Catelyn
It was beneath a cold, dark sky that the army of Northmen left the Neck and entered the Riverlands. The swamp behind them was abandoned by the living and now home only to the frightful screams and mocking laughter of the Others. The Northern army, Starks and Boltons both, and their supporters had marched through the Neck's frozen marshes with great haste, for it was stranger and more eerie than ever before. Gone were the animals that Catelyn had remembered from previous journeys. The lizard-lions were gone, the birds had disappeared, and the swarms of buzzing and biting insects had vanished. Dead or fled, no one knew. Instead of wildlife, the nights and days were silent save for the howling wind and the screaming Others.
The stagnant waters and swamps had frozen, so without fear of quicksand and bogs, the scouts had ranged far afield to the east and west of the causeway. They found nothing. The hidden villages of the Crannogmen were abandoned, save for the dismembered corpses of whoever hadn't escaped before the Others arrived. Only a handful of surviving Crannogmen joined the march. Small men and women with all their possessions tied in bundles on their backs. None of whom knew where Lord Howland was, only that he had swiftly departed with most of the Crannogmen.
Out of the Neck, they followed the Kingsroad southwards. Though the wind howled in the day and screams filled the night. The screams of men, horses, livestock, and Others. They kept marching. The Others came at night, mostly. On the darkest days, which was nearly every day now, the Others sometimes came regardless of the hour. Never for long and never waiting for the lords to rally a response. They would kill one or two men or animals and then vanish into the cold mists and falling snow.
Many of the villages and farms they found on the road were already deserted. Robb ordered them searched regardless. The army needed every ounce of grain or scrap of food they could find. Those villages that weren't abandoned were also searched, as the hungry Northmen took everything there and compelled the smallfolk to join the march. Catelyn watched these things dispassionately. Anyone who stayed behind would die regardless and only add numbers to the force pursuing the living.
Outriders ranging far from the Kingsroad reported that the Twins were also deserted. House Frey's stronghold stood over the frozen waters of the Green Fork like a tale from one of Old Nan's stories. The march continued, on and on, through the snowy fields and past empty hovels and holdfasts. Other outriders said they'd seen Ironmen longships being pulled like wagons down the Green Fork.
They were a week south of the Neck when the first scouts found them.
Catelyn sat at Robb's shoulder in the council with the other highborn lords and ladies. They occupied a long table in an abandoned barn. Robb sat at one end and Roose Bolton at the other, their various supporters filling the space between them. Catelyn's good-daughter Wylla and her sister Lady Wynafryd sat on Robb's right. Roose Bolton sat between his bastard and Harrion Karstark.
The outrider knelt and bowed immediately when he entered the barn. The man was at least fifty, hair gone to grey, and face lined with wrinkles. He walked with a slight limp. Once he rose, Catelyn saw the badge on his dark green surcoat was black iron studs and bronze shield of House Royce.
Silent tension filled the atmosphere momentarily as everyone waited for who would speak first. Robb or Roose.
The moment passed when Robb settled deeper into his chair as if granting Lord Roose permission to speak. Catelyn couldn't resist smirking slightly as she watched Roose Bolton's pale eyes shift uncertainly.
After another second, the silence broke as Lord Roose quietly asked. "Where has Lord Yohn made camp?"
"Two days south of the Trident, m'lord," the outrider answered.
"Alone?" Robb asked, interrupting Roose Bolton mid-word.
"No," he paused for a moment. "... Your Grace."
"Who else marches with him?"
"Many of the Valelords and all other lords of the Seven Kingdoms," the outrider said. "As vast a host as I've ever seen."
"King Stannis among them?" Catelyn asked quietly
"Yes, m'lady, King Stannis, King Aegon, and Queen Daenerys and her dragon as well."
That news caused a stir. Word had reached them of the resurrection of Rhaegar's son, but not that Daenerys had returned from the east nor that she had come with a dragon as well.
Robb was not among those who were shocked or surprised.
"They have made common cause then," he said, a statement not a question. "Wise." Robb stood suddenly, and a torch caught his shadow and made him loom over everyone in the barn. "Rest here for the night and eat in the morning. I would have you take a letter back to your lord and his liege with you. The King-in-the-North would join this alliance."
Days later and many miles further south, Catelyn watched from her wagon's seat as the familiar inn appeared. The inn was three stories tall with turrets and chimneys made of white stone that shone in the rare evening sunlight. The south wing stood on pilings that rose from a bed of weeds where the Trident had once flowed before shifting course. She knew the common room was long and drafty, but the rooms on the third floor had warm hearths and soft featherbeds.
"It was here," Catelyn said to Robb as he rode past. Beneath the blankets and cloaks, she twisted the flesh of her legs. They were soft, the muscles had wasted away, and she couldn't feel them no matter how tightly she squeezed.
"Mother?" Robb approached her.
"Here, I arrested Tyrion Lannister and started the war. So many dead, so much death."
Robb caught her hands with his. "None of this is your fault, mother," Robb rode silently for a few seconds. "Likely the Lannisters would have killed father regardless, and it would have begun but a few months later."
Catelyn shook her head. Robb was likely correct, but even so, guilt tore at her.
"Besides," Robb continued. "I am guilty of my own mistakes," Robb's eyes went cloudy with tears and memory. "Theon… because of him, we lost our home. The chase for Tywin," Robb laughed. "How much did we lose then? Grey Wind, the Blackfish, Dacey, Jon Umber, my arm… no mother none of this is your burden to carry. Not alone. My mistakes outweigh yours a hundredfold."
There was a sadness in Robb's eyes, but also something deeper and darker than mere sorrow, something Catelyn didn't understand but feared regardless.
Catelyn gripped his hand tightly. "Promise me, Robb, promise me that I won't lose you too."
"I promise," he whispered.
Night fell and the world grew darker. They stayed at the inn for shelter as the army made camp around them.
Surrounded by four walls, covered by three heavy blankets, and a fire roaring in the hearth, Catelyn felt truly warm for the first time in weeks. But sleep did not come. Catelyn lay there for hours. Resisting the urge to toss and turn in the night. Without the use of her legs, they would only get tangled in the many blankets and make her more uncomfortable. Better to bear the discomfort for now until it passed. She lay there for what felt like hours, and then she heard something.
A whisper of ice moving on ice. Catelyn opened her eyes and looked just in time to watch the room's door open and a crystalline sword slip through the gap. There was a silent and terrifying second of stillness, and then the door opened fully. Cold flooded Catelyn's room, and the Other stepped inside.
The monster was more than merely handsome. He was inhumanly beautiful. Elegant, gaunt, tall, and flesh like new fallen snow. A beauty marred only by a black scar on his face. His armour shifted colour with each step, aligning itself with its surroundings and blending into the night. The Other walked further inside, sword hanging loosely in his grip. The Other scanned the room with his bright blue eyes and paused when they saw Catelyn.
Catelyn met the Scarred Other's eyes. They twinkled like cold stars and burned with alien intelligence. I will not die cowering in bed, she thought. The Scarred Other paused and cocked his head slightly like a wolf looking at a helpless fawn. Catelyn kept her eyes on his too blue orbs and pushed herself upright. She shivered from the cold, but not, she thought, she hoped, from fear.
The Scarred Other looked and returned to searching the room. He slipped his blade through a lock to open the chest that held her clothes and began rummaging through it. The dresses, skirts, and cloaks were tossed this way and that as the Other searched for something. Catelyn could feel herself starting to strain with the effort of holding herself up, but her pride refused to bend.
Aaaaaahhooooooo. A horn sounded in the night, and the Other looked up, pausing in his search. Catelyn waited and shivered as a second blast roared. Aaaaaahhooooooo. And then a third. Aaaaaaaahhhoooooo.
The Scarred Other looked at her again, raised his sword, and abruptly switched it into a reverse grip. One leg went back, and the Scarred Other bowed stiffly at the waist.
Catelyn blinked, and then he was gone. Catelyn collapsed back to her bed. The fire had gone out. She was so cold. But she was alive.
Morning came slowly, fitfully, as if the sun had to do battle to chine even this faintly through the dark clouds and falling snow. Catelyn had slept not a wink, her mind ablaze with thoughts of the Scarred Other. Was he a scout or spy? He'd looked to be searching for something. But what? Robb's plans a destination? Why hadn't he killed her? And that bow, was it mocking or genuine? Was it evidence of gallantry or just some twisted joke? Was either better than the other?
Those thoughts continued to consume Catelyn as the march resumed. It lasted all day, but it ended at last when nightfall neared. The Northmen had found the great war camp south of the Trident. Tens of thousands of fires created a haze over the shallow valley. Human filth and animal dung stank like King's Landing. Banners were everywhere, like flowers in a field, the largest army Catelyn had ever seen.
She remembered the Scarred Other and hoped that this force would be enough.
"There is something I must tell you, Robb."
Quentyn
The Northmen had come at last. A ragged army, thousands of warriors, horse and foot, and nearly as many smallfolk. They carried what possessions remained to them on their backs. Quentyn sat ahorse beside his sister as they watched the Northmen enter the camp.
"They're dividing again," Arianne said.
"What?"
"Look," Arianne gestured at some of the banners. "Bolton has stopped already, near Stannis' camp, while Stark and his supporters march on to make their own."
"Yes," Quentyn nodded. "They… Gods… we're all still divided, aren't we? Beneath the surface. Just waiting for the chance to start tearing each other apart again."
"Aye," his sister said. "Then, for House Martell and Dorne, we must ensure we're on the right side. The winning side."
Quentyn nodded. "I understand."
"You have ties with House Yronwood. I have already instructed Lord Anders that he is to be your man now."
"Then am I to remain in Queen Daenerys' camp?"
"Yes, and I will be with King Aegon," she stopped short as if she'd been about to say something else.
Quentyn let the pause play out and said. "I will do you and our father proud sister."
Arianne nodded. "I trust you, Quentyn."
The Ironborn and wildlings arrived the day after the Northmen. They were not nearly as ragged as the Northmen but less numerous. The greatest surprise was spotting the Lannister lion flying among the Ironborn banners. Like the Northmen the day before, the Ironborn and Wildlings quickly separated once they were in the camp. The Ironborn set up camp not far from Lord Victarion's men from the Iron Fleet, while the Wildlings took a spot as far from everyone else as possible. Even so, Quentyn heard bellows and trumpeting as the Golden Company's elephants and Wildling mammoths saw or smelled each other more than once.
That evening, Quentyn joined all the lords of the realm at a grand pavilion near the centre of all the camps. The huge tent's roof was supported by dozens of poles and heated by dozens of braziers. Fifteen tables were arranged in a large circle where the courts and supporters of Stannis, Aegon, Daenerys, Robb Stark, and now Mance Rayder could sit around their liege. It made for a strange sight as silks and linens brushed furs and leathers. Graceful southrons chittered while Wildlings, Ironborn, and Northmen laughed and bellowed like bulls. The barrage of noise was almost overwhelming. Quentyn passed a dozen cliques of conspiring lords on his way to his seat among the supporters of Queen Daenerys. Not even the Wildling chieftains stood entirely alone. Quentyn saw one with a long beard and huge belly speaking to Victarion Greyjoy while a few others whispered among themselves. Only the Unsullied seemed to stand entirely alone. Daenerys had offered them as guards for tonight, and they stood stoically around the edges of the pavilion and outside it.
Some kind of commotion was happening on the far side of the pavilion, but too many people were in the way for Quetyn to see anything.
Quentyn took his seat at Queen Daenerys' left and in front of Lord Anders Yronwood, whose bannermen were with him. They were all strong and proud Stony Dornishmen, who looked more similar to their perennial foes from the Stormlands and Reach than they did Quentyn.
"What's happening over there?" Quentyn asked Lord Anders.
"The Kings and the Queen are deciding if they will give the Imp and the Deserter a chance to speak before killing them."
Quentyn knew the former referred to Tyrion Lannister, who'd arrived with the Ironborn, but the other was unfamiliar. "Deserter?"
"That one in black," Lord Anders pointed out a long-faced man near Quentyn's age with brown hair, dark grey eyes, and a lean build who had just emerged from the crowd.
"Why's he here if he's a deserter?"
Lord Anders grunted. "He says he's not."
"Why give him the benefit of the doubt?" Quentyn whispered back.
Queen Daenerys answered quietly as she took her seat beside Quentyn. "Because he's Robb Stark's bastard brother."
"Seven Hells," Quentyn cursed.
One by one, the crowd settled into their places at the tables, with even more people standing behind them. Directly across from Quentyn sat Stannis, and despite the noise and distance, Quentyn thought he could hear the man grinding his teeth as he glared daggers at everyone.
A few minutes after Quentyn took his seat, Lord Yohn Royce, Stannis' Master of Laws, struck the table with his dagger, bringing silence to the kings and lords. "Let the deserters step forward."
From among the crowd, two men stepped forward. The Stark bastard in black Lord Anders had pointed out earlier, and also a man who could only have been Tyrion Lannister. An ugly dwarf with mismatched eyes and hair so blond it looked white. Tyrion Lannister bowed, and the deserter in black knelt down on one knee.
Quentyn spotted Robb Stark looking away from them.
"You are deserters," Stannis said at last. "You betrayed the oaths you swore. Sacred oaths to defend the Wall and the realms of men. Tyrion Lannister," Stannis Baratheon growled. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I swore no vows!" Tyrion announced. "Yes, I was banished to the Wall, but I did not swear the vows of the Night's Watch. It fell before I could, but I still fought the Others. At every place from Castle Black to here, I have fought the Others. And done so alongside Northmen, Ironmen, and Wildlings who can vouch for my courage. As the winter grows and the Long Night comes, I took it upon myself to raise a force of Westermen to do battle. We all know we need every possible sword, spear, and arms to wield them. You would turn me and mine away now? I see here many enemies who have made common cause at this dire hour. I ask only to join you in this battle for the dawn!"
Tyrion Lannister ended his speech with a clap and a shout, and the room answered with silence.
"Then you are welcome in my court, Lord Tyrion," said Queen Daenerys, breaking the silence.
Murmurs rose from the lords, and many glared daggers at Quentyn's queen or Tyrion Lannister. Quentyn leaned forward and whispered in his queen's ear. "Why, Your Grace? House Lannister has no honour and no friends."
"That's exactly why," Queen Daenerys whispered back. "We cannot hold onto grudges, not now," she paused. "And if all this ever ends, Tyrion Lannister will need me."
Quentyn nodded and sat back.
The dwarf himself was swift to bow and speak courtesies to Queen Daenerys that Quentyn didn't listen to. He was lost in thought. Beneath the surface, we're all still divided.
"Jon Snow," Aegon's voice cut through Quentyn's thoughts.
He focused back on the scene in front of him. Tyrion Lannister was gone, and Jon Snow stood alone, facing all the kings and lords of the realm, waiting for him to speak. Quentyn couldn't help but feel sorry for him.
"Your Graces," the black cloaked bastard said. "The Wall has fallen, but I still keep to my vows. All my brothers are slain, and I am the last man of the Night's Watch."
Quentyn did his best to keep his face passive as the Bastard of Winterfell continued. He knew little of House Stark and even less of Eddard Stark's bastard, but he would have expected some reaction from Robb Stark. A spark of brotherly affection, but the King-in-the-North's blue eyes were as hard as ice. Stannis Baratheon was no better. He looked as merciless as ever. Quentyn's queen, Daenerys, looked disinterested, and he wondered, having been raised in the east, how much she knew of the Wall at all. Mance Rayder looked amused more than anything, and as Jon Snow spoke, Quentyn caught Mance Rayder's eyes for a moment. The wildling king shared a sly smile but ultimately said nothing.
"My brothers died true to their oaths to defend the realms of men. Their watch is ended, but mine goes on. The Wall may have fallen, but I still stand, for this night and all nights to come."
Silence for a moment, but then it was broken by Aegon. "Then be welcome in my court, Jon Snow."
With that, the great council moved on to other matters. Roles and responsibilities. Places on the battle line. Demands for supplies. And countless other things, some important but others petty.
Hours later, at a break in the council, Quentyn left the pavilion as quickly as he could without abandoning dignity. The heated arguments, the clashing wills and egos, as kings, queens, lords, ladies, knights, and priests battled for dominance. It was almost too much for him. At least I'm not the only one, Quentyn thought. Dozens of others were leaving at the same time as him, for the air, cold as it was, was very refreshing after the smoke and cloying warmth inside and helped him regain his senses.
Quentyn bent over, resting hands on his knees and taking deep breaths of the cold air. Clouds on his own breath rose around him, and from the corner of his eye, Quentyn saw a shadow move in the dark. He stopped cold, not daring to move or breathe as he stared at the patch of darkness. No moonlight could pierce the clouds above. Only torches, campfires, and braziers provided any light at all. A flickering half-light that turned shadows into monsters and played tricks on the mind.
Quentyn paused and then shook his head. "I'm jumping at shadows," he told himself.
And yet. There should be a guard there, shouldn't there? Quentyn wondered. And Catelyn Stark had said something during the great council. An Other had breached her quarters and searched it. The Others were spying on the living.
His first instinct was to search himself, and he even took half a step before stopping. Quentyn was a knight, trained, squired, and anointed, but he knew he was no great warrior. If even half the stories about the Others were true, then by marching out into the darkness, all he would accomplish would be his death.
Instead, Quentyn turned on his heel and ran to find Grey Worm.
He found the eunuch soldier standing guard inside. A few quiet words and Quentyn returned outside with Grey Worm and a dozen Unsullied.
The dark patch was as Quentyn had left it, still and silent. The Unsullied rushed into formation as their torches quickly banished the darkness. There was nothing there. The flickering flames revealed mud, snow, and footsteps just as they would be anywhere else in the camp.
"Blue Hero was stationed here," said Grey Worm. "He would not desert his post."
Quentyn stepped further into the shadows. On a whisper of instinct, he drew his sword. "Then where?"
Something leapt out of the shadow. Quentyn swung his sword on reflex and caught a grasping arm. The steel bit deep and cut through the limb, but the monster kept coming. Quentyn shouted and pulled back. The Unsullied were swift and came to his aid. The light of their torches revealed the attacker. It was an Unsullied as well, or at least it had been. His neck was cut in a wide second smile, frozen blood covered his chest, and his eyes shined blue in the shadows.
Grey Worm plunged his spear into the wight's shoulder. It kept coming. Four more Unsullied spears thrust into thighs, throat, and back immobilized the wight long enough for a torch to be pushed into its face and set it on fire.
"That was Blue Hero," Grey Worm said, a hint of sorrow tinting his normally stoic voice.
Quentyn nodded and sheathed his sword. "So I was right. There was something here. An Other here, spying. How much did it hear?"
Grey Worm and the other Unsullied had no answer.
Something squeezed Quentyn's foot. Hesitant and sick, he looked down. The arm he'd severed was still moving, twitching, and hard black fingers were working their way up his foot as if it could strangle Quentyn to death by grasping his ankle.
"Get off!" Quentyn shouted, kicking the evil grasping thing with his other boot. "Get! Off!" Disgust gave him strength, and he kicked the limb free without needing to pry it off with his dagger.
Grey Worm pinned it to the ground with his spear.
"Scour the camp," Quentyn ordered. "And spread the word, torches and fires at every ten paces at least. We cannot leave the Others so much as a scrap of shadow to hide in."
Grey Worm looked impassively at Quentyn. He felt like he could hear the thoughts spinning in the eunuch soldier's head. Who are you to command me, and, what will the Queen think of this command? Quentyn tried to project confidence.
Eventually, Grey Worm nodded. "This one obeys," he said and then trotted off.
Quentyn sheathed his sword, then cursed himself for not making sure it was clean first. Just as quickly, he took it out and wiped it on his cloak. He'd need to make sure his sheath was clean later as well. He remained outside long enough to make sure the fires were being lit. Then he squared his shoulders and went back inside to inform his queen.
Jon
The camp spread out for many miles in every direction. A city of tents and creaking wagons. Supplies arrived daily as wagon trains arrived from Harrenhal, Stone Hedge, and Maidenpool, where grain, salted meat, and other provisions were stored by the thousands of tonnes. Even so, men and animals were growing hungry. If they waited much longer, there would be a culling. The oldest and weakest animals would need to die to feed the soldiers.
Jon glared at an elephant. "Starting with those," he muttered. Just one of the elephants ate more than a dozen horses, and their meat would feed hundreds for days. The mammoths were just as bad, but Jon had no appetite for arguing over them with the giants or wildlings.
Jon gave the camp one last look, turned toward the hill, and began climbing again. Jon walked on foot instead of riding. He wanted to know how long it would take for the infantry to assemble when the time for battle began. Ten minutes later, he reached the summit and looked down upon the future battlefield.
Their position was as strong as Jon could have hoped it to be. A gentle slope rose from the Trident's southern bank. That was where most of the army would assemble. Further from the river, the ground rose steeply toward the summit of the hill Jon stood upon. The war camp was sheltered by the backslope of the hill. Twenty yards from the Trident was the first of three lines of trenches and packed earth ramparts. The second was fifty paces beyond that, and the third a hundred paces further. Only the first line was complete. The other two were still under construction. Many hands made for light work, but even with thousands of hands working in shifts day after day, progress was slow. The frozen ground resisted and blunted shovel, pick, and axe alike.
The flanks of the battlefield were guarded by two rocky outcrops, each now fortified with lumber palisades and bonfires. Archers, crossbowmen, and hand-dragonmen already garrisoned the forts. From those heights, they could shoot uninterrupted onto the enemy flanks. Once the defences were ready, a hundred thousand men could stand secure on the banks of the Trident. Jon grimaced as he thought about the supply situation again. They wouldn't be able to stay here very long, another week at most. The supplies were growing truly desperate. They could survive a little longer on the livestock and beasts of burden, but that option brought its own problems.
If the Others were smart, they would let us all starve to death, Jon thought, but they seem to like killing, thankfully. He laughed bitterly at the thought. Maybe they didn't understand the human need to eat. If they were spying on their meetings, then they couldn't be all-knowing. Jon began grinding his teeth, then stopped himself. "Gods be good. This war is turning me into Stannis Baratheon."
Spies or no spies, the plans were set and were simple enough that even the greatest fool would be hard-pressed to break it. In a few more days, the fortifications would be done. Just a few more days. Wildling scouts and riders ranged beyond the Trident and a dozen miles in each direction on the southern side. Mance Rayder had claimed that his Free Folk could traverse the snow best, and having seen them set off, Jon didn't disagree. The Northmen could cross snow like it was solid ground, and the Wildlings put them to shame. They all said the same thing. No sign of the enemy, but also no sign of life, which was itself a sign the enemy was close.
"A quarter of an hour to climb the hill," Jon muttered under his breath. He was about to turn back when the horn blew. He froze instantly. Aaahooooo, called the horn, then again, aaahooooo, and then a third blast aaahooooo.
Jon looked northward, where a line of clouds and snow was already visible on the horizon and moving swiftly southward. "They're here," he said, and then. "Fuck."
Jon turned and ran back down the hill. As he ran, the sky overhead became darker. The clouds grew thick, the wind surged, and snow began to fall in earnest.
He met Aegon halfway down the slope.
The boy was charging up the hill on his horse, followed by Rolly Duckfield, Jon Snow, and his guards. "Is it?"
"Yes!" Jon shouted. "We must ready the army!"
It was over an hour before he was back at the hill's summit alongside Aegon, watching as the last infantry marched into their positions.
The bulk of the infantry were lined up by three ramparts, heavy infantry and dismounted knights from the Andal heartlands of Westeros, Golden Company pikemen, Ironmen in their shieldwall, Northmen schiltrons, and Dornish spearmen were all lined behind the ditches and before the first two ramparts. The archers, crossbowmen, and dragonmen stood atop the ramparts, ready to shoot down upon the enemy. Wildlings in loose order filled the gaps in between.
On and behind the third rampart were the Unsullied. If anyone could be trusted to hold against the dead when the line was breaking, it was them. The Golden Company's elephants and the Wildling mammoths stood the furthest back, ready to charge and plug any gaps, though what that would do against a fearless enemy, Jon didn't know. The few men armed with dragonglass or Valyrian steel were also in reserve. Their greatest weapon was not even in sight. Daenerys and Drogon waited behind the hill, ready for their moment and hopefully out of the enemy's mind. Jon knew that that was a vain hope. Between the successive lines of trenches and earth ramparts burned dozens of bonfires.
Everything and everyone was as ready as they could possibly be. Jon huffed and looked up the hill to where Arianne Martell was directing her carpenters and septons. "I hope your plan works," he muttered. He stared momentarily at the Dornish princess, but his attention soon turned. Aegon was leading the last of his army over the hill. The man Jon had raised like a son sat astride his warhorse with his kingsguard, a bodyguard of Dornish riders, Reachmen knights, Golden Company cavalry, and the last brother of the Night's Watch. Jon Snow.
Ned Stark's bastard had arrived with Lord Rodrik Harlaw's Ironmen and Mance Rayder's Wildlings. He told a story Jon didn't believe, that he had held true to his oaths and that all his other black brothers were dead. Rumours whispered that other Black Brothers were hiding among the Westermen. Tyrion and his cousin Lancel had both been banished to the Wall by Stannis. But both declared they had never sworn the vows that would have bound them to the Wall.
Why Aegon? Jon wondered. Why accept him? And why did Stannis not take him? The ties between Stark and Baratheon ran deep. For that matter, why hadn't Jon Snow joined the Northmen? Robb Stark was the Bastard Jon's brother, after all. A dark and suspicious part of himself wondered if the last brother of the Night's Watch was part of some plot by the Starks and Baratheons. Jon Snow still held his Valyrian steel sword. If he'd slain an Other, then there were few better to wield it. But Valyrian steel could cut living flesh and blood as well as any other. Jon's skin crawled at the thought of someone he so distrusted bearing arms near Aegon. But Aegon had made his choice, so Jon would accept it.
Jon turned his gaze and glared down at the hill at the Westermen. The lion of Lannister flew proudly there when, by all rights, it should have been trampled into the mud and consigned to history. That was something that Aegon and Jon agreed on, at least. Stannis Baratheon likely thought the same. If it weren't for Daenerys, it would have already happened. But even she cared only so much. That was why the Westermen and the dwarf were in the centre of the battle line. Where the enemy's stroke was expected to fall the hardest.
"Even if you survive Lannister, there will be a reckoning. The sins of the father will come due."
Aegon approached him and rode past with a suitably royal focus on his face. Jon smiled slightly, and his eyes followed his king as he rode down the hill. Down the hill was the frozen Trident, barely visible through the falling snow and the twilight sky, and beyond the river… Beyond the river, a wall of darkness was approaching.
"My lord."
Jon grunted and jerked his vision. Melisandre of Asshai had snuck up on him. She stood watching the darkness advance just as he did. Snowflakes were melting in her hair, and her robes rustled in the wind as she stood without care for the cold. The only thing that marred her serene image was the bandages around her hands. Jon still didn't know how she and Thoros and Moqorro had hurt themselves, only that they had and had been suspiciously quiet ever since.
Melisandre seemed to sense Jon approaching and hid her injured hands in her robes.
"Can you not hear it?" Melisandre asked.
"Hear what?" Jon grunted.
"The enemy, the Queen of Night. She is cursing us, condemning us. Every breath of the breeze is her hate. Every gust of wind her fury. And every snowflake is her malice. She would see us all weeping and broken before the altar of the Great Other. Our souls and hopes rent asunder."
Jon shivered and pulled his fur-lined cloak tighter around his shoulders. The Red Witch's words had the tone of prophecy, and Jon dared not discount them entirely. Not at a time like this.
"Have you seen this?" He asked. "Seen it in your fires?"
"I have seen…" Melisandre began but trailed off. She began to rub the wounds on her hands.
"Damn you, witch, give me an answer. Is this not to be your battle! Your god, your Lord of Light, and your hero! Where is your hero? Azor Ahai is his name if my memory serves. Where is your Azor Ahai Reborn with his burning sword? This is supposed to be his fight, not mine! Not Aegon's!"
Melisandre said nothing. She stood in silence as the wind howled overhead and the snow fell.
Jon spat and turned, hauling on the reins and spurring his horse through the snow.
"Hold close to your son, Old Griff," said the red witch.
Jon cursed and lurched in his saddle. "How do you know that name?" He demanded.
Melisandre ignored his question and continued. "The Lord of Light has plans for him that are not yet complete. Hold close to your son, and keep him safe."
"What have you seen?" Jon demanded. "Damn you, witch, tell me, the rest of the Seven Kingdoms can freeze for all I care. What did you see about Aegon?"
Melisandre turned without another word and walked away, crossing the snow as easily as one of the Wildlings.
"WHAT HAVE YOU SEEN?"
Arianne
The clouds were pouring out of the north, pushed forth by terrible winds that cut straight to the bone like razors through fur, cloth, and flesh. Just as the Northmen and Wildlings had said, the Others sent a blizzard before them to hide their march and punish the living for standing against them.
Such had it been off and on for weeks. The Others were twisting the weather, inflicting an unnatural cold and eternally falling snow. Now, it was all the more intense at the moment of battle. The clouds above were so thick that the sky was dark, although it was nearly noon. It was light enough to see, but only just, and thousands of torches flickered in the ranks of the assembling armies like the stars on a clear night.
The armies gathered below, and all the other lords and knights were mustering their strength and leading their soldiers to their agreed positions. Arianne was not among them. She and her guards waited on the hill overlooking the camp and the future battlefield.
So Arianne did her best to look unsurprised when Robb Stark met her at the top of the hill. The King in the North had hardly spoken a word to anyone outside the war councils. He often spent hours or even days at a time inside his quarters in his part of the camp, and at the moment, he should have been commanding the Northmen.
"Did this really work at King's Landing?" He asked.
"Yes," Arianne said. "Yes, it did. The bells sounded and turned Euron's storm aside. Everyone saw it. The Seven took action on the earth."
"A miracle," Robb said. He patted snow off his cloak. "It's a good plan," Robb said. "Or the seed of one, at least. But it won't work. We cannot win here."
Arianne frowned. "Oh? And why would that be? We can't be flanked. We hold the high ground. And we have the gods."
Robb smiled strangely. "We can't win here because we aren't trying to win, only to hold. Besides, the storm has not yet ended." Without another word, Robb Stark turned his horse and departed.
"We have the gods," Arianne repeated as much to convince herself as to sway the melancholy king.
With that strange encounter weighing heavily on her mind, Arianne began to ride the length of the hill. Her sandsteed found its footing easily in the snow. Perhaps to the horse, it was similar enough to the often treacherous Dornish sands. Two of her guards followed her. Two were all that could be spared for the battle ready to start at any moment below.
Arianne rubbed her head as she rode along the hilltop. There was a tension in the air that she couldn't quite make sense of. It was like the moment before a storm unleashed its lightning and thunder, but it had nothing to do with the weather. Arianne had sensed the tension for hours, and now it had worked its way into her skull. A dull pounding behind her eyes that made it hard to think and concentrate. The tension spiked, pressure mounted in her head, and she closed her eyes. Arianne tugged on the reins to stop her sandsteed. The tension grew steadily and threatened to become unbearable, but as quickly as it came, the pain faded and returned to a soft sense of tension and pressure.
Arianne sighed in relief and opened her eyes. Forty-nine makeshift bell towers were lined along the hill's summit. Each bell had come from one of King's Landing's septs. The preparations were almost done. The carpenters had been working hard for days, and the last pieces arrived yesterday. Men had worked through the night to finish assembling them. This had followed weeks of effort to cut the lumber, ensure each piece could fit together, and then haul them overland from Harroway's Town, Maidenpool, Duskendale, King's Landing and a dozen other small towns and castles. She urged her sandsteed onward, passing each tower in turn and offering polite greetings to the septons and septas tending them.
At Arianne's command, each bell tower was surrounded by seven praying septons and septas. But they weren't praying for another miracle like King's Landing. They were trying to make one. Seven sevens of anointed bells and seven more of the Gods' chosen servants attending each tower. She didn't know if the numbers mattered or if they had mattered at King's Landing. Perhaps faith was the only thing that counted. Faith and the willingness to sacrifice for it. The tension mounted as she approached each bell tower and dissipated as she rode away.
Doubt buried itself deep in Arianne's heart. She hardly knew what she was doing. Is this magic I'm trying to create, she wondered, or a miracle? Arianne let her sandsteed slow to a plodding walk through the deep snow. Is there a difference? If anyone knew the answer, it was the person Arianne was slowly approaching.
Two hundred yards past the last bell tower, Melisandre of Asshai was tending a still unlit bonfire. The red priestess directed soldiers as they gently added more lumber to the pyre and placed kindling in just the right places.
"Lady Melisandre," Arianne announced herself as she approached.
"Princess," the red woman said. She didn't look away from the lit brazier sitting in front of her.
"You've done your part?" Arianne asked. "You're ready?"
Melisandre looked up at Arianne with her perfect heart-shaped face framed by too-red hair. Hair and robes alike seemed hardly touched by the wind. She looked almost amused. "We're ready," she said. "Thoros and Moqorro have their own fires to tend."
"Good," Arianne seized the reins and twisted them tightly around her fingers. "Then let us begin."
She had just started pulling her sandsteed around when a wave of dizziness took hold of Arianne. The world spun. The clouds were below her, and the ground above her. Her head whirled at the strange sensation, and she fell sideways off her horse and then floated upward onto the snow. She heard shouting, then heard nothing, and then her vision went black.
When Arianne came too, Melisandre was at her side, and the world had righted itself.
"Be careful, princess," the red priestess said. "Magic is a sword that cuts those that wield it just as deeply."
Arianne shook her head. "No, this isn't. This isn't magic," she protested. "It's a prayer to the gods."
Melisandre smiled. "What else would magic be?" She took Arianne's hand and helped her to her feet.
Her guards helped Arianne remount her sandsteed, and despite her spinning head, Arianne rode away from the red priestess as swiftly as she dared. Across the summit's length, Arianne rode. Past each of the bell towers where, she felt the tension rise to near-blinding pain again and again. Despite the pain, or perhaps because of it, she could clearly see the battlefield below through the falling snow. The armies stood ready, and beyond the frozen Trident waited a wall of snow and fog. By the time Arianne returned to her place by the bell towers, that wall intermittently shined with pale blue and green lights.
With the tension and her headache mounting, Arianne gathered her wits and looked around. The red priests were now tending three massive bonfires whose thick plumes of smoke rose north against the wind. Elsewhere on the slope were other priests and holy men adding their efforts to the miracle. Although not part of her plan, Arianne was glad to have any help that was offered.
Halfway down the hill, gathered the Drowned Priests of the Ironmen. Not to be outdone by the septons and red priests, they'd filled a cauldron with barrels of seawater and had been wetting their followers' heads all day. Only a low bed of coals and constant stirring kept the seawater from freezing as solidly as the Trident.
Scattered elsewhere on the hill and around the battlefield were Wildlings and Northmen. They had gathered branches from a grove of weirwood trees and, in a dozen disparate bands, had planted them like miniature forests across the slope.
Arianne let go of a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Tell the septons it is time to begin," she told one of her guards. As he rode off, Arianne looked up at the swirling black clouds and the falling snow and began to pray.
"Please, oh Seven Above, hold back the winter and the Long Night as you did the storm. Please, R'hllor, Mother Rhoyne, Drowned God, and Old Gods. Whoever is listening out there, please give us this day," She could feel pressure in the air. Coiling above like a viper ready to strike. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, and her headache was threatening to split her skull. "Please," she prayed. "You can have anything you want."
Arianne felt a sudden pain in her stomach. She doubled over and groaned as the pain filled her abdomen and then suddenly disappeared. Arianne straightened and realized that her headache was gone. The tension was still present, but the pain was gone.
The bells sounded and woke Arianne from her reverie. The fires burned. Drowned Men screamed. Weirwood branches rattled. The bells tolled like seven sounds in one. The tension rose in the air, and the blizzard broke. Like a tidal wave striking a mountain, the clouds overhead stopped dead and curved around the field below. They were still pushing south everywhere else. But not here. Above them, the sky lightened, and faint sunlight peeked through the grey clouds.
Arianne's blood sang, and her heart soared. "Not here!" Arianne shouted. She pointed her fist at the sky. "Not here! Not one more step back!"
The septons and workers cheered with her as the cold wind died, and the air was still for the first time in many moons. The roar that followed drowned out the bells. A hundred thousand voices screamed as one. Stubborn human will to live resisted the cold. The blizzard recoiled and bent around the living army.
Arianne resisted the urge to slump in her saddle as relief surged through her. She hadn't been sure, but it had worked. The storm was passing.
And then the Others began to scream.