SER HARROLD HARDYNG}, Lady Waynwood's ward, oft called HARRY THE HEIR. Slain by Ser Shadrich as he kidnapped Alayne Stone.

The Winged Knights;

Eight sworn protectors of Lord Arryn, each one chosen from the most highborn and skilled sons. They serve as personal guardians for three years;

{SER HARROLD HARDYNG},

SER ROLAND WAYNWOOD,

SER ANDAR ROYCE,

SER BEN COLDWATER,

SER ANDREW TOLLETT,

SER EDMUND BREAKSTONE,

SER ELBERT BELMORE,

SER OSGOOD UPCLIFF,

SER MYCHEL REDFORT, Ser Harrold's replacement after his death,

House Arryn's household and retainers:

MAESTER COLEMON, counsellor, healer, and

tutor,

MORD, a brutal gaoler with teeth of gold,

GRETCHEL, MADDY, and MELA,

servingwomen,

MYA STONE, bastard daughter of King Robert,

The Lords Declarant, the effective rulers of the Vale despite Petyr Baelish's efforts;

YOHN ROYCE, Lord of Runestone,

ANYA WAYNWOOD, Lady of Ironoaks,

HORTON REDFORT, Lord of Redfort,

HARLAN HUNTER, Lord of Longbow Hall,

BENEDAR BELMORE, Lord of Strongsong,

House Arryn's bannermen, the Lords of Mountain and

Vale:

YOHN ROYCE, called BRONZE YOHN, Lord of

Runestone,

his son, SER ANDAR, heir to

Runestone,

LORD NESTOR ROYCE, High Steward of the Vale and castellan of the Gates of the Moon,

his son and heir, SER ALBAR,

his daughter, MYRANDA, called

RANDA, a widow, but scarce used,

LYONEL CORBRAY, Lord of Heart's Home,

SER LYN COBRAY, his brother, who

wields the famed blade Lady Forlorn,

SER LUCAS CORBRAY, his younger

brother,

TRISTON SUNDERLAND, Lord of the Three

Sisters,

GODRIC BORRELL, Lord of

Sweetsister, secret ally to the north,

ROLLAND LONGTHORPE, Lord of

Longsister,

ALESANDOR TORRENT, Lord of

Littlesister,

ANYA WAYNWOOD, Lady of Ironoaks Castle,

SER MORTON, her eldest son and

heir,

SER DONNEL, the Knight of the

Bloody Gate,

WALLACE, her youngest son,

SER SYMOND TEMPLETON, the Knight of

Ninestars,

JON LYNDERLY, Lord of the Snakewood,

EDMUND WAXLEY, the Knight of Wickenden,

GEROLD GRAFTON, the Lord of Gulltown,

{EON HUNTER}, Lord of Longbow Hall, recently

deceased,

{SER GILWOOD}, Lord Eon's eldest

son and heir, once called YOUNG LORD HUNTER. Died in suspicious circumstances,

{SER EUSTACE}, Lord Eon's second

son. Died along with his brother in suspicious circumstances,

SER HARLAN, Lord Eon's youngest

son, the new Lord Hunter,

HORTON REDFORT, Lord of Redfort, thrice

wed,

SER JASPER, SER CREIGHTON,

SER JON, his sons,

SER MYCHEL, his youngest son, a

new-made knight, m. Ysilla Royce of Runestone,

BENEDAR BELMORE, Lord of Strongsong, considered to be corrupt,

Clan chiefs from the Mountains of the Moon,

SHAGGA SON OF DOLF, of the Stone Crows, presently leading a band in the kingswood,

TIMETT SON OF TIMETT, of the Burned Men, grown in power in the Vale,

CHELLA DAUGHTER CHEYK, of the Black

Ears,

CRAWN SON OF CALOR, of the Moon

Brothers.

HOUSE BARATHEON

The youngest of the Great Houses, House Baratheon was born during the Wars of Conquest when Orys Baratheon, rumored to be a bastard brother of Aegon the Conqueror, defeated and slew Argilac the Arrogant, the last Storm King. Aegon rewarded him with Argilac's castle, lands, and daughter. Orys took the girl to bride, and adopted the banner, honors, and words of her line. The Baratheon sigil is a crowned stag, black, on a golden field. Their words are Ours is the Fury.

In the 283rd year after Aegon's Conquest, Robert of House Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, overthrew the Mad King, Aerys II Targaryen, to win the Iron Throne. His claim to the crown derived from his grandmother, a daughter of King Aegon V Targaryen, though Robert preferred to say his warhammer was his claim.

After Robert's death, his sons Joffrey, and later Tommen, held the Iron Throne through a tumultuous period known as the War of Five Kings. Under the regency of his wife, Queen Cersei, his reign collapsed, his children declared illegitimate, and the Baratheon line left near extinct.

{ROBERT BARATHEON}, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, killed by a boar,

his wife, {QUEEN CERSEI} of House Lannister, the MAD QUEEN, Queen Regent after his death. slain after setting half the city alight,

their children:

{KING JOFFREY BARATHEON}, the First of His Name, supposedly murdered at his wedding feast by Tyrion Lannister. Posthumously decried as Joffrey Hill,

{PRINCESS MYRCELLA}, a ward in Dorne, betrothed to Prince Trystane Martell, murdered by Ser Gerold Dayne supposedly at the behest of Tyrion Lannister. Posthumously decried as Myrcella Hill,

{KING TOMMEN BARATHEON}, the First of His Name, supposedly murdered in his chamber by Tyrion Lannister. Posthumously decried as Tommen Hill,

his brothers:

STANNIS BARATHEON, rebel Lord of Dragonstone and pretender to the Iron Throne. Currently the last of his line, but condemned as a fanatic,

his daughter, SHIREEN, a girl of

twelve,

{RENLY BARATHEON}, rebel Lord of Storm's End and pretender to the Iron Throne, murdered at Storm's End in the midst of his army,

Robert's bastard children:

MYA STONE, a maid of nineteen, in the service of Lord Petyr Baelish,

GENDRY, an outlaw in the riverlands, ignorant

of his heritage,

BELLA, a prostitute in the Stony Sept,

EDRIC STORM, his acknowledged bastard son by Lady Delena of House Florent, hiding in Lys,

SER ANDREW ESTERMONT, his

cousin and guardian,

his guards and protectors: SER

GERALD GOWER, LEWYS called THE FISHWIFE, SER TRISTON OF TALLY HILL, OMER BLACKBERRY,

{BARRA}, his bastard daughter by a whore of

King's Landing, killed by the command of his widow,

his other kin:

his great-uncle, SER ELDON ESTERMONT,

Lord of Greenstone,

his cousin, SER AEMON

ESTERMONT, Eldon's son,

his cousin, SER ALYN

ESTERMONT, Aemon's son,

his cousin, SER LOMAS

ESTERMONT, Eldon's son,

his cousin, SER ANDREW

ESTERMONT, Lomas's son,

bannermen sworn to Storm's End, the storm lords:

DAVOS SEAWORTH, Lord of the Rainwood, Admiral of the Narrow Sea, and Hand of the King. Thought dead and lost after being captured at Hardhome,

his wife, MARYA, a carpenter's

daughter,

their sons, {DALE, ALLARD,

MATTHOS, MARIC}, killed in the Battle of the Blackwater, their son DEVAN, squire to King Stannis, their sons, STANNIS and STEFFON,

{SER GILBERT FARRING}, castellan of Storm's

End. Slain by Aegon's forces in the capture of Storm's End,

his son, BRYEN, squire to King

Stannis,

his cousin, {SER GODRY FARRING},

slain by Jon Snow,

ELWOOD MEADOWS, Lord of Grassfield Keep, seneschal at Storm's End,

SELWYN TARTH, called THE EVENSTAR, Lord

of Tarth,

his daughter, BRIENNE, THE MAID

OF TARTH, also called BRIENNE THE BEAUTY. On a quest to recover Lady Stark's daughters, captured by outlaws,

her squire, PODRICK

PAYNE, a boy of ten, captured by outlaws,

{BIG BEN BUSHY}, SER

HYLE HUNT, SER MARK MULLENDORE, SER EDMUND AMBROSE, {SER RICHARD FARROW}, {WILL THE STORK}, SER HUGH BEESBURY, SER RAYMOND NAYLAND, HARRY SAWYER, SER OWEN INCHFIELD, ROBIN POTTER, her onetime suitors,

{JON CONNINGTON}, Lord of Storm's End and Griffin's Roost, and Hand of the King. Once exiled by Aerys II Targaryen, returned with Aegon Targaryen and made Hand of the King again, appointed Lord Paramount of Stormlands,

{SER RONNET CONNINGTON, called RED RONNET}, the former Knight of Griffin's Roost. Lord Connington's cousin, slain by Olyvar Frey in the battle of Rosby,

his younger siblings, RAYMUND and

ALYNNE,

his bastard son, RONALD STORM,

LESTER MORRIGEN, Lord of Crows Nest, allied behind King Aegon,

his brother and heir, SER RICHARD

MORRIGEN,

his brother, {SER GUYARD

MORRIGEN, called GUYARD THE GREEN}, slain in the Battle of the Blackwater,

ARSTAN SELMY, Lord of Harvest Hall,

his great-uncle, SER BARRISTAN

SELMY, serving as Lord Commander of Queen Daenerys' Queensguard in Meereen,

CASPER WYLDE, Lord of the Rain House, allied behind King Aegon,

his uncle, SER ORMUND WYLDE, an

aged knight,

HARWOOD FELL, Lord of Felwood,

HUGH GRANDISON, called GREYBEARD,

Lord of Grandview,

SEBASTION ERROL, Lord of Haystack Hall,

CLIFFORD SWANN, Lord of Stonehelm,

{BERIC DONDARRION}, Lord of Blackhaven, called THE LIGHTNING LORD, an outlaw in the riverlands, oft slain and now thought dead,

{BRYCE CARON}, Lord of Nightsong, slain by Ser Philip Foote on the Blackwater,

his slayer, SER PHILIP FOOTE, a

one-eyed knight, Lord of Nightsong,

his baseborn half-brother, SER ROLLAND STORM, called THE BASTARD OF NIGHTSONG, pretender Lord of Nightsong,

ROBIN PEASEBURY, Lord of Poddingfield,

MARY MERTYNS, Lady of Mistwood,

RALPH BUCKLER, Lord of Bronzegate,

his cousin, {SER BRUS BUCKLER},

slain by Jon Snow,

HOUSE FREY

The Freys are bannermen to House Tully, but have not always been diligent in their duty. At the outset of the War of the Five Kings, Robb Stark won Lord Walder's allegiance by pledging to marry one of his daughters or granddaughters. When he wed Lady Jeyne Westerling instead, the Freys conspired with Roose Bolton and murdered the Young Wolf and his followers at what became known as the Red Wedding.

In the Red Wedding's aftermath, House Frey suffered extreme condemnation from many. After suffering greatly from prosecution from outlaws and embittered houses, House Frey was all but destroyed during the Scouring of the Twins by Jon Snow.

{WALDER FREY}, the Lord of the Crossing and architect of the Red Wedding. Slain by the dragon Sonagon, in the ruins of his castle,

by his first wife, {LADY PERRA, of House Royce}:

{SER STEVRON FREY}, his eldest, died after the Battle of Oxcross,

Stevron's eldest son, (SER RYMAN

FREY}, slain by outlaws,

Ryman's eldest son,

{EDWYN FREY}, once heir to House Frey, slain at the Twins on his nameday,

Ryman's second son,

WALDER FREY, called BLACK WALDER. Absent during the Scouring of the Twins and technically the new lord of House Frey, but fled the riverlands to parts unknown.

{SER EMMON FREY}, his second son, married

to Genna Lannister,

{SER AENYS FREY}, his third son, leading the

Frey forces in the north, slain in the Battle of the Snows,

Aenys's son, AEGON BLOODBORN,

an outlaw,

Aenys's son, {RHAEGAR}, an envoy

to White Harbor, hammered to death by Lord Manderly,

PERRIANE, his eldest daughter, m. Ser Leslyn

Haigh,

by his second wife, {LADY CYRENNA, of House Swann}:

{SER JARED FREY}, an envoy to White Harbor, hammered to death by Lord Manderly,

by his third wife, {LADY AMAREI of House Crakehall}:

{SER HOSTEEN FREY}, a knight of great repute, slain in the Battle of the Snows,

LYENTHE, his second daughter, m. Lord Lucias

Vypren,

{SYMOND FREY}, his seventh son, a counter of coins, an envoy to White Harbor, hammered to death by Lord Manderly,

{SER DANWELL FREY}, his eighth son, died at

the Twins,

{MERRETT FREY}, his ninth son, hanged at

Oldstones,

Merrett's daughter, WALDA, called

{FAT WALDA}, m. Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, slain during the fall of Winterfell after the Battle of the Snows,

Merrett's son, WALDER, called

{LITTLE WALDER}, eight, a squire in service to Ramsay Bolton, slain during the fall of Winterfell after the Battle of the Snows,

{SER GEREMY FREY}, his tenth son, drowned,

{SER RAYMUND FREY}, his eleventh son,

by his fourth wife, {LADY ALYSSA, of House Blackwood}:

{LOTHAR FREY}, his twelfth son, called LAME LOTHAR, slain at the Twins,

{SER JAMMOS FREY}, his thirteenth son, slain

by outlaws,

Jammos' son, WALDER, called {BIG WALDER}, eight, a squire in service to Ramsay Bolton, slain during the fall of Winterfell after the Battle of the Snows,

SER WHALEN FREY, his fourteenth son,

MORYA, his third daughter, m. Ser Flement

Brax,

TYTA, his fourth daughter, called TYTA THE

MAID,

by his fifth wife, {LADY SARYA of House Whent}: no

progeny,

by his sixth wife, {LADY BETHANY of House Rosby}:

{SER PERWYN FREY}, Walder's fifteenth son,

slain at the Twins,

{SER BENFREY FREY}, Walder's sixteenth

son, died of a wound received at the Red Wedding,

MAESTER WILLAMEN, his seventeenth son, in

service at Longbow Hall, dismissed and banished,

OLYVAR FREY, his eighteenth son, once a squire to Robb Stark, now the de facto Lord of Rosby. Allied with Aegon Targaryen, changed his name to OLYVAR ROSBY,

{ROSLIN}, his fifth daughter, m. Lord Edmure Tully at the Red Wedding, slain at the Twins, while pregnant with his child,

by his seventh wife, {LADY ANNARA of House Farring}:

{ARWYN}, his sixth daughter, a maid of fourteen, slain at the Twins,

WENDEL, his nineteenth son, a page at Seagard, slain at the Twins,

{COLMAR}, his twentieth son, eleven and promised to the Faith, slain at the Twins,

{WALTYR}, called TYR, his twenty-first son, ten,

slain at the Twins,

{ELMAR}, his twenty-second and lastborn son, a boy of nine briefly betrothed to Arya Stark, slain at the Twins,

{SHIREI}, his seventh daughter and youngest child, a girl of seven, slain at the Twins,

his eighth wife, {LADY JOYEUSE of House Erenford}, with child, slain at the Twins,

Lord Walder's natural children, by sundry mothers,

{WALDER RIVERS}, called BASTARD WALDER, the eldest bastard. Led a force north seeking vengeance against Jon Snow, slain by the Weeper at the Battle of the Snows,

MAESTER MELWYS, in service at Rosby,

dismissed,

JEYNE RIVERS, MARTYN RIVERS, RYGER RIVERS, RONEL RIVERS, MELLARA RIVERS, and others.

HOUSE LANNISTER

The Lannisters of Casterly Rock remain the principal support of King Tommen's claim to the Iron Throne. They boast of descent from Lann the Clever, the legendary trickster of the Age of Heroes. The gold of Casterly Rock and the Golden Tooth has made them the wealthiest of the Great Houses. The Lannister sigil is a golden lion upon a crimson field. Their words are Hear Me Roar!

Under Lord Tywin Lannister, House Lannister reached great heights of power. Their house rose triumphant from the War of the Five Kings, with Tywin's grandson sitting on the Iron Throne, and Tywin

Lannister ruling the realm as Hand of the King. The Lannister downfall was heralded by Tywin's Bane, his deformed son Tyrion. Tyrion murdered his father and allied behind Aegon Targaryen, bringing forth doom upon the rest of his family.

Presently, Tyrion Lannister, with multiple counts of kinslaying to his name, remains the last surviving member of the main line, having captured Casterly Rock and ruling as Warden of the West under King Aegon.

{TYWIN LANNISTER}, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, and Hand of the King. Murdered by his dwarf son in his privy,

Lord Tywin's children:

{CERSEI}, called the MAD QUEEN, twin to Jaime, widow of King Robert I Baratheon, and once Queen Regent. Accused of infidelity and slain after setting fire to half the city in madness,

SER JAIME, called THE KINGSLAYER, twin to Cersei, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Missing, presumed dead at the hands of outlaws,

his squires, JOSMYN PECKLEDON, {GARRETT PAEGE}, {LEW PIPER},

SER ILYN PAYNE, a tongueless

knight, lately the King's Justice and headsman,

SER ADDAM MARBRAND, SER

FLEMENT BRAX, SER ALYN STACKSPEAR, SER STEFFON SWYFT, SER HUMFREY SWYFT, SER LYLE CRAKEHALL called STRONGBOAR, SER JON BETTLEY called BEARDLESS JON, knights once serving with Ser Jaime's host at Riverrun,

TYRION, called THE IMP, dwarf and kinslayer, sent fugitive in exile across the narrow sea. Returned allied along with Aegon Targaryen and the Golden Company, to conquer the realm. Led the campaign west, captured Casterly Rock, and now rules as Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West under King Aegon.

SER FRANKLYN FLOWERS called

the BAD APPLE, the Bastard of Cider Hall. A sellsword of the Golden Company, and Lord Tyrion's second in command.

the household at Casterly Rock:

MAESTER CREYLEN, healer, tutor, and

counsellor,

{VYLARR}, captain of guards, executed by

Tyrion Lannister, for raping a whore fourteen years ago,

SER BENEDICT BROOM, master-at-arms, captured by Tyrion Lannister,

WHITESMILE WAT, a singer,

Lord Tywin's siblings and their offspring:

{SER KEVAN LANNISTER}, m. Dorna of House

Swyft,

LADY GENNA, m. Ser Emmon Frey, now Lord

of Riverrun,

Genna's eldest son, {SER CLEOS

FREY}, m. Jeyne of House Darry, killed by outlaws,

Cleos's eldest son, SER

TYWIN FREY, called TY, now heir to Riverrun,

Cleos's second son,

WILLEM FREY, a squire,

Genna's younger sons, SER LYONEL

FREY, {TION FREY}, WALDER FREY called RED WALDER,

{TYGETT LANNISTER}, died of a pox,

TYREK, Tygett's son, missing and

feared dead,

LADY ERMESANDE

HAYFORD, Tyrek's child wife,

{GERION LANNISTER}, lost at sea,

JOY HILL, Gerion's bastard daughter,

eleven,

Lord Tywin's other close kin:

{SER STAFFORD LANNISTER}, a cousin and

brother to Lord Tywin's wife, slain in battle at Oxcross,

CERENNA and MYRIELLE, Stafford's

daughters,

{SER DAVEN LANNISTER},

Stafford's son. Named Warden of the West, perished in the Scouring of the Twins,

SER DAMION LANNISTER, a cousin, m. Lady Shiera Crakehall. Named castellan of Casterly Rock, captured by Tyrion Lannister,

their son, SER LUCION,

their daughter, LANNA, m. Lord

Antario Jast,

LADY MARGOT, a cousin, m. Lord Titus Peake,

bannermen and sworn swords, Lords of the West:

DAMON MARBRAND, Lord of Ashemark,

ROLAND CRAKEHALL, Lord of Crakehall,

SEBASTON FARMAN, Lord of Fair Isle,

TYTOS BRAX, Lord of Hornvale,

QUENTEN BANEFORT, Lord of Banefort,

{SER HARYS SWYFT}, goodfather to Ser

Kevan Lannister, slain during the siege of the Red Keep

REGENARD ESTREN, Lord of Wyndhall,

GAWEN WESTERLING, Lord of the Crag,

LORD SELMOND STACKSPEAR,

TERRENCE KENNING, Lord of Kayce,

LORD ANTARIO JAST,

LORD ROBIN MORELAND,

LADY ALYSANNE LEFFORD,

LEWYS LYDDEN, Lord of the Deep Den,

LORD PHILIP PLUMM,

LORD GARRISON PRESTER,

{SER GREGOR CLEGANE}, called the MOUNTAIN-THAT-RIDES, the Knight of Clegane Keep, a fearsome

man. Slain by Prince Oberyn's poison spear, but resurrected by Lord Qyburn, see 'SER ROBERT STRONG',

SER LORENT LORCH, a landed knight,

SER GARTH GREENFIELD, a landed knight,

SER LYMOND VIKARY, a landed knight,

SER RAYNARD RUTTIGER, a landed knight

SER MANFRYD YEW, a landed knight,

SER TYBOLT HETHERSPOON, a landed

knight.

HOUSE MARTELL

Dorne was the last of the Seven Kingdoms to swear fealty to the Iron Throne. Blood, custom, geography, and history all helped to set the Dornishmen apart from the other Martell banner is a red sun pierced by a golden spear. Their words are Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken .

At the outbreak of the War of the Five Kings Dorne took no part, but when Myrcella Baratheon was betrothed to Prince Trystane, Sunspear declared its support for King Joffrey. However, elements within Dorne conspired against the Baratheon rule, leading to the murder of Myrcella Baratheon at Starfall. Dorne later declared its support to King Aegon Targaryen and helped to overthrow the Baratheon and Lannisters.

{DORAN NYMEROS MARTELL}, Lord of Sunspear, Prince of Dorne. Held hostage in the water gardens during the war, and later drowned in the pools. His bastard niece, Nymeria Sand, is held responsible,

his wife, MELLARIO, of the Free City of Norvos,

their children:

PRINCESS ARIANNE, heir to Sunspear,

companion and hopeful betrothal to King Aegon Targaryen,

{PRINCE QUENTYN}, a new-made knight, fostered at Yronwood, and sent as a betrothal to Queen Daenerys in Meereen. Unsuccessful and failed dragon tamer,

PRINCE TRYSTANE, betrothed to Myrcella Baratheon, left traumatised by her death,

his siblings:

{PRINCESS ELIA}, raped and murdered during the sack of King's Landing,

her daughter {RHAENYS

TARGARYEN}, murdered during the sack of King's Landing, her son,

{AEGON TARGARYEN}, a babe at

the breast, murdered during the sack of King's Landing. Many doubt whether the babe Aegon is the same one that reappeared 18 years later,

{PRINCE OBERYN, called THE RED VIPER},

slain by Ser Gregor Clegane during a trial by combat,

his paramour, ELLARIA SAND,

natural daughter of Lord Harmen Uller,

his bastard daughters, THE SAND

SNAKES:

{OBARA}, his daughter by

an Oldtown whore. Conspired to seize control of Dorne and take vengeance against House Lannister. Later died in suspicious circumstances leading Dornish spearmen in the Battle of the Roseroad,

NYMERIA, called LADY

NYM, his daughter by a noblewoman of Old Volantis. Conspired to seize control of Dorne and take vengeance against House Lannister. Held her uncle captive in the Water Gardens and held responsible for his death,

{TYENE}, his daughter by a

septa. Conspired to seize control of Dorne and take vengeance against House Lannister. Later burnt to death in the attack on the Great Sept of Baelor,

SARELLA, his daughter by

a trader captain from the Summer Isles. Left Dorne under the alias ALLERAS, joining the Citadel at Oldtown as an acolyte. Later apprentice to Marwyn the Mage, survived and fled the Drowning of Oldtown.

ELIA, called LADY LANCE, his eldest daughter by Ellaria Sand, companion to Princess Arianne,

OBELLA, his daughter by

Ellaria Sand,

DOREA, his daughter by

Ellaria Sand,

LOREZA, his daughter by

Ellaria Sand,

Prince Doran's court at the Water Gardens:

{AREO HOTAH}, of Norvos, captain of guards, slain by Ser Gerold Dayne and Obara Sand,

MAESTER CALEOTTE, counsellor, healer, and tutor, held prisoner at the Water Gardens,

at Sunspear:

MAESTER MYLES, counsellor, healer, and

tutor,

RICASSO, seneschal, old and blind,

SER MANFREY MARTELL, castellan at Sunspear, poisoned as part of the plot,

ALYSE LADYBRIGHT, lord treasurer, conspired

to usurp Doran,

his ward, PRINCESS MYRCELLA BARATHEON, betrothed to Prince Trystane, beheaded by Ser Gerold Dayne, the Darkstar,

her sworn shield, {SER ARYS OAKHEART},

slain by Areo Hotah,

her second sworn shield, {SER BALON SWANN}, died in Dorne with Princess Myrcella, slain by either Gerold Dayne or Obara Sand,

her bedmaid and companion, ROSAMUND LANNISTER, a distant cousin,

his bannermen, the Lords of Dorne:

ANDERS YRONWOOD, Lord of Yronwood, Warden of the Stone Way, the Bloodroyal,

YNYS, his eldest daughter, m. Ryon

Allyrion,

SER CLETUS, his son and heir,

GWYNETH, his youngest daughter, a

girl of twelve,

HARMEN ULLER, Lord of Hellholt,

DELONNE ALLYRION, Lady of Godsgrace,

RYON ALLYRION, her son and heir,

DAGOS MANWOODY, Lord of Kingsgrave,

LARRA BLACKMONT, Lady of Blackmont,

NYMELLA TOLAND, Lady of Ghost Hill,

QUENTYN QORGYLE, Lord of Sandstone,

SER DEZIEL DALT, the Knight of Lemonwood,

FRANKLYN FOWLER, Lord of Skyreach, called

THE OLD HAWK, the Warden of the Prince's Pass,

SER SYMON SANTAGAR, the Knight of

Spottswood,

EDRIC DAYNE, Lord of Starfall, a young squire to Ser Beric Dondarrion, last seen as part of an outlaw band in the riverlands,

TREBOR JORDAYNE, Lord of the Tor,

TREMOND GARGALEN, Lord of Salt Shore,

DAERON VAITH, Lord of the Red Dunes.

HOUSE TULLY

Lord Edmyn Tully of Riverrun was one of the first of the river lords to swear fealty to Aegon the Conqueror. King Aegon rewarded him by raising House Tully to dominion over all the lands of the Trident. The Tully sigil is a leaping trout, silver, on a field of rippling blue and red. The Tully words are Family, Duty, Honor .

House Tully allied with KInG Robb Stark at the outbreak of the War of Five Kings, but they were defeated after the Red Wedding. House Tully was removed as Lord Paramounts of the Trident and their lands dissolved in the aftermath. Later, under King Aegon, many riverlords supported his cause to find vengeance against House Lannister, Lord Edmure Tully was recovered from Casterly Rock, and House Tully was restored as Lords of Riverrun, on the condition that the riverlands bend the knee to the new Targaryen regime.

EDMURE TULLY, Lord of Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Trident. Taken captive at his wedding and held prisoner by the Freys and then Lannisters, and then recovered during the taking Casterly Rock by Tyrion Lannister. Currently under the care of Lord Tyrion, having pledged his support to King Aegon,

his bride, {LADY ROSLIN} of House Frey, with child, perished during the Scouring of the Twins,

his sister, {LADY CATELYN STARK}, widow of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, slain at the Red Wedding,

his sister, {LADY LYSA ARRYN}, widow of Lord Jon Arryn of the Vale, pushed to her death from the Eyrie,

his uncle, SER BRYNDEN TULLY, called THE BLACKFISH, lately castellan of Riverrun. Fled north to join with House Reed and the crannogmen, then journeyed to Winterfell. Pledged himself to King Brandon Stark of the North, named as Warden of the Southern Marches,

his household at Riverrun:

MAESTER VYMAN, counsellor, healer, and

tutor,

SER DESMOND GRELL, master-at-arms. Surrendered to Lannister forces, left for the Wall to take the black. Never arrived,

SER ROBIN RYGER, captain of the guard. Surrendered to Lannister forces, left for the Wall to take the black. Never arrived,

LONG LEW, ELWOOD, DELP, all

guardsmen,

UTHERYDES WAYN, steward of Riverrun,

his bannermen, the Lords of the Trident:

{TYTOS BLACKWOOD}, Lord of Raventree Hall, perished at the Scouring of the Twins,

BRYNDEN, his eldest son and heir,

{LUCAS}, his second son, slain at the

Red Wedding,

{HOSTER}, his third son, a bookish

boy,

EDMUND and ALYN, his younger

sons,

BETHANY, his daughter, a girl of

eight,

{ROBERT}, his youngest son, died of

loose bowels,

JONOS BRACKEN, Lord of the Stone Hedge,

BARBARA, {JAYNE}, CATELYN,

BESS, ALYSANNE, his five daughters,

{JASON MALLISTER}, Lord of Seagard, held prisoner in his own castle, slain by Frey loyalists after the Scouring of Twins,

{PATREK}, his son, imprisoned with

his father, perished in the Scouring of the Twins,

his youngest son, the new Lord of

Seagard, a boy of twelve,

{SER DENYS MALLISTER}, Lord

Jason's uncle, a man of the Night's Watch, died in the collapse of the Shadow Tower,

CLEMENT PIPER, Lord of Pinkmaiden Castle,

his son and heir, {SER MARQ

PIPER}, taken captive at the Red Wedding, perished in the Scouring of the Twins,

KARYL VANCE, Lord of Wayfarer's Rest, slain in the Scouring of the Twins,

NORBERT VANCE, the blind Lord of Atranta,

his son, SER RONALD VANCE,

named to King Aegon's Kingsguard,

THEOMAR SMALLWOOD, Lord of Acorn Hall,

WILLIAM MOOTON, Lord of Maidenpool,

ELEANOR, his daughter and heir,

thirteen, m. Dickon Tarly of Horn Hill,

{SHELLA WHENT}, dispossessed Lady of

Harrenhal,

SER HALMON PAEGE,

LORD LYMOND GOODBROOK.

HOUSE TYRELL

The Tyrells rose to power as stewards to the Kings of the Reach, though they claim descent from Garth Greenhand, gardener king of the First Men. When the last king of House Gardener was slain on the Field of Fire, his steward Harlen Tyrell surrendered Highgarden to Aegon the Conqueror. Aegon granted him the castle and dominion over the Reach. The Tyrell sigil is a golden rose on a green-grass field. Their words are Growing Strong .

Mace Tyrell declared his support for Renly Baratheon at the onset of the War of the Five Kings, and gave him the hand of his daughter Margaery. Upon Renly's death, Highgarden made alliance with House Lannister, and Margaery was betrothed to King Joffrey. With Joffrey's death, Margaery was betrothed to King Tommen.

After the Landing of the Golden Company, House Tyrell suffered a costly defeat on the roseroad and the Lannister alliance fell apart. When King Aegon took the throne, House Tyrell was removed as Wardens of the South and replaced by House Tarly, who bent the knee. House Tyrell and the Reach have suffered great defeats from both Aegon and Euron.

{MACE TYRELL}, once Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, Defender of the Marches, and High Marshal of the Reach,

his wife, {LADY ALERIE}, of House Hightower of Oldtown,

their children:

WILLAS, their eldest son, the new Lord of Highgarden, crippled

SER GARLAN, called THE GALLANT, their second son, newly raised to Lord of Brightwater. Led the Reach's forces during the Drowning of Oldtown, and missing thereafter,

Garlan's wife, LADY LEONETTE of

House Fossoway,

SER LORAS, the Knight of Flowers, their youngest son, a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, severely crippled after the siege of Red Keep,

{MARGAERY}, their daughter, thrice wed and twice widowed and once murdered,

Margaery's companions and ladies-in-

waiting:

her cousins, {MEGGA}, {ALLA}, and

{ELINOR TYRELL},

Elinor's betrothed, ALYN

AMBROSE, squire,

{LADY ALYSANNE BULWER}, {LADY

ALYCE GRACEFORD}, {LADY TAENA MERRYWEATHER}, {MEREDYTH CRANE called MERRY}, {SEPTA NYSTERICA}, her companions,

his widowed mother, {LADY OLENNA} of House Redwyne, called THE QUEEN OF THORNS. Slain during the Great Fire of King's Landing,

his sisters:

LADY MINA, m. Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the

Arbor,

her son, {SER HORAS REDWYNE},

called HORROR, slain in the siege of the Red Keep.

her son, {SER HOBBER REDWYNE},

called SLOBBER,

her daughter, DESMERA REDWYNE,

sixteen,

LADY JANNA, wed to Ser Jon Fossoway,

his uncles:

his uncle, GARTH TYRELL, called THE

GROSS, Lord Seneschal of Highgarden,

Garth's bastard sons, GARSE and

GARRETT FLOWERS,

his uncle, SER MORYN TYRELL, Lord Commander of the City Watch of Oldtown, surrender to Euron Greyjoy,

Moryn's son, LEO TYRELL called

LAZY LEO, a student at the Citadel, fled the city after Euron's invasion,

his uncle, {MAESTER GORMON}, serving at

the Citadel,

Mace's household at Highgarden:

MAESTER LOMYS, counsellor, healer, and

tutor,

IGON VYRWEL, captain of the guard,

SER VORTIMER CRANE, master-at-arms,

BUTTERBUMPS, fool and jester, hugely fat,

his bannermen, the Lords of the Reach:

RANDYLL TARLY, Lord of Horn Hill, commanding King Tommen's army on the Trident, named Warden of

the South after surrendering to King Aegon,

SAMWELL TARLY, his eldest son,

Lord Commander of the Night's Watch,

DICKON TARLY, his youngest son

and heir. Missing after the Drowning of Oldtown,

{PAXTER REDWYNE}, Lord of the Arbor, slain during the Drowning of Oldtown,

{SER HORAS} and {SER HOBBER},

his twin sons,

DESMOND REDWYNE, cousin of

Lord Paxter and commander in the Redwyne fleet,

MAESTER BALLABAR, Lord Paxter's

healer,

{LEYTON HIGHTOWER}, Lord of the

Hightower, Voice of Oldtown, Lord of the Port,

BAELOR HIGHTOWER, called the

BRIGHTSMILE, Leyton's eldest son, surrendered to Euron Greyjoy,

MALORA HIGHTOWER, called the MAD MAID, Leyton's daughter, taken as Euron Greyjoy's bedslave,

{ALERIE HIGHTOWER}, Leyton's

second daughter, married Lord Mace Tyrell, slain in the Great Fire of King's Landing with her husband,

{SER GARTH HIGHTOWER}, called

the GREYSTEEL, Leyton's second son, slain in the Drowning of Oldtown,

SER HUMFREY FLOWERS, the

Bastard of the Tower, son of Gerold Hightower. Tasked with

defending Oldtown from the north, currently missing, location unknown,

ARWYN OAKHEART, Lady of Old Oak,

MATHIS ROWAN, Lord of Goldengrove

{LEYTON HIGHTOWER}, Voice of Oldtown,

Lord of the Port,

{HUMFREY HEWETT}, Lord of Oakenshield,

FALIA FLOWERS, his bastard

daughter, and King Euron's plaything,

OSBERT SERRY, Lord of Southshield,

{GUTHOR GRIMM}, Lord of Greyshield,

{MORIBALD CHESTER}, Lord of Greenshield,

{ORTON MERRYWEATHER}, Lord of

Longtable, assassinated in the Red Keep,

{LADY TAENA}, his wife, a woman of Myr, assassinated in the Red Keep,

RUSSELL, her son, a boy

of six,

LORD ARTHUR AMBROSE,

LORENT CASWELL, Lord of Bitterbridge,

LORD JOWAN APPLETON,

LORD MARTYN MULLENDORE,

LORD ERREN WYTHERS,

LORD ALESTER CRANE,

LORD IVOR VYRWEL,

SER BRYAN GRACEFORD,

SER MATTHEW MIDDLEBURY.

SER ROGER BULWER,

SER JON FOSSOWAY, of the green-apple

Fossoways,

SER TANTON FOSSOWAY, of the red-apple

Fossoways.

OTHER LORDS, KNIGHTS AND LORDLINGS,

RENFRED RYKKER, Lord of Duskendale,

SER RUFUS LEEK, a one-legged knight in his

service, castellan of the Dun Fort at Duskendale,

WILLIAM MOOTON, Lord of Maidenpool,

ELEANOR MOOTON, eldest daughter and heir, thirteen, betrothed to Dickon Tarly,

SER HYLE HUNT, sworn to service of House Tarly,

SER ALYN HUNT, Ser Hyle's cousin, likewise in Lord Randyll's service,

EUSTACE BRUNE, Lord of the Dyre Den,

BENNARD BRUNE, the Knight of Brownhollow,

his cousin,

SER ROGER HOGG, the Knight of Sow's Horn,

SER QUINCY COX, the Knight of Saltpans, an old man in his dotage,

at Acorn Hall, the seat of House Smallwood,

LADY RAVELLA, formerly of House Swann, wife to Lord Theomar Smallwood,

LORD LYMOND LYCHESTER, an old man of wandering wit who once held Ser Maynard at the bridge,

his young caretaker, MAESTER ROONE.

WANDERERS AND COMMON MEN

SER CREIGHTON LONGBOUGH and SER ILLIFER THE PENNILESS, hedge knight and companions,

HIBALD, a merchant fearful and niggardly,

DICK CRABB, called NIMBLE DICK, a Crabb of Crackclaw Point,

SEPTON MERIBALD, a barefoot septon,

his dog, DOG,

THE ELDER BROTHER, of the Quiet Isle. A former soldier removed to a life of penitence, until his monastery was sacked by knights of the Vale moving south,

BROTHER NARBERT, BROTHER GILLAM,

BROTHER RAWNEY, penitent brothers of the Quiet Isle,

the GRAVEDIGGER, a broken man,

at the old crossroads inn:

JEYNE HEDDLE, called LONG JEYNE,

innkeep, a tall young wench of eighteen years,

WILLOW, her sister, stern with a spoon,

TANSY, JON PENNY, BEN, orphans at the inn,

at Harrenhal:

BEN BLACKTHUMB, a smith and armourer,

PIA, a serving wench, once pretty,

MAESTER GULIAN, healer, tutor, counsellor,

at the Inn of the Kneeling Man:

SHARNA, the innkeep, a cook and midwife,

her husband, called HUSBAND,

BOY, an orphan of the war,

HOT PIE, a baker's boy, now orphaned.

people of King's Landing:

CHATAYA, proprietor of an expensive brothel,

ALAYAYA, her daughter, DANCY,

MAREI, two of Chataya's girls. Many prostitutes and working girls were kidnapped, murdered and harvested for Lord Qyburn's experiments,

TOBHO MOTT, a master armorer,

at the Peach, a brothel in Stoney Sept:

TANSY, the red-haired proprietor,

ALYCE, CASS, LANNA, JYZENE, HELLY, BELLA, some of her peaches,

here and there and elsewhere:

the ghost of High Heart, an old and sorrowful woods witch living under a hill,

the Lady of the Leaves,

the septon of Sallydance.

OUTLAWS AND BROKEN MEN

{BERIC DONDARRION}, once Lord of Blackhaven, six times slain,

EDRIC DAYNE, Lord of Starfall, a boy of twelve,

Lord Beric's squire,

THE MAD HUNTSMAN of Stoney Sept, his

sometime ally,

GREENBEARD, a Tyroshi sellsword, his

uncertain friend,

ANGUY THE ARCHER, a bowman from the

Dornish Marches,

MERRIT O'MOONTOWN, WATTY THE MILLER, SWAMPY MEG, JON O' NUTTEN, outlaws in his band,

LADY STONEHEART, a hooded woman, sometimes called MOTHER MERCY, THE SILENT SISTER, and THE HANGWOMAN,

LEM, called LEM LEMONCLOAK, a onetime

soldier,

THOROS OF MYR, a red priest,

HARWIN, son of Hullen, a northman once in service to Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell,

JACK-BE-LUCKY, a wanted man, short an eye,

TOM OF SEVENSTREAMS, a singer of dubious report, called TOM SEVENSTRINGS and TOM O'SEVENS,

LIKELY LUKE, NOTCH, MUDGE, BEARDLESS

DICK, outlaws,

GENDRY, an apprentice smith and bastard son

of King Robert I Baratheon, ignorant of his birth,

SANDOR CLEGANE, called THE HOUND, once King Joffrey's sworn sword, later a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, last seen feverish and dying beside the Trident,

{VARGO HOAT} of the Free City of Qohor, called THE GOAT, a sellsword captain of slobbery speech, slain at Harrenhal by Ser Gregor Clegane,

his Brave Companions, also called the Bloody

Mummers:

URSWYCK called FAITHFUL, his lieutenant,

{SEPTON UTT}, hanged by Lord Beric

Dondarrion,

TIMEON OF DORNE, FAT ZOLLO, RORGE, BITER, PYG, SHAGWELL THE FOOL, TOGG JOTH of Ibben, THREE TOES, scattered and running,

ESSOS BEYOND THE NARROW SEA IN BRAAVOS

FERREGO ANTARYON, Sealord of Braavos, sickly and

failing,

QARRO VOLENTIN, First Sword of Braavos,

his protector,

BELLEGERE OTHERYS called THE BLACK PEARL, a courtesan descended from the pirate queen of the same name,

THE VEILED LADY, THE MERLING QUEEN, THE MOON-SHADOW, THE DAUGHTER OF THE DUSK, THE NIGHTINGALE, THE POETESS, famous courtesans,

THE KINDLY MAN and THE WAIF, servants of the Many-Faced God at the House of Black and White,

UMMA, the temple cook, THE HANDSOME MAN, THE FAT FELLOW, THE LORDLING, THE STERN FACE, THE SQUINTER, and THE STARVED MAN, secret servants of Him of Many Faces,

{ARYA} once of House Stark, a novice in service at the House of Black and White, also known as ARRY, NAN, WEASEL, SQUAB, SALTY, and CAT OF THE CANALS,

BRUSCO, a fishmonger,

his daughters, TALEA and BREA,

MERALYN, called MERRY, proprietor of the Happy Port, a brothel near the Ragman's Harbor,

THE SAILOR'S WIFE, a whore at the Happy

Port,

LANNA, her daughter, a young whore,

RED ROGGO, GYLORO DOTHARE, GYLENO DOTHARE, a scribbler called QUILL, COSSOMO THE CONJURER, patrons of the Happy Port,

TAGGANARO, a dockside cutpurse and thief,

CASSO, KING OF THE SEALS, his trained

seal,

S'VRONE, a dockside whore of a murderous bent,

THE DRUNKEN DAUGHTER, a whore of uncertain

temper.

IN OLD VOLANTIS

The reigning triarchs:

{MALAQUO MAEGYR}, Triarch of Volantis, a tiger, put to death by Daenerys Targaryen,

{DONIPHOS PAENYMION}, Triarch of Volantis,

an elephant, put to death by Daenerys Targaryen,

{NYESSOS VHASSAR}, Triarch of Volantis, an elephant, put to death by Daenerys Targaryen,

people of Volantis:

BENERRO, High Priest of R'hllor, the Lord of Light, his right hand, MOQORRO, a priest of R'hllor, strong supporter of Daenerys Targaryen, heralding her as Azor Ahai,

THE WIDOW OF THE WATERFRONT, a wealthy freedwoman of the city, also called VOGARRO'S WHORE, strong supporter of Daenerys Targaryen,

her fierce protectors, THE WIDOW'S

SONS,

PENNY, a dwarf girl and mummer,

her pig, PRETTY PIG, her dog,

CRUNCH,

{GROAT}, brother to Penny, a dwarf mummer, murdered and beheaded,

ALIOS QHAEDAR, a candidate for triarch,

PARQUELLO VAELAROS, a candidate for

triarch,

BELICHO STAEGONE, a candidate for triarch,

GRAZDAN MO ERAZ, an envoy from Yunkai.

IN SLAVER'S BAY

In Yunkai, the Yellow City:

{YURKHAZ ZO YUNZAK}, Supreme Commander of the Armies and Allies of Yunkai, a slaver and aged noble of impeccable birth,

YEZZAN ZO QAGGAZ, mocked as the

YELLOW WHALE, monstrously obese, sickly, hugely rich,

NURSE, his slave overseer,

SWEETS, a hermaphrodite slave, his treasure, SCAR, a serjeant and slave soldier, MORGO, a slave soldier,

MORGHAZ ZO ZHERZYN, a nobleman oft in

his cups, mocked as THE DRUNKEN CONQUEROR,

GORZHAK ZO ERAZ, a nobleman and slaver, mocked as PUDDING FACE,

AEZHAR ZO FAEZ, a nobleman and slaver, known as THE RABBIT,

GHAZDOR ZO AHLAQ, a nobleman and slaver, mocked as LORD WOBBLECHEEKS,

PAEZHAR ZO MYRAQ, a nobleman of small stature, mocked as THE PIGEON,

CHEZDHAR ZO RHAEZN, MAEZON ZO RHAEZN, GRAZDHAN ZO RHAEZN, noblemen and brothers, mocked as THE CLANKER LORDS,

THE CHARIOTEER, THE BEASTMASTER,

THE PERFUMED HERO, noblemen and slavers,

in Astapor, the Red City:

{CLEON THE GREAT}, called THE BUTCHER

KING,

{CLEON II}, his successor, king for eight days,

{KING CUTTHROAT}, a barber, slit the throat of Cleon II to steal his crown,

{QUEEN WHORE}, concubine to King Cleon II, claimed the throne after his murder.

THE QUEEN ACROSS THE WATER

THE QUEEN OF SLAVER'S BAY AND VOLANTIS

DAENERYS TARGARYEN, the First of Her Name, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men,

Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Breaker of Chains, called DAENERYS STORMBORN, the UNBURNT, MOTHER OF DRAGONS, the QUEEN OF ASH.

her dragons, DROGON, VISERION, RHAEGAL,

her brother, {RHAEGAR}, Prince of Dragonstone, slain by Robert Baratheon on the Trident,

Rhaegar's daughter, {RHAENYS}, murdered during the sack of King's Landing,

Rhaegar's son, {AEGON}, a babe at the breast, murdered during the sack of King's Landing,

her brother {VISERYS}, the Third of His Name, called THE BEGGAR KING, crowned with molten gold,

her first husband, {DROGO}, a khal of the Dothraki, died of a wound gone bad,

her stillborn son by Drogo, {RHAEGO}, slain in the womb by the maegi Mirri Maz Duur,

her second husband, HIZADAHR ZO LORAQ, Fourteenth of That Noble Name, King of Meereen, Scion of Ghis, Octarch of the Old Empire, Consort to Dragons and Blood of the Harpy,

her protectors:

SER BARRISTAN SELMY, called BARRISTAN

THE BOLD, Lord Commander of the Queensguard,

his lads, squires training for

knighthood:

TUMCO LHO, of the Basilisk Isles,

LARRAQ, called THE LASH, of

Meereen,

THE RED LAMB, a Lhazarene

freedman,

the BOYS, three Ghiscari brothers,

STRONG BELWAS, eunuch and former fighting

slave,

her Dothraki bloodriders:

JHOGO, the whip, blood of her blood,

AGGO, the bow, blood of her blood,

RAKHARO, the arakh, blood of her

blood,

{SER JORAH MORMONT}, formerly Lord of Bear Island, an exiled knight. Once Daenerys' most trusted protector, but nearly dismissed from her service for insolence and secrets untold. Assigned as the Queen's emissary, and sent to Westeros to prepare for her arrival. Slain at White Harbour attempting to fulfill his task,

her captains and commanders:

DAARIO NAHARIS, a flamboyant Tyroshi

sellsword, captain of the Stormcrows, a free company. Also paramour to Queen Daenerys,

BEN PLUMM, called BROWN BEN, a mongrel sellsword, captain of the Second Sons, a free company. Multiple time betrayer,

GREY WORM, a eunuch, commander of the Unsullied, a company of eunuch infantry,

HERO, an Unsullied captain, second-

in-command,

{STALWART SHIELD}, an Unsullied

spearman,

MOLLONO YOS DOB, commander of the

Stalwart Shields, a company of freedmen,

SYMON STRIPEBACK, commander of FREE BROTHERS, a company of freedmen,

MARSELEN, commander of the MOTHER'S MEN, a company of freedman, a eunuch, brother to Missandei,

GROLEO of Pentos, formerly captain of the

great cog Saduleon, now an admiral without a fleet,

ROMMO, a jaqqa rhan of the Dothraki,

her Meereenese court:

REZNAK MO REZNAK, her seneschal, bald

and unctuous,

SKAHAZ MO KANDAQ, called THE SHAVEPATE, shaven-headed commander of the Brazen Beasts, her city watch,

her handmaids and servants:

JHIQUI, Queen Daenery's Dothraki handmaid,

IRRI, Queen Daenery's Dothraki handmaid, and occasional paramour,

MISSANDEI, a Naathi scribe and translator,

GRAZDAR, QEZZA, MEZZARA, KEZMYA, AZZAK, BHAKAZ, MIKLAZ, DHAZZAR, DRAQAZ, JHEZANE, children of the pyramids of Meereen, her cupbearers and pages,

people of Meereen, highborn and common:

GALAZZA GALARE, the Green Grace, high priestess at the Temple of the Graces,

GRAZDAM ZO GALARE, her cousin,

a nobleman,

HIZDAHR ZO LORAQ, a wealthy Meereenese nobleman, of ancient lineage,

MARGHAZ ZO LORAQ, his cousin,

RYLONA RHEE, freedwoman and harpist,

{HAZZEA}, a farmer's daughter, four years of

age,

GOGHOR THE GIANT, KHRAZZ, BELAQUO BONEBREAKER, CAMARRON OF THE COUNT, FEARLESS ITHOKE, THE SPOTTED CAT, BARSENA BLACKHAIR, STEELSKIN, pit fighters and freed slaves,

her uncertain allies, false friends, and known enemies:

{MIRRI MAZ DUUR}, godswife and maegi, a

servant of the Great Shepherd of Lhazar, burned alive,

XARO XHOAN DAXOS, a merchant prince of

Qarth,

QUAITHE, a masked shadowbinder from Asshai, motives unknown,

ILLYRIO MOPATIS, a magister of the Free City

of Pentos, who brokered her marriage to Khal Drogo,

{CLEON THE GREAT}, butcher king of Astapor.

The Slaver Alliance;

The Sons of the Harpy, a resistance group of Ghiscari noblemen within the city of Meereen, led by THE HARPY, a mysterious figure,

The Wise Masters; {YURKHAZ ZO

YUNZAK}, Supreme Commander of the Armies and Allies of Yunkai,

{YEZZAN ZO QAGGAZ}, MALAZZA, PAEZHAR ZO MYRAQ, CHEZDHAR ZO RHAEZN, MAEZON ZO RHAEZN, AND GRAZDHAN ZO RHAEZN, GHAZDOR ZO AHLAQ, MORGHAZ ZO ZHERZYN, GORZHAK ZO ERAZ, FAEZHAR ZO FAEZ - the ruling class of Yunkai, who opposed and then made an unsteady peace with Queen Daenerys,

The Triarchy of Volantis, the Thirteen

of Qarth, the iron legions of New Ghis, all allied opposing Queen Daenerys,

the Queen's suitors;

in Slaver's Bay:

DAARIO NAHARIS, late of Tyrosh, a

sellsword and captain of the Stormcrows,

HIZDAHR ZO LORAQ, a wealthy

Meereenese nobleman, King Consort of Meereen,

SKAHAZ MO KANDAQ, called THE

SHAVEPATE, a lesser nobleman of Meereen,

{CLEON THE GREAT}, Butcher King

of Astapor,

travelling from Westeros:

{PRINCE QUENTYN MARTELL},

eldest son of Doran Martell, Lord of Sunspear and Prince of Dorne, travelling to wed Daenerys Targaryen. Unsuccessful and failed dragon tamer,

his sworn shields and

companions:

{SER CLETUS

YRONWOOD}, heir to Yronwood, slain by corsairs,

SER ARCHIBALD

YRONWOOD, cousin to Cletus, called THE BIG MAN,

SER GERRIS

DRINKWATER,

{SER WILLAM WELLS},

slain by corsairs,

{MAESTER KEDRY}, slain

by corsairs,

{VICTARION GREYJOY}, Lord

Captain of the Iron Fleet, called THE IRON CAPTAIN, travelling to wed Daenerys Targaryen to spite his brother, believing that he can bind a dragon,

his bedwarmer, a dusky

woman without a tongue, a gift from Euron Crow's Eye,

his healer, MAESTER

KERWIN, late of Greenshield, a gift from Euron Crow's Eye,

his crew on the Iron Victory

:

WULFE ONE-EAR, RAGNOR PYKE, LONGWATER PYKE, TOM TIDEWOOD, BURTON HUMBLE, QUELLON HUMBLE, STEFFAR STAMMERER,

his captains:

RODRIK SPARR,

called THE VOLE, captain of Grief,

RED RALF

STONEHOUSE, captain of Red Jester,

MANFRYD

MERLYN, captain of Kite,

RALF THE

LIMPER, captain of Lord Quellon,

TOM CODD,

called BLOODLESS TOM, captain of the Lamentation,

DAEGON

SHEPHERD, called THE BLACK SHEPHERD, captain of the Dagger

.

awaiting her in Westeros;

KING EURON GREYJOY called the

CROW'S EYE, the God-King of Westeros. Made his intention plan to marry Daenerys Targaryen, and sent his brother Victarion as his envoy,

KING AEGON TARGARYEN called

the DRAGON REBORN, King of the Iron Throne. Seeks to marry his aunt to secure his reign,

PRINCE JON SNOW called the

BASTARD KING, King's Claw to his half-brother King Brandon Stark.

Intends to betroth himself to Queen Daenerys, to secure aid for the north.

THE SELLSWORDS, MEN AND WOMEN OF THE FREE COMPANIES

THE COMPANY OF THE ROSE, four thousand infantry, recruited by Salladhor Saan on behalf of the North,

ANDERS FROST, captain and commander of the Company of the Rose,

RACHEL GREYSTARK, called the GREY

BITCH, second-in-command of the Company of the Rose,

THE FLEET OF WATERS, a pirate fleet with up to fifty vessels, based around strong three-decked warships. They have taken a red seahorse on black for their flag. Last seen hired by Petyr Baelish; suffered very heavy losses in the assault on White Harbour, but are still formidable,

THE LORD OF THE WATERS, actually AURANE WATERS, the Bastard of Driftmark, turned pirate king after stealing the royal fleet of King's Landing. Has grown obsessed with dragons,

THE WINDBLOWN, two thousand horse and foot, sworn

to Yunkai,

THE TATTERED PRINCE, a former nobleman

of the Free City of Pentos, captain and founder,

CAGGO, called CORPSEKILLER, his

right hand,

DENZO D'HAN, the warrior bard, his

left hand,

HUGH HUNGERFORD, serjeant,

former company paymaster, fined three fingers for stealing,

SER ORSON STONE, SER LUCIFER

LONG, WILL OF THE WOODS, DICK STRAW, GINJER JACK, Westerosi sellswords,

PRETTY MERIS, the company

torturer,

BOOKS, a Volantene swordsman and

notorious reader,

BEANS, a crossbowman, late of Myr,

OLD BILL BONE, a weathered

Summer Islander,

MYRIO MYRAKIS, a sellsword late of

Pentos,

THE COMPANY OF THE CAT, three thousand strong, sworn to Yunkai,

BLOODBEARD, captain and commander,

THE LONG LANCES, eight hundred horse-riders, sworn

to Yunkai,

GYLO RHEGAN, captain and commander,

THE SECOND SONS, five hundred horse-riders, sworn to Queen Daenerys, and then to Yunkai, and then to Queen Daenerys,

BROWN BEN PLUMM, captain and

commander,

KASPORIO, called KASPORIO THE

CUNNING, a bravo, second-in-command,

TYBERO ISTARION, called

INKPOTS, company paymaster,

HAMMER, a drunken blacksmith and

armorer,

his apprentice, called NAIL,

SNATCH, a serjeant, one-handed,

KEM, a young sellsword, from Flea

Bottom,

BOKKOKO, an axeman of formidable

repute,

UHLAN, a serjeant of the company,

THE STORMCROWS, five hundred horse-riders, sworn to Queen Daenerys,

DAAERIO NAHARIS, captain and commander,

THE WIDOWER, his second-in-

command,

JOKIN, commander of the company

archers.

Author Notes

Goddamn, this was a pain to write. The epilogue was fairly easy, but the appendix was absolutely hellish. It was made even more difficult because this site doesn't actually allow nested lists or any real formatting whatsoever. Instead, I had to use 'x', as you can see.

Still, this officially marks the end of book 1. Next chapter will be with Daenerys in Slaver's Bay, but I'm taking a hiatus before I start writing it.

Till next time.