Thank you to everyone who has read this story, especially those who have taken time to review. Thank you.

Well, here it is: the last great battle. For the purposes of this story, I'm using a show character, Karsi. She was great, so I hope everyone remembers her. Please enjoy!

Chapter Fifty-Five: A War of Ice and Fire (Part One)

Mance Rayder didn't look like a king. Nor did he behave like one. Nobody knelt to him and his arrival at the heart of the wildling camp was heralded with no fanfare or beating of drums. Regardless, he was still a presence whose being surpassed his physical being. He rode out to meet Robb, Jon and Dany mounted on a sturdy garron, flanked by two of his men and a giant bringing up the rear. Robb could only watch, in awe, as the giant grew larger and larger as the wildling delegation approached. Even their own destriers were dwarfed by comparison.

"Do you think we should meet him half-way?" Dany asked from the top of her own mount. For now, she avoided Drogon so as not to intimidate the wildling tribes whose trust they were starting to win.

"I don't see the harm in it," he replied. Looking to Jon, he added: "What say you? Do you think they'll take it for a gesture of friendship or somehow take offence?"

Jon shrugged. "Anything beats sitting here and freezing in our saddles."

With that, he urged his guard to stand down and they spurred their horses forwards. All three of them rode out together, with Lady Melisandre mounted on a mule bearing the glass candle. She had succeeded in lighting it for Jon and now it's light and warmth spread evenly as soon as she drew closer. It also kept the Others away.

"Your Grace," Jon greeted Mance as they drew level with each other.

The man to the left of the Wildling King laughed uproariously, while Rayder himself looked more than mildly amused. Robb shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, while Jon continued to hold his head high, despite becoming the butt of an unknown joke.

"You'll have to excuse Tormund here, sers," Rayder replied. "He finds southron customs most amusing. But I'll have none of that 'your grace' business here, if it's all the same to you. We're the freefolk and we bend the knee to no man."

"As you wish," Robb concurred. "We've come to let you know we're only here to fight the Others. You and your people are free to leave-"

"Oh, they are, are they? That's good of you, to 'let us know,'" Mance cut in, expression drily amused. "Now that your precious wall's come down you've suddenly realised you have a real problem and now you've come to save us. Well, there's a thing or two I could say to that-"

"What my brother meant was that we've come to help," Jon now cut in. "Unless you wish us to leave, taking all our forces back south with us."

Robb flushed in the face and tactically withdrew from the negotiations, only moving to position his mount besides Daenerys while the wildling king vented more of his disdain.

"You know, as well as I, that you're going to do no such thing," he said, calling Jon's bluff. "The fact is, this darkness has spread across the land and now your wall is gone wights will be rising across the seven kingdoms. If you ever want to see the dawn again, you'll swallow your kingly pride and admit you need us as much as we need you."

"So stop wasting all our time with your idle threats, boy!" Tormund Giantsbane added, to Robb and Jon. "Now we'll tell you what's been happening and you'll do some listening."

"Agreed?" asked Mance Rayder.

"Agreed." Robb, Jon and Dany all replied in unison.

The introduction was gruff and brusque, but the hospitality they found in the vast camp had been warm. The three of them, as well as Melisandre, found themselves being ushered into a pavilion tent made from thick hides, where Mance's wildling Princess served them sour goat's milk and roasted meat straight from the skewer. All grateful for a meal, they listened carefully to the people who came inside to tell them what they had seen.

They had seen, with their very eyes, the dead rising and attacking the living – even if they had known each other in life. Strange creatures coming from the lands of always winter, creatures that snuffed out fires and brought an ethereal white mist down on them. So cold, it felt like breathing in razor blades. It was already familiar to them, but it had been happening north of the wall for years now. Robb remembered the man their father executed the same day they found the direwolves and shivered.

Between testimonies, he conferred with Jon and Dany. One place that came up time again was Hardhomme. The townspeople were under siege and the Others passed through there every night. To him, it became obvious while simultaneously making his blood freeze.

"That's where we launch our first attack then," he said, pointing to it on a map. "How many people are still in Hardhomme and how many would be willing to return and help us evacuate?"

Mance shrugged. "You've heard what these people went through. Would you be willing to go back to that?"

"To save the living, yes I would," Jon replied, matter of factly. "Look, we would go alone with just our armies, but we're going to need guides."

"I'll rally the Hardhomme boys myself," he assured Jon. "All I mean is, don't get your hopes up of having hundreds come rallying to your banners. Around these parts, the only thing more distrusted than a southerner is a crow."

"We understand that, and we understand that the free folk have no reason to work with us," Robb assured him. "But we're united now by a far greater enemy and there's no more wall to defend. For all our sakes, I say we get on with it."

Mance nodded his approval. "As I said, I'll put word out-"

"I'll come with you," Tormund stated. "I'm not a native, but I know Hardhomme well."

Robb saw Jon smiling approvingly. "Thank you," he said.

Meanwhile, Mance was looking to Dany. "You're the dragon rider?"

"I am," she replied. "My dragons are young, but Drogon carries me. I intend to fly him north, to the land of always winter. One remains at Winterfell to guard the princesses and one can remain here, to protect your people."

"We'd thank you for that," Rayder confirmed.

Just as the negotiations wound down, the front of the tent blew open bringing with it a gust of snowy wind. Two black, hulking figures were thrown to the ground and a girl with flame red hair stood over them.

"We found these two trying to sneak into the camp," she declared, giving each of the captured men a sharp poke with her spear. "Two lost crows, by the looks of 'em."

Robb felt the breath catch in his throat as Theon Greyjoy lifted his face to the fire, closely followed by Jaime Lannister. He heard Jon choke, while Dany rolled her eyes – recognising only Lannister. The captives were silent, but stunned, each looking to the other and lost for words.

"We know these people," Jon finally admitted, getting to his feet. "I apologise for their behaviour, but I can vouch they're the best fighters. Release them, we'll be needing them."

As bitter as it was, it was true, Robb thought. All the same, he regarded Theon Greyjoy only with the deepest of loathing. Their business was not finished and Greyjoy knew it well.

Tyrion Lannister paled as he listened to the small folk's tales. One by one, they came with horrifying stories of the dead digging their way up from their graves and attacking their loved ones. Fires had been lit across the city, to keep the wights at bay. But no matter how bad it seemed, he knew it could always get worse. Finally, his nerves got the better of him a full three weeks after the first wight was spotted.

There were many people he did not relish meeting again. His father and Gregore Clegane to name two… but even they paled compared to the prospect of running into Cersei one more time.

"You didn't see one with golden hair, probably quite singed and dressed in charred scarlet, did you?" he asked, imagining the worst.

Bronn snorted with laughter. "If your late, lamented sister was going to come back I think you'd be the first to know, my lord."

"That's true," Tyrion conceded as they made their way out of the throne room where the petitions had been heard. "I really can't imagine her wasting time in Flea Bottom when she could be lurching up the steps to the iron throne just to skewer me on that big sword in the middle. You know, the one that juts up farther than the rest."

"I know the one you mean," Bronn replied, casually grabbing a burning torch from the wall. His sword was useless now; it was fire they all carried. "Anyway, your sister was burned by that dragon. Fire kills 'em again, so it's probably not her you have to worry about. What about the little shit, Joffrey? Or better still, that Bolton lad?"

Tyrion shuddered. "Oh, stop it, you terrible man! I don't pay you to make me feel worse."

"No, you pay me for my sword-"

"Oh good, so now you aren't using your sword that must mean all this is free of charge!" Tyrion retorted.

"In your dizziest day-dreams, Imp!" Bronn was quick to point out. "I should charge extra for killing people who're already dead."

"If you did the job properly in the first place..." Tyrion began, letting his sentiments trail in the darkness.

"Don't try that on me. In my day, dead meant dead and the dead stayed dead. This..." Bronn made a sweeping gesture with his torch, briefly lighting up the yard they were crossing. "This is beyond my contractual obligations, I think you'll find."

"Oh, stop whining!" Tyrion sighed. "We have a sword to fetch."

Marwyn had overseen the forging of the sword himself, instructing the smiths on how to lace the dragonglass into the blade. Several of them had laboured at it for days, hammering and folding the steel and repeat. They had even melted down Valyrian steel daggers, links and trinkets for the steel. But Tyrion couldn't say what mixing the steel would do to the blade. Still, he hoped it would the dragon glass that gave the blade its unique edge.

After only ten minutes out in the bitter cold and snow, the heat of the forges was more than welcome. Pausing in the doorway, he watched as the smith plunged a red hot, smouldering blade into a vat of water. The hiss filled the air, sending up great plumes of steam that clung to the man's brow and mingled with the sweat dripping from his flushed brow. Aegon Sand was there too, his own sword Dawn, sheathed at his hip. At least, Tyrion thought that the infamous Dawn was now his. It had arrived from Dorne a week passed.

"My Lord," Aegon greeted him. "The blade is ready, we're set to depart."

"I would see it first," Tyrion said, coming up to join the young man.

The smith said nothing. Clearly, the pommel was still dangerously hot, as he kept his thick gloves on as he lifted the blade. Although Tyrion knew less than little about swords, he knew beauty when he saw it. It wasn't just the newly tempered steel, nor even the Valyrian steel that had been mingled in with it. But the dragon glass gave the blade a beautiful, sharp gleam that caught the light and shone onyx dark. Next to that, it barely needed any additional ornament.

"Now that's a beauty," Bronn remarked, echoing his thoughts. "Let's just hope it does what it's meant to."

Tyrion looked to Aegon. "Go. There's ships in port waiting for you. Marwyn says the King and his men are travelling into the far north, so dock at the Bay of Seals and go from there."

Aegon nodded. "Yes, my lord. I have three thousand travelling with me, but I'll go as fast as I can."

Tyrion wished him luck as he went, before stepping back out into the darkness. If felt like an age and a day since he had seen sunlight. Cautiously, they made their way to the castle gates to see what lay beyond. Every so often, they heard the whoosh of flames as another wight was set alight. Occasionally, it was a living person set alight, whether on purpose or not they could never quite tell. Who knew what the city's thugs were doing to exploit the panic currently breaking out.

Tyrion only wished the Queen would stay indoors, as advised by just about everyone. But even now he could see she was out there, organising the distribution of food and sanitised water. Her Kingsguard, now carrying burning torches in addition to their swords, had already seen off more than one attack of wights. Word got around that even Margaery herself had burned a few undead away. Whatever the truth was, she noticed them and came over with a troubled look on her face.

"My lord, it's a relief to see you," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Word has just reached me about the deaths of Catelyn Stark and Petyr Baelish. Both killed by a wight in the Riverlands."

Tyrion was shocked. He didn't think Petyr Baelish could ever be killed. "I am sorry for the King's stepmother."

Margaery's lip trembled. "She was a good and brave woman. It grieves me she had to be burned, instead of being returned to the river in accordance with Tully custom. I will come back to the castle with you to send my condolences to the Stark family."

Inwardly, Tyrion breathed a sigh of relief. No matter how much all this work endeared the Queen to her people, he did not think it worth the risk to her life.

"And my condolences to you, your grace, on the loss of your Uncle Lord Hightower," he replied.

Margaery rolled her eyes. "As my Grandmother said: that'll teach him for never leaving his Tower, even when his family needed him." But, after a moment's reflection, she added: "Still, he was my mother's brother and I wish him peace."

"Still, Hightower will need rebuilding once this is over," Tyrion pointed out. "And Storm's End. Gods, this winter will cost us a fortune."

"Luckily for you, magical walls don't come crashing down every day," Bronn stated. It was a brave attempt at cheering them up.

"Yes," Tyrion replied, drily. "Aren't we the lucky ones."

"Luckier then them, at least," he replied, as a commotion broke out behind them,

The Queen and Tyrion whipped around, to where a flame bearing mob descended on a pack of wights. Screams rent the air as the living were taken down with the dead. The City Guard soon restored order and the wights swiftly despatched. Again.

"It'll get worse before it gets better," the Queen said, drawing a deep breath. "But we've done all we can for now. Come, let's go home. I need to know what's happening in the north."

At least there was good news on that front, Tyrion thought to himself.

Hardhomme, like the rest of the realm, was swathed in darkness. Not so much as a candle flickered in a window, or a camp fire spluttering a spark into the sky. It was pitch and impenetrable. Not even the light of the stars or full moon made much difference and it made Jon's skin crawl beneath his furs.

The boat they sailed in cut through the ice as they docked in the wildling town. And it had been a town, to his surprise. Before the war, Tormund told him, they traded with Thenns and others in outlying villages, even sometimes with Skagos and an Island that was part of the Greyjoy's territory. It wasn't wealthy, but they had proper houses made from wood and streets that wound through them once lit with burning braziers. Now, after more than three years of the Others, all was in decayed ruin.

They docked at a wharf with a proper wooden jetty and just about avoided getting soaked in the icy waters. Numerous others coming up behind them. Dany circled overhead on Drogon as she sped farther north, to the Lands of Always Winter. He watched her go by tracking the occasional burst of flame from her dragon. Once she was out of sight, he turned his full attention back to the ruins of the wildling town.

It was ringed by snowy mountains, with a sheer cliff face that dropped to the outskirts of the more ramshackle homes. There were walls made from wooden fencing and large wooden gates to keep the enemy from farther north out. Sadly, it was all too little and too late. While lost in his surroundings, Jon hadn't noticed Theon approaching him.

"I was here before, your grace-"

"Did I say you could talk to me?" Jon cut in, not looking at his old nemesis.

Even when they were boys, he had found Theon intolerable. From the tail of his eye, he saw the Ironborn cringe away like a whipped bitch, shrinking back in the direction of the boat he had just disembarked from. Irrationally, Jon suddenly felt petty for lashing out at him. He turned on the spot, beckoning for Theon to return.

"Earlier, you said you knew where Bran is," he said, remembering the conversation that had had before leaving Mance's camp.

Theon nodded, as though too scared to speak.

"If you go back there and bring him to us, unhurt, it would go a long way to healing the rift between us," Jon pointed out.

"I tried," Theon protested. "Both Jaime and I, we tried to get him to come with us. But the Three-Eyed Raven needs him. The war needs him."

"But what for?" Jon asked, narrowing his eyes. "So he can fly? Bran can't even walk, never mind fly."

"You would be amazed at the things happening out here, your grace," answered Theon, gravely. "You don't know until you see it."

But what that was, Jon didn't get to find out. They were interrupted by the sounds of humans close by. Whether dead or alive, he could not tell from a distance. Hyper-alert, both he and Theon fell into line as they watched the figures slowly creeping from the ruins. Men, women and children alike. All silent, terrified and clinging to one another for all it was worth. Jon's mouth ran dry as he watched them, reaching for Blackfyre's pommel.

A woman swathed in furs, braver than all the rest, approached confidently. Her gaze was directed at someone over Jon's shoulder.

"Tormund Giantsbane," she called out, happy.

"Karsi!" The big man called back, giving her a big hug.

When they broke apart, Tormund gestured to Jon. "This 'ere is the King in the South, Jon Targaryen."

Karsi looked at him, her lips pursed as she let out a high whistle. "You could've warned me, Tormund, I'd have put me finest silks on and combed me hair."

Jon knew he was being ribbed, but he laughed anyway. "Please, no ceremony. I'm just a bastard from Winterfell."

"Bastard or no, you're welcome here Jon Targaryen," she said, extending her hand. "Most have fled this place, but those who're left put me in charge for whatever reason. The attacks are daily now and the others are too scared to come out, they can't tell the living from the dead any more."

She gestured to the people all gathered behind her. They came no further, even though Karsi was quite at ease in their company. Jon lifted his hand in a wave, signalling to them that it was all right to approach.

"I'll talk to them later," she promised.

"Tell them they're welcome to leave on the boats we've brought with us," he said. "There's a camp set up at the Skirling Pass, where we've just come from. They'll be safe there. But if any want to stay and fight, they're more than welcome."

By that time, Robb had come up to join him. He shook Karsi's hand as Jon had, and filled her in on some important information. "We have spare armour for any who chose to fight. We also have wildfire to throw into the armies of wights. Finally, apologies for me and my people not realising your plight much sooner."

Karsi nodded her head. "It's long beyond apologies now. But I take the gesture as its meant and I thank you for it."

With that, the commanders were led into a large barn while the soldiers scouted the town looking for signs of the Others and their armies. A brief chance to warm up and rest, while listening to more testimonies from the survivors. But it wasn't long before an alarm bell boomed across the town. Suddenly alert, Jon whipped around to the door.

"That's them," Karsi stated, confirming his fears.

Before he even knew what he was doing he was out the door and in the darkened streets. At first, he couldn't see anything. Everyone else who had run out after him came to halt, forming a press all around him. They all gazed up and down the streets, trying to locate their enemy while the bells tolled on and on.

"Look to the mountains," Karsi called over the din.

His eyes adjusted to the starlight, and then he saw them. They swarmed down the mountainside like teeming ants. Bodies beyond counting, black specks across the virgin white, moving at a speed that seemed impossible. Others threw themselves down the cliff face, the height and the drop meaning nothing to them. All the countless testimonies he had heard suddenly faded as he saw what he'd been hearing about for weeks now, rooted to the spot with shock.

Only Karsi, who already had her weapon drawn and was assembling her men, jolted him back into reality. Suddenly, as if a spell had been broken, they surged forwards to meet the enemy head on. A split second past, it seemed, before the undead army was pushing against the flimsy wooden walls that separated Hardhomme from them. Jon could hear it creaking and groaning as the dead reached through the slats and tore the throats from the living. He watched in horror as Knights of the Vale were cut down, bleeding and choking on their own blood, only to rise again moments later.

"That's not possible!" he called out.

But it was, he'd been hearing all about it for months now. Gathering himself, he sprinted back toward the boats, where men were already unloading vials of wildfire.

"Just throw it over the walls," Ser Jorah Mormont shouted, pushing a vial into Jon's hands.

Supplies were scarce after the wall fell and ignited most of it. But Jon was past caring and did as Jorah suggested. Soon, a fire was blazing, but also burning down the wooden fence and taking the houses with it. The undead army swiftly diverted, while countless others were burned where they stood, writhing for a few minutes and spreading the flames to those around them, but it was not enough.

With Blackfyre drawn, Jon pushed himself into the fray, alongside Karsi herself who was lashing out left and right. Small wonder she had been placed in charge, he thought. She fought like a hundred knights, possessed of a wrath he'd never seen in any woman.

"Are you all right?" he yelled.

"Yeah, now keep going," she called back.

He glanced left, to where a host of wights were descending on the town unchecked. With no one there to stop them, he hastily rallied his northmen to meet them head on with wildfire and swords.

"Charge!" he cried, surging forward.

But it was a loosing battle. He could feel it already. The numbers too great and their resources too few. With no time to plan anything tricky, all Jon could do was try to drive the undead into the fire pits that were opening up to the south. Drive them into the fires like luring rabbits in traps. But all he could see around him was as many of the living being taken down as the dead. They were the ones being pushed back and soon Jon had to flee.

He didn't know where he was going, but he'd had to break ranks as another host of wights closed in on them. He ran, heart beating furiously, around the back of some storage units built into the hillside, away from the fires. It was there that he saw the creature riding a dead horse. Skin like ice and eyes as blue as stars. The sight of the horse's entrails, frozen and trailing the ground, was enough to punch him in the gut. But the thing, the Other, riding it was just as bad. It turned its shining blue eyes on to Jon, its face registering no change of expression, as it seemed to look right through him.

Renewing his grip on Blackfyre, he lunged it at the horse. It's scream shattered the night and sent the rider crashing down. Without thinking twice, Jon swung the blade again and hit the Other. The sound of Blackfyre crashing into the ice monster rang sharp and loud in his head, the shock reverberating down the length of his arm as the Other imploded. His victory was short-lived, however, as he turned his face to ridge of the mountains. By the light of the fires now burning, he could see them mounted on their dead animals. Scores of Others, watching on in almost indifference.

"We're all going to die if we don't get out of here soon!"

Jaime Lannister's voice jolted him out of his stunned reverie.

"I killed one," he called back, still breathless.

"And there's about five hundred more on their way, so fucking come on!"

If he killed one, he could kill more. He was sure of it. But everyone was retreating already, he could hear the commanders bellowing the order for retreat, before what was left of their arsenal was used up. Jon turned and ran back the way he came, stopping only to slash at undead or Others that were moving through the wreckage. This way and that, he tried to find his way back to the main town but found the way ahead blocked with wights.

Gasping for breath and his insides twisting in cold panic, he backed away only to find that way blocked too. They were moving fast, closing in on him and cutting him off from his army. Glancing around swiftly, he spotted another route and ran that way, only for more wights to appear the moment he entered the alley. Spinning on his heels, he tried to retreat, only to find the wights now blocking that exit too.

"Shit!" He cursed, aloud. "Fucking idiot!"

He cursed himself again as the wights closed in. His heart faltered and he gripped Blackfyre harder in his hands. If he was to die, he would die fighting. He raised the blade above his shoulder, ready to cut a path through them all as best he could.

"For Queen Margaery," he murmured beneath his breath. "For Prince Aemon!"

He slashed Blackfyre through the first wights, slicing through arms and necks. But as he got the ones in front, the ones coming up behind him reached out and touched. The feel of their cold, dead flesh sickened him, their hands raking through his hair made his skin crawl. Still he lashed out, cutting down as many as possible in just one swinging blow. Soon, they were pressing in on him, he couldn't breathe and there was no room left to swing Blackfyre. He closed his eyes and remembered his son as he waited to die, what Aemon felt like in his arms. He remembered Margaery's kisses and Ghost loping at his heels. He remembered the screech of dragons, circling through the air. A screeching that grew louder and louder as he realised it was real.

Suddenly, a jet of searing fire shot through the air scattering the wights like autumn leaves. Green and bronze scales glittered in the moonlight as Rhaegal made his own heat. The beat of his wings was like a storm, blowing up out of nowhere. As he landed, he roared another jet of fire at the retreating wights and Jon almost fell to his knees in relief. Only Rhaegal's wing stopped his fall. Then, as quick as the commotion began, silence descended and it was only the two of them. The wights would soon be back, he knew. But that was no longer the problem.

Jon looked at Rhaegal and Rhaegal looked back at him. He had seen Dany do it more than once, now. It was time. He couldn't say how he knew, but he knew all the same. Jon got to his feet and sheathed Blackfyre, before scrambling onto Rhaegal's back. He shook like a leaf on a dying tree, his blood still pumped and his ears still rang with the shrieks of the dead. But now he felt safe. Now he knew what he was doing.

He said the word he'd heard his aunt say, and the beast took wing, soaring upwards to where he could almost have reached for the stars.

As he came around, the first person Bran saw was Meera. She was knelt in front of him, holding his hands with concern etched in her face. But Bran hadn't been this happy in years. He even felt a rare smile spreading across his face at the memory of what had happened.

"We were flying, Meera," he said, breathlessly. "We did it! Rhaegal and I found Jon just in time and we flew together!"

Meera's concern melted to jubilation, a high squeak escaping her lips as she clapped her hands together. Before he knew it, she leaned forwards and threw her arms around him, hugging him tight.

Thank you for reading. Reviews would be welcome, if you have a minute.

I hope you enjoyed Jon taking his first solo flight. And, obviously, there's a bit more of the War of Ice and Fire to come.

Special thanks to Dragonfan - nice to hear from you again and glad you're still enjoying the story!

XBolt51 - yeah, Lysa coming back might have been a stretch. But they use skeletons and half-remains in the show, so I thought I'd chance it anyway.

Angie B - I'm just glad I'm still able to throw the odd surprise! Thanks :)