Elphaba818:
*Shocked Gasp!*
Could it really be true?! It… It couldn't be! Howl of the Dragonwolves was updated exactly a week after the last update?! I must be dreaming!
I know thats what your all thinking, lol! But believe it, readers! Longclaw and I are updating today so you can all read about the second half of Hardhome! It's only because we decided to split Hardhome into two chapters that you get this chapter so fast. Were it not for the fact that we had most of this second chapter already written when we posted last week aside from a couple sections, we would've posted Hardhome as one massive chapter and you all would have gotten it today rather than just part one last week. Either way, this chapter marks the end of Hardhome and next time we'll jump back in with Torrhen in Meereen. We're almost done with Season 5, people! Which means the introductory arc of the story will be concluded in just a couple more chapters! For all of you waiting to see how the twins will slowly begin to change into better, stronger versions of themselves, just wait for Season 6! You will not be disappointed, I promise! ;D
I want to make today's author's note short and sweet, so I'm going to congratulate and thank you all on easily making the review goal of 350 reviews by reaching the total number of 354 reviews! Thank you all, dear readers! Thank you so, so much!
For this chapter's review goal... how about we try striving for 375? We got twenty reviews on the last chapter, so this time it's only twenty-one reviews overall that I'm hoping for. I do hope you'll all try to reach the review goal! Please, do try to contribute to reaching it, because reviews are what fuel both my creative juices as well as Longclaw's! Please, keep restoring are creativity by reviewing! The more reviews we get, the faster we can crank out chapters, lol! :P
I'm exiting the stage now so Longclaw can say hello. Enjoy today's chapter, everyone! And please leave a nice long review for us to reply to afterwards! :D
Happy Reading!
- Elphaba818
Longclaw 1-6:
I know, quick update coming. We're glad the first chapter was so well received and wanted this out soon.
Lyaella will see why it was wrong to ever doubt the Army of the Dead existed.
Chapter Nineteen: The Fall of Hardhome
They'd been moments from safety when the opening sealed off. On the opposite side of the gate, they could hear Free Folk warriors inside scrambling to bar it off with heavy lumber sliding into the mounted barricade.
"Let us in!" Yerrah screamed, pounding on the wood with her fists. "Please! Please, let us in!"
"Pappa!" Munda wailed, also beating the gate. "Pappa, help us! Pappa!"
Ghost barked and howled at the top of his lungs as he pawed the gate. Lyaella's fear spiked exponentially at his reaction. It was one thing if all the Free Folk were terrified. It was a whole other thing if Ghost was too. Direwolves were just as smart as dragons, so if Ghost was panicking, then something truly dangerous was just around the corner waiting to kill them all. "J-Jon!" She desperately cried out, banging relentlessly on the thick wooden planks. "Jon, help! Help us, please! Let us in! Jon! Sōnar!"
It was no good, though. Their voices were drowned out in the sea of screams as other terrified Free Folk pleaded for those within to open the gates. Yet it was no use. The gates remained firmly sealed, no one inside willing to help them.
"Argh! Let us in!" One man shouted, forcefully shoving Lyaella aside and hacking away at the wood with his axe. "Let us in!"
Anyone who had an axe or hammer followed suit, trying to break away the wood so they could squeeze through. Even Yerrah used the tip of her spear to scrape away at the gate. Ghost however ignored them all and simply elected to start digging into the snow at the base of the structure. Lyaella's heart leapt as she watched him, and threw herself onto the ground to help. Everyone trying to break down the gate was wasting their time — the wood was far too thick — but maybe if Ghost hurried, they'd be able to crawl underneath and get to safety that way. Nudging Munda and Yerrah's legs to get their attention, she showed them what she and Ghost were doing.
Seconds later, Munda dropped down to assist them. Yerrah moved to do the same, but a terrified scream just a few meters behind them made her whip around. Pure horror spread across her face before she raised her spear in self-defense.
Lyaella was about to turn to see what frightened her, but she was suddenly wrenched backwards without warning, a yelp escaping her throat as whoever seized her painfully yanked on her hair before clawing at her waist. Her vision blurred as she struggled to break free from her attacker, but whoever had grabbed her was simply too strong. Her whole head ached as he kept a death grip on her silver hair, and he was pressing down so hard onto her hips she was certain there'd be bruises there by tomorrow. Had it not been for the Free Folk man with the axe letting out a war cry as he kindly tugged the assailant away, she doubted she'd have been able to get away. Falling forward into the snow with a firm thump, she scrambled to sit up as she whipped around in alarm.
She froze, everything in her body simply shutting down in utter terror.
The warrior who'd helped her was hacking away at a man with glowing ice blue eyes and rotting flesh clinging to his bones. He'd once been a wildling himself if his rags were any indication, yet were now filthy and falling off his body every time he moved. Not that the dead man was aware of it. All his attention was fixated on trying to shove the living man off him and claw and bite away at his flesh.
And that wasn't all. In every direction imaginable across the expanse of the Free Folk huts and tents along the shore line, thousands upon thousands of Free Folk were fighting off similar dead men as the creatures swarmed upon them like animals, unfazed by every attack the living landed on them as they killed anyone and anything they found alive.
The dead man in front of her eventually got the upperhand on the kind axeman who'd saved her, and with one good sharp bite at his thigh, the man screamed as he fell to the ground, barely managing to shove his axe her way as the wight gored his stomach.
It was a nightmare. No, worse than that. It was human slaughter in the worst way imaginable. Lyaella's bloodcurdling scream of terror was unlike any she'd ever made before, but adrenaline coursed through her veins as the creature lunged towards her again. She barely managed to snatch the axe and hold it up in self defense at the last second before it could claw away at her like it did to that man who'd saved her. Yerrah jumped forward and stabbed it firmly in the chest before it could do anything else, but had no time to celebrate the kill before she had to do the same to another one who flew at her.
Trying to scramble to her feet, another corpse spotted her. She had thought she had seen the face of death before, but this was on a whole other level. The demon was nothing but a skeleton, bones held together by rotted strips of flesh and skin. It had lost its legs long ago, and was merely clawing forward with its arms to attack Lya. At least until Ghost leapt out from behind her, bone-crushing jaws sinking onto the monster's skull and splitting it open.
"Come on!" Munda grabbed her arm, hauling her up. "Back to the wall!"
Lyaella's heart pounded like crazy as she rose and did her best to hold up the axe. She was beyond terrified, but she had no time to get over it. More dead men were rapidly closing in, and Yerrah couldn't kill them all by herself. She'd never used an axe before when fighting, but it was the only weapon around and to not have one meant she'd be dead in an instant. Yerrah needed help, and she was the only one who could help her right now.
Tears clouded her eyes as her fear spiked, but she kept her axe at the ready as the first of the swarm reached them. "Stay behind me!" screamed Yerrah, stabbing with the spear into a monster's head. Munda had found a bow and quiver from somewhere and began firing arrows — all of which found their mark. "Don't just stand there, Dragon Girl!"
Screaming, Lyaella hacked out with her axe, catching one on the shoulder. It stumbled, being finished off by a blow to the head. Did I just do that?
With the mist shrouding them, more and more just kept pouring in, assaulting the palisade and killing whomever was in their path. "We need to get to the other side!" Munda cried. "Lya, you and Ghost dig! We'll hold them off!"
"But I—"
"Just do it!" A thwack sent another arrow flying, hitting a corpse in the chest. It staggered back but kept coming until Munda punched it through its eye. "Do it now!"
Lyaella shrieked uncontrollably as she threw her hands into the snowy ground, digging like her life depended on it.
It did.
"Where's Lyaella?!"
A panicked watchman was booking for the boats. "We gotta get the fuck outta here!"
Jon punched him in the face, sending him to the ground. "WHERE'S LYAELLA?!" All had gone to the seven hells the moment the mist descended upon Hardhome. Any hope of orderly evacuation was dashed as the Free Folk descended into a panicked mob. They charged the boats, screaming for survival and survival of their children. Some brave warriors charged for the barricades to stop the wights… and Jon couldn't find Lyaella anywhere.
"She went beyond the gate!" Edd called to him. "Went with two girls, a brunette and a redhead."
As if on instinct, Tormund let out a bellow. "My daughters!" Once trying to keep order, he bolted for the scene of the battle, desperate.
His own heart feeling as if it was submerged in ice water, Jon fought the urge to follow him. He needed to be disciplined here. "Edd, get order over here and evacuate who you can!" He drew Longclaw from his scabbard. "Night's Watch, with me!"
It was all a blur as Jon charged at the head of his Black Brothers. The Lord Commander watched as Free Folk warriors dashed in disorganized clumps towards the wooden wall. It wouldn't hold, Jon knew. This wasn't the great barrier of ice and rock that kept the dead out for thousands of years, nor even a stout castle wall that could withstand a heavy siege. Any hope to defend it was dead… all they could do was delay. Delay for the evacuation.
And to save Lyaella.
Overhead, Jon could hear Sōnar bellow a piercing shriek. He almost fell as the dragon shot past at a speed he had never before seen. Red-orange flames burst out as soon as it crossed the barricade. Wildlings erupted in cheers and war cries for the dragon's efforts, and even Jon couldn't help a smile. Try getting through that, cunts. Perhaps they'd make it through this...
A snarl filling his ears, Jon lost any chance for optimistic boasting when a wight came at him. It swung a rusted axe down at his shoulder… the Lord Commander only just dodging the attack. He almost stumbled but regained his footing, spinning Longclaw in his wrist and stabbing forward. This blow hit true, and the wight's eyes extinguished for eternity.
"Fuckin' hells," Jon murmured under his breath. Let alone standing firm for even an hour, the wooden logs hadn't lasted mere minutes. Already the wall was breached, trickles of corpses from the freshly fallen wildlings or Night's Watch to long rotted skeletons erupted out of burrows in the ground or through holes in the wood. They charged any Free Folk in vicinity, breaking an archery line that Loboda and Karsi had somehow set up. "Patch the holes!" Jon yelled in command.
"Follow me, fuckers!" Tormund was a man lost in his own fury and fear. Both his axes were drenched in rotted flesh and black pus, hacking away at the enemy. Cuts marred his body but still he attacked. A large wight came at him, the former Black Brother wielding a mace. Jon swung Longclaw wildly, disemboweling his former comrade and splitting him in two. He doubled back, spinning on his heels and thrusting the Valyrian steel right into the breast of another.
Someone was bellowing at the top of his lungs… it took Jon a moment to find out it was himself.
Smashing his axe into a corpse's skull, Tormund grabbed the body and hurled it out of the way. "I'm comin', girls!" he yelled, attempting to throw himself into the hole and burrow himself out the other side.
Jon saw this. "Tormund!" The man was insane, and the Lord Commander grabbed him by the scraps of his furs and hauled him back out. "Don't be fuckin' crazy!"
"My daughters are out there!" he said, eyes wild. In the distance, Sōnar shrieked as she unleashed another stream of dragonfire. She was probably the only reason they weren't overwhelmed.
"They're probably back in the camp!" Lyaella too… or am I just hoping…? Whatever he felt, it would have to wait as two wights charged at him in a frenzy. They were on fire, likely from Sōnar, the flames licking onto their faces and jaws, peeling the already rotting flesh. A swift kick sent one sprawling, Jon gritting his teeth as he thrust forward, earning Longclaw another kill. The other jumped on him, jaws snapping as they tried to bite at him… only Jon's hands holding his flaming chest keeping the wight from delivering the killing blow…
An axe to the spine finished it off for good. "Thought you could use a hand," Loboda said dryly, holding the monstrous two-handed axe like it was a carving knife. Jon opened his mouth to reply when the meeting house thirty yards away seemed to explode in a fountain of wood and animal hide. Out stomped the great giant — Wun Wun if Jon remembered correctly. Several corpses hung onto him, but he grabbed them off and crushed them in his mighty fists one by one. "Ah fuck, now they'll all swarm through." Loboda booked for the meeting hall.
Coughing, patting out errant flickers of flame that found their way on his cloak — surprisingly, for touching burning flesh his hands didn't hurt, even if his gloves were burned through — Jon suddenly saw a puff of snow some feet away. Another tunnel. "Tormund!"
Trying to patch another hole in the palisade, it didn't take but a second for the ginger to see the threat. "Come on!" he called to Jon, readying his axe just as Jon hovered Longclaw over the newly formed opening of the tunnel…
Instead of blue eyes, red ones inlaid in a furry face appeared, frantically clawing his way through the tunnel. "Ghost!" Jon called out.
But he wasn't alone. "Hurry!" It was as if a weight of dread disappeared off Jon as the silver hair of Lyaella appeared. She was pulling on someone, almost dragging a brunette wildling out through the tunnel. A redhead soon appeared as well, covered in soot and grime.
"Yerrah! Munda!"
"Pa!"
"Pappa!"
Tormund's daughters. From the way he practically lifted them off the ground, there was no chance they were anyone else.
Jon didn't care, his attention affixed on the other. "Lya!" he hugged her to him. "What in Seven Hells were you thinking?!" Jon patted her down, checking for wounds. "Don't ever do something so stupid again!"
"J-Jon!" Lyaella wailed, dropping the axe she'd found and clutching to him as she burst into tears. "Jon!"
At any other time, Jon wouldn't have minded hugging her and offering her comfort in her pure terror, but a flash of movement from the corner of his eye forced him to shove her behind him as he raised Longclaw a split second before a rotting skeleton could claw away at them. She shrieked yet again, but scrambled to pick up the axe as another one came from the right. She was trembling from head to toe, but she whacked the wight twice before he finished it off with a one good swing of Longclaw.
Even Tormund was forced to stop checking over his daughter's and order them to prepare themselves as more dead surrounded them. His daughters evidently knew how to fight, for they both held their own and fought alongside them as the dead swarmed from them from the tunnel.
A deafening roar filled the air, and Jon reflexively looked up. Lyaella's dragon was continuously spitting fireballs from the sky, burning every swarm of dead men who dared to swamp the palisade.
Swinging her axe clumsily against the shoulder of a wight, Lyaella cupped her free hand around her mouth. "Dracarys, Sōnar! Dracarys!" She screamed.
Jon blinked at her, as did Tormund and his girls, but then Sōnar roared an affirmative before sending out great streams of dragon fire flying into the field. She didn't stop, because Lyaella didn't stop. For the entirety that Sōnar roasted the dead, Lyaella screamed, hacking and slashing away at every corpse that appeared without resting. Her shocked terror had put her in a state of hysteria, not even fully realizing what she was doing aside from just fighting for survival. Hopefully it would last until they all escaped on the boats.
And then the temperature suddenly dropped. It was freezing before, never mind the sheen of sweat and blood smeared on their faces and clothes, but at once it all seemed to freeze. "J… Jon," Lyaella chattered, clearly scared.
Sudden chill… Sam once spoke of this very thing, when he and Gilly were attacked by…
Tormund screamed before Jon could even open his mouth. "RUN!" Not a split second after speaking it, the gate burst open as if the logs were mere twigs. Jon covered his face with his hands and Lyaella with his body from the mass of splinters, but soon he was faced with a pair of ice blue so malevolent that he felt his very soul freeze.
"Jon…!"
"Get out of here, Lya!" Jon ordered, picking himself up and leveling Longclaw. "Don't look back for me!"
"JON!"
But it was too late to stop him. Jon ran for the jagged opening, his legs burning and ankles aching from the furious fighting. None mattered, mind focused on the singular task of protecting Lyaella from the monster that nearly took Little Sam.
Already, the white walker had reversed the tide Sonar wrought. Behind, the fires still burned bright, but it didn't affect him. Cuirass of boiled leather stretched over his icy blue skin, the walker's snowy white hair barely budged as he killed every wildling that charged him. Shattering even castle-forged steel blades like glass before driving his ice spear through their hearts.
Jon stilled, breathing heavy. He couldn't risk losing his blade, so he lowered it and charged with his upper body lowered in a tackle…just as when he and Robb wrestled in the Winterfell courtyard as boys. The Walker was busy killing a pair of frostfang warriors that when Jon plowed into him, it was too late and both were sent sprawling.
Even the attacker, Jon felt as if he ran headlong into a boulder. He grunted in pain, struggling to his feet in the powdery snow… only for the righted walker to grab him by the straps of his cuirass and hurled him further away.
He coughed, doubling over in pain. Every breath was agony… Jon was sure his ribs were broken. Driving Longclaw into the ground, he used it to haul himself up and face the white walker advancing on him, spear ready to strike. The Lord Commander brought Longclaw up, a vain attempt to parry…
Forgive me, Lya...
CLANG!
Nothing, just a strain on his arms. To Jon's wide eyes, the Valyrian steel held firm and true against the enchanted ice. All other steel brittle and useless, yet Longclaw matched the walker blade to blade. Both he and the monster stared at the joined weapons, completely stunned.
Jon recovered first. Gritting his teeth, he shoved the spear back. Another lunge was batted aside, spinning the blade in his wrist to slice across the walkers stomach. In an instant, the monster disappeared into a cloud of ice — vanishing in the wind as if the being that slaughtered two dozen wildlings hadn't ever existed.
Breathing deeply, Jon clasped his chest at the pain truly descending upon him. He looked up at the ridge, finding a cluster of mounted men watching them amongst an icy mist… no, not men...
He stared at each of them, Longclaw menacingly held out in front of him. His eyes said it all. Come and fucking get me. Jon would kill them all like he did the last one.
The Night King stood at the top of the cliff with his fellow generals as his army ravaged the people down below. What was the point of their resistance? Death came for everyone in the end, so why not just accept the inevitable? Things would be so much easier for them if they simply did so.
For as much as he could see the living resist, their resistance was futile. He knew his task, and he would not rest until he completed it. If he had to have his generals and army ravage every last creature on this side of the Wall to complete it, he'd do so. If he had to find a way for his army to get past that enormous barricade to the lands to the South just out of reach, he'd see to it that enormous ice wall was destroyed. Nothing would stop him from his mission. Nothing at all.
A flash of movement from down below caught his attention, and he glanced down in time to see the general he'd sent down to lead the attack struck directly with his blade of one of the humans. His white walker shattered into ice, disappearing in the wind. The Night King blinked, both surprised and intrigued. There weren't many things that could destroy him or his white walker lieutenants, as they were beings created by twisted magic. That young man down there was definitely an experienced fighter, and with a way to destroy himself and his fellow generals, possibly a threat to his cause. He'd have to make sure he never came across that man in one-on-one combat until he'd fulfilled his goal. He refused to die. Not until he personally destroyed him.
Just then, a piercing screech filled the air. A screech which the Night King knew for a fact did not belong to anything in his vast army of the dead. His fellow white walkers all jumped, startled, and even he glanced around in surprise. What in the world…?
"Sōnar!" screamed the voice of a human child as three small figures darted away from the mysterious man who killed his white walker. The one who had screamed was clearly female, but he couldn't get a good look at her due to two other girls with red hair and dark hair partially blocking her from view. They'd been making a break for the boats, but soon found themselves surrounded by a cluster of dead men and skeletons. "Sōnar, help! We need you! Dracarys!"
The same screech answered her, and then a streak of white flew past his eyes. There weren't many things that could genuinely shock the Night King, but in this case he had no problem with being openly stunned. Streaking through the air was none other than a snowy white dragon with speckles of ice blue mixed in with its scales. It was only just above the size of his and his fellow white walkers dead horses and was certainly not big enough to carry even one dead man amongst his mindless soldiers, let alone himself or any of his generals, but it's streams of fire scorched through his wights easily. Landing beside the children, it roared furiously and spat out fireball after fireball, killing any of his dead men who dared to approach them. Even it's tail lashed out as a handful of skeletons tried to claw their way onto its back, crushing them before they could inflict any damage.
Small though it was, that dragon was an asset. An asset to the living right now that he needed to be his. It might be too small to ride and killing it now would ensure it never became big enough for a rider, but he needed that dragon. With that beast in his army, he'd have no trouble killing off the rest of the living on this side of the Wall. Once every living creature was in his army, he could focus on figuring out how to get beyond the magical barrier to destroy his greatest foe. Only after he was destroyed forever could he rest in peace.
Keeping his eyes locked on his prize, he waved for one of his generals to pass him his ice spear. He dared not look away from the beast. He had to kill that dragon. He could not afford to miss his target. Feeling the spear, he wrapped his fingers around it tightly and took aim. The dragon was still on the ground, still spitting fireballs as more of the dead surrounded it and the children. This would be easy. Too easy, actually. One good throw and it'd be dead before any of those children could scream.
He grinned at the thought and reeled back his arm—
"Sōnar! Sōnar, look out! Behind you!" shouted the girl from before, dashing out from behind the other two figures to hack and slash at a straggler the dragon missed that nearly succeeded at jumping onto its back. Her silver hair spun around her as she swung her axe again and again, terror etched permanently of her small face as she fought for her life.
—only to let the spear loose too soon and it sailed haphazardly off target, partially striking the dragon's thigh rather than embedding itself directly through its chest.
The dragon shrieked in pain and fell to the ground. The little girl screamed and dashed to the beast in obvious worry. His fellow white walkers immediately turned to him, stunned. In all their time serving him, they'd never seen him fail to kill his target. But the Night King wasn't even aware of their stares. He was speechless, stunned. That girl… for some reason, he could sense something from her. She seemed familiar, but more importantly this — this feeling emanating from her… He knew this feeling! He knew it better than he knew his own mission!
The snow beneath his feet froze to solid ice as his rage burst forth. Not daring to look away from the silver-haired little girl, he wordlessly waved the white walker to his left to follow him as he slowly dismounted his horse, and descended down the cliff to the battle below.
Lyaella skidded to a halt at the sound of her dragon sister's screech as her head snapped around. Blood was oozing steadily from a deep gash in Sōnar's side, and a long spear of solid ice as thick as her arm was in shattered in pieces all across the ground. She'd only been grazed by the spear, thank goodness, but she was very wobbly on on her feet now and could barely stand while fending off the dead.
"Sōnar!" She screamed, rushing to her side. Another wight attempted to bar her path, but a quick swing of the axe stunned it enough for her to run past. Sōnar let out a pained warble as her little mistress hugged her tightly, so Lyaella immediately let her go and checked her wound. Thankfully it didn't seem like the ice spear had pierced either of her wings. It was a deep gash, but one that could easily heal — provided they got out of this battlefield soon so Sōnar could have her wound properly dressed and bandaged.
"Lyaella!" Munda called, she and Yerrah racing up behind her. "Lyaella, we gotta go!"
"Sōnar's hurt!" She cried. Finding an abandoned blanket in the snow, she dropped the axe and hurriedly pressed it up against the cut to slow the blood flow. "I won't abandon her!"
"Where'd the spear come from?!" Yerrah yelled, thrusting her spear into a wight that darted their way. "Are there white walkers around?!"
"I-I-I don't know! I didn't see it until Sōnar screeched!"
"I did! Up there! It flew off the cliff! There must be a white walker up there who… who…"
Lyaella and Yerrah followed Munda's finger and looked up, only to go rigid in shock. Standing on top of the cliff were several figures mounted upon atop decaying snowy white horses. Each one had wispy white hair, pale and sinewy whiteish gray skin, solid ice armor that almost looked black, and icy blue eyes that glowed even as far away as they were. In the middle of them all though was one that stuck out like a sore thumb. He had no wispy white hair, but instead ice rivets jutted out from his skull almost like a crown, and his black ice armor seemed much more elaborate and spooky than the others. His eyes were locked solely upon them, and with a wave of his hand, he and one of the other mounted figures calmly dismounted their steeds and began to trek down the side of the cliff.
The Night King. The Night King and one of his white walker generals were joining in the fight. All so that they could ensure that Sōnar died and could be added to his army of dead men.
Quick as a flash, Lyaella spun around and shoved her whole body against Sōnar's side, urging her to get up. "S-Sōnar! Sōnar, come on! Get up! Please!"
Munda and Yerrah quickly joined her, as did Ghost. With a muffled grunt, Sōnar willed herself to stand and shakily move forward. She could do so without assistance, but she was terribly slow, her injury garnering too much pain for her to go any faster. And her sluggish speed only made things easier for the Night King and his general. In the time it took Sōnar to move even a few yards closer to the entrance of the meeting hall from where she'd fallen, the Night King and the white walker had already reached the ground and were calmly marching towards them.
Munda tugged desperately on Lyaella's cloak. "L-Lyaella, I'm sorry, but we have to go! Yeh have to leave her!"
"No!" Lyaella shrieked, shoving her off. "No, I won't leave her! Escape if you want, but I'm not leaving her!"
"But Lyaella—!"
Out of nowhere, Yerrah tugged her ocarina off her neck and threw it over Munda's head. "Here," she murmured, kissing her forehead. "Tell Pappa and Dryn yeh'll be playin' before supper from now on."
"W-What? Wait, Yerrah—!"
"Oi! Fuckers! Yeh're lookin' for more livin' to add to yer army?!" Yerrah shouted, dashing forward with her spear. "Bet yeh be wantin' tough Free Folk lasses like me! Catch me if yeh can! I dare yeh!"
"Yerrah!"
Lyaella threw herself forward, clutching onto Munda to stop her from running after her sister. "I'm sorry…" she murmured.
"No! Let me go! Yerrah! Yerrah, don't—!"
"Find the dragonglass in the meetin' hall and git to the damn boats! I love yeh, Mundie!"
"Yerrah!"
Ignoring her sister, Yerra finally reached the Night King and his general. Yelling out a war cry at the top of her lungs, Yerrah tried to thrust her spear into the white walkers belly, but the Night King and the white walker were utterly unfazed and didn't even attempt to stop her. Turns out they didn't have to. Instead of destroying or killing the white walker, the tip of her spear bounced harmlessly off his black ice armor, not even chipping it.
Lyaella and Munda watched, horrified, as the white walker suddenly seized Yundra by the throat, moving so fast his whole arm was a blur. Yerrah screamed, clutching desperately at his fingers to pry him off when she suddenly screamed louder and let him go. Meanwhile, the Night King glanced their way for a brief moment, then turned and nodded to his general. As his general drew out a sword made of ice, the Night King turned back to them again and slowly began to approach.
It took Lyaella and Munda less than a second to scramble back to Sōnar and Ghost and urge them to head into the meeting hall.
"S-Sōnar! Sōnar, come on! Fly! Come on, Ghost!"
"Get up! Move, yeh big beasts!"
Sōnar groaned, but allowed them to push her back to her feet so she could spread her wings and try flying away. Sadly, she was too hurt to fight properly and only managed to get a few meters off the ground before losing her strength and crashing into the entirety of the meeting hall.
"Sōnar!" Lyaella screamed. She bolted inside, Munda and Ghost right on her heels.
The interior of the building was in shambles thanks to Sōnar's crash landing. Wood was smashed to pieces and scattered everywhere, while the fire in the fire pit in the center of room had a few pieces of wood land inside it so the fire was slowly spreading beyond the pit itself. Sōnar was rumbling in pain as she laid next to the wall she'd fallen on, and warbled at her little mistress as she saw her rush inside.
"Munda, hurry and find the dragonglass! I've gotta help Sōnar!"
Munda nodded and began hastily searching through the rubble. Ghost helped her, nosing through the wreckage himself in search of the bag. Lyaella meanwhile tossed aside the axe and did her best to tie off the blanket she'd found before to a set of furs and wrap them around Sōnar's injury. Knotting it off tightly, she threw her whole body against her dragon sister's side and urged her to stand.
"S-Sōnar! Sōnar, please! Get up! We have to go!"
"I found it! I found the bag!" Munda cried, holding up the satchel. "Now, come on! We gotta—"
Two figures suddenly appeared in the entryway. The Night King and his white walker general. The white walker's ice sword had fresh red blood dripping down its blade, and the Night King's piercing blue eyes zeroed in immediately on Lyaella as she scrambled in front of Sōnar, throwing out her arms in a desperate attempt to shield her away.
"P-Please…" she whispered, shaking in terror. "Please, not her. N-Not Sōnar…" Spying a sword a nearby, she scrambled to pick it up and point it directly at the two ice monsters. "Don't hurt her…"
The Night King simply stared at her, narrowing his brows. Nodding to his comrade, the white walker walked towards Munda as the Night King slowly drew his own icy blade and steadily made his way forward.
Munda screamed in terror as she struggled to get the bag open and draw out one of the dragonglass daggers. Lyaella however began to sob, hopelessness washing over her in waves the closer the monstrous creature got to her.
"N-No! Leave… Leave us alone!"
It ignored her, advancing onward with narrowed, icy blue eyes.
"You can't! Y-You can't have her!" Lyaella screamed, her tears freezing at once on her cheeks. She tightened her grip on her sword, the blade visibly shaking from how hard she was trembling. "I… I w-won't let you!"
It still pressed closer, reaching out with its bony white fingers to shove her aside.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Lyaella mustered up her courage and swung her blade randomly. She'd never see Torrhen again or even meet her future mother, but she could at least buy Sōnar a few extra seconds worth of life. Hopefully she could fly away to safety before the Night King could hurt her.
She felt her blade collide with something, but rather than slash right through, it suddenly stopped out of nowhere, jolted into place so she couldn't budge it at all. She hesitantly opened her eyes and peeked up through her silvery bangs. The Night King had apparently caught her blade mid-swing, and was holding the blade firmly in his free hand, not the slightest bit hurt or affected by the attack. His eyes only narrowed further, pure ice in his eyes as he easily ripped the sword out of her hands and tossed it aside. He didn't look at the weapon while doing so. He kept his eyes locked on her, anger and hatred emanating off him with his every movement.
Sōnar squawked, angry herself now that the majority of her pain had passed. She tried wrapping her whole body around Lyaella as she always did when she sensed her mistress was in trouble. Due to her wound stretching, she could only keep her tail tucked around her form, her body aching too much to flex it out any further. She growled, flashing her fangs as gusts of smoke emanated from her nostrils.
"D-Dracarys, Sōnar! Dracarys!" Lyaella screamed, terrified.
With a roar, a great stream of fiery embers erupted from her dragon sister's mouth as she bathed the Night King in dragon fire. She couldn't see what was happening between Munda and the other white walker, but she sincerely hoped that Sōnar's flames reached the white walker, too. Then Munda could escape.
When Sōnar finally finished spitting her dragon fire, all was silent in the meeting hall aside from the cracklings flames. For a horrible second, Lyaella feared she accidentally burned Munda alive with her panicked order to Sōnar, but then the wildling girl screeched as the sound of something wooden smashed unexpectedly and she rushed to her side.
"Lyaella! Lyaella, come on! We gotta go!"
"R-Right! Come on, S-Sōnar! We've — We've gotta—!"
A dark figure suddenly stepped forth from the burning inferno. The Night King was still there, completely unaffected by the fire.
Munda screamed. She snatched Lyaella's hand and tried to drag her behind her to the exit, but Lyaella didn't move. She was frozen in fear, every thought in her mind suddenly going blank.
Even the other white walker wasn't hurt by the dragon fire, as he too stepped through the flames to stand beside his ruler. The Night King ignored him though, and simply reached down to snatch Lyaella's free wrist.
Ice cold pain shot through Lyaella's whole body from his mere touch. She tugged to get free, but he was holding her too firmly for her to budge it at all. Narrowing his eyes, he slowly lifted his ice sword.
Lyaella flinched, squeezing her eyes shut as she braced herself for the inevitable…
…but nothing happened.
Swallowing thickly, she hesitantly opened her eyes again and glanced up at the Night King. His sword was still high overhead, but instead of swinging it he simply blinked at her, looking moderately surprised. Munda and the other white walker were also confused by his sudden stop and stared at him, yet he paid neither of them any mind. Sheathing his sword, he stooped down slightly and dragged Lyaella a few steps closer to him, brows narrowed as he studied her features. Munda foolishly tried to stab him with one of the dragonglass daggers, but the other white walker blocked her off, whacking the knife out of her hand. Unable to help, Munda cowered back against the wall, too terrified to move as the evil ice monster closed in on her.
A jerk of her arm forced Lyaella to focus back on the Night King, and she trembled when she saw the annoyance in his eyes at her distraction. What was going on? Why was he so focused on her rather than trying to kill Sōnar? What did he want?
She tried to pull away again, but he tightened his grasp on her wrist, making her yelp as his frozen fingers literally made her skin burn. Then, without warning, his icy blue eyes suddenly rolled back inside his head, leaving only the whites to be seen. For a half-second, Lyaella didn't understand. The stories in The Song of Ice and Fire history book vaguely suggested that it was possible that the Night King had the same warging abilities as King Bran, but no one had been able to officially confirm this for certain so it wasn't directly specified one way or another in the tome. It appeared as though he did have warging abilities though, but why was he using them now? Why did he—?
Out of nowhere, pure ice shot through her head, pressing down harshly on her mind. Her whole head was so cold, it felt like someone was trying to burn her brain with ice from the inside, while also smacking the top of her skull over and over again with a mallet. It happened so suddenly and painfully a bloodcurdling scream tore through her throat, and she ignored the icy pain developing through her wrist from his harsh grasp to frantically lunge away.
This time, the Night King didn't tighten his grasp on her and let her go free, but his eyes remained white, continuing to warg. Her wrist was blue with frostbite and numb to the touch, but she barely noticed. She stumbled backwards in dizziness as she clutched at her head, tumbling onto Sōnar without even realizing.
A blur of white suddenly shot out from underneath the wreckage of a table, lunging onto the Night King before either he or the white walker could react. All at once, the pain in Lyaella's head vanished as the Night King crashed to the floor, fighting to fend off her father's direwolf as he scratched and bit at him. She hadn't even noticed Ghost in the last few minutes when the Night King appeared before them. Thank goodness he'd been smart enough to hide and wait for the right moment to leap into action. Now she only hoped he'd back off before the Night King and the white walker slaughtered him.
Moving away from Munda, the white walker kicked Ghost off his leader, sending him flying against a wall. Lyaella screeched in alarm. "Ghost! Ghost, are you okay?! Say something!" The white direwolf whimpered, slowly rising up again. She sighed in relief. Thank goodness he was okay. He definitely got the wind knocked out of him, but he was okay. That's what mattered the most.
Ever so slowly, the Night King got back up, turning his attention back to Lyaella. She gulped. She didn't understand what it was about her that made the King of the Dead so intrigued, but she didn't care. She just wanted to live. How was she going to ensure that she, Sōnar, Ghost, and Munda all escaped the meeting hall in one piece?
He slowly approached, eyes enveloped in curiosity… then surprise… then a blazing fury that seemed to cause the wind to howl worse than any blizzard she'd ever endured. Lyaella hugged Ghost tightly as the Night King raised his sword to thrust down…
"NOOO!" The thrust never came, nor did the pain. Lyaella looked up only to find the Night King frantically fighting for his life against… Father!
It had been Torrhen who often dreamed openly of how powerful a warrior their father had been, and oh did Lyaella wish he was here to see this sight. Jon Snow was a warrior without fear, eyes alight with dragonfire even if he didn't know his true origins. His arms wielded Longclaw fluidly, the sword a mere blur as he struck at the Night King. Hack, thrust, drawback, spin, slash… he gave one step back and charged three steps forward. The demon met him blow for blow, but even his skill seemed… off somehow. Just as their Aunt Sansa had been whenever the extinct House Bolton was mentioned.
Lyaella's mesmerized stare was broken as Tormund bellowed, axe slicing at one of the white walkers. But it impacted on the icy-blue skin, shattering like glass. The white walker backhanded him with a sweep of his arm, knocking the ginger wildling against the wall. He grunted, wind knocked out of him. The demon drew an ice greatsword and advanced on him.
"Pappa!" Munda screamed.
It was then that Lyaella remembered the sack Munda still carried. Practically clawing at it, she drew out a dragonglass dagger, glinting darkly in the orange-red fire. "Tormund!" she screamed, tossing it at him.
The throw was stronger than she had ever done before, and the blade landed about three feet from him. Collapsing on the ground just as the white walker swung at his head, Tormund rolled on the ground, grabbed the dagger, and thrust upward. The screech brought agony to her ears before the walker simply disintegrated.
To his credit, Tormund didn't even hesitate a split second before hauling himself to his feet and running to Munda. "Come on!"
Lyaella scrambled up, only for a firm hand grabbing the straps of the boiled leather under her cloak. "We're going!" It was her father, frantic.
Her heart pounded. "But Sonar and Ghost—!"
"They're fine!" Dragging her outside, Lyaella saw the massive giants running, one of whom nestled the moaning, wounded Sonar in its large arms and the other cradling the dazed Ghost as he whimpered and shook his head. "We're getting the hells out of here!" Her knees, ankles, and legs were burning from agony and fatigue, but she kept pumping. Running as fast as she could. It wasn't fast enough, cause her father hauled her into his arms.
A screaming mass of corpses charged at them not twenty feet behind.
Jon couldn't remember ever running so fast in his life. Carrying Lyaella securely as she sobbed into his shoulder, Jon raced across the shore with Tormund at his heels, hauling his surviving daughter over his shoulder as she kicked and screamed at him to turn back for her sister's corpse. Had it been any other time, Jon would've been stunned by the tears in his friends' eyes as he silently mourned the life of his elder daughter, but now was not the time. His friend had every right to cry, and as soon as they reached the boats, he'd give him all the time he needed to grieve his child. Children were supposed to outlive their parents, so he couldn't imagine the emotional turmoil Tormund was going through.
Edd caught up with them halfway there. "There's one last boat! Hurry!" He yelled, slicing the head off a screaming wight. "Come on!"
It was easier with Edd clearing the path for them. With them carrying the girls, it was impossible to kill the dead blocking their way otherwise. The giants carrying Ghost and Sōnar certainly helped, but they were focused on getting to the boats themselves and on not dropping their precious cargo that there was only so much they could do. Still, they made it to the jetty in record time, and the smaller giant carrying Ghost set him down to join them as soon as they were all climbing aboard the last collapsible. His wolf had certainly recovered from whatever it was the Night King and that white walker had done to him, and he even managed to rip apart one more wight that nearly snuck up on them from underneath the dock while they hurried to cast off before leaping aboard himself.
As the giant carrying Sōnar immediately waded out to sea in the direction of the awaiting fleet, Wun Wun found the main beam of the wrecked meeting hall and swung it out at the thousands of dead scrambling towards their tiny boat, buying them time to row away from the docks and out of reach of the enemy before hurrying after them himself. Numerous wights clawed at his legs and leapt onto his back as he trudged through the water, but a few goods swats of his enormous hands had them falling into the sea and screaming as they drowned. Clearly they couldn't swim, and after a few moments worth of struggling they vanished beneath the waves, never to be seen again.
Still, Jon didn't dare sheathe his sword until they were a good ten meters away from the pier. Call him paranoid, but he had every right to be. There'd been over a hundred thousand people camped out here at Hardhome. Excluding the few thousand that evacuated just before this attack, they were all dead, now. Jon had no idea just how many dead had been in the army of the dead prior to this sneak attack, but clearly it ranged in the tens of thousands if they'd been able to slaughter all the Free Folk here with ease. What in seven hells had possessed the dead to attack now? Today? Right when they were evacuating all the Free Folk?
Gazing out sadly as the last few screams of the Free Folk left behind pandered off in the wind, a low whimper next to him made him glance down. He'd all but thrown Lyaella into the first open seat he'd seen before he'd hurried to help the others get the boat launched out from the dock. It'd only been a minute or so since he'd focused on her, but it still seemed like it'd been hours. She was as white as her hair as she gawked at what was happening on the land, trembling so hard in terror as she clutched her left wrist he could literally see her shaking.
Sparing a sympathetic nod to Tormund as he rocked his sobbing daughter, Jon knelt down and set a hand on Lyaella's shoulder. "It's okay, Lyaella, I promise," he murmured, reaching over and grabbing an extra blanket that was tucked away near the other rowers. Wrapping it around her shoulders, he sat down next to her and pulled her close in comfort. "We got away, safe. Your dragon's safe too, see? That giant's setting her aboard our ship as we speak…"
She squeezed her wrist tighter, scooting closer to him as a particularly shrill scream cut through the air. "I… I… I…"
"It's alright. We're alright…"
"I — m-my wrist hurts…"
"Hm?"
"M-My wrist… the N-Night King… he grabbed my w-wrist… I t-think I have frostbite…"
Jon furrowed his brows. Glancing to her for permission, he gently took her hand and rolled back the sleeve of her dress. Sure enough, her wrist was white and blue with the beginnings of frostbite coating it, but oddly enough, it was the shape of the frostbite that puzzled him. Instead of it being the entirety of her wrist either extending partially up her arm or even slightly down her hand, the frostbite was in the shape of a hand that had clearly grabbed her and squeezed tightly. The five long fingers were gradually shifting to a vivid shade of scarlet, as though it'd been the scar left behind from a terrible burn.
Everyone in the boat noticed the change in her wrist and looked up at Lyaella questioningly, but she was just as confused as they were and could only shake her head. Jon opened his mouth to ask her to explain in detail just what happened before he and Tormund had rushed into the meeting hall to save her and Munda, but a sharp gasp from Edd made him turn back to the shore. His eyes went impossibly wide as he rose up again.
The last of the Free Folk had finally been killed off, and the Night King and his band of white walkers were slowly making their way through the crowd to the very dock they'd just cast off from. While the white walkers lingered back and checked over the freshly fallen corpses in case there were any survivors hiding amidst the rest of the dead bodies, the Night King strode unhurriedly across the pier, marching with unparalleled elegance and intimidation with his every step.
Ghost sidled closer to Lyaella, trying to comfort her, but she was beyond even his ability for comfort right now. She shakily rose, clinging to his tunic with her good hand without daring to break her gaze from the Night King. Jon let her, pulling her tight to his side. His focus was on the Night King though rather than her, and despite the growing distance between them and the King of the Dead as they slowly floated back to the fleet, he knew the Night King's eyes were locked solely on them, too. Those glowing blue eyes were shooting ice at their boat from the end of dock, pure anger and hatred emanating in waves from the monstrosity.
Strangely though, the Night King's eyes soon drifted from him to Lyaella at his side. The poor girl squeaked and promptly tucked her face into his side to hide, but the Night King simply tilted his head and kept staring at her.
Jon quickly shuffled her behind him slightly to keep her out of sight. He didn't know what in seven hells the Night King found so fascinating about Lyaella, but he was putting a stop to it right now. Whatever that thing wanted with this little girl, he could forget it.
Frowning, the Night King turned and glanced back over his shoulder at the thousands of freshly fallen Free Folk strewn across the mud and snow amongst his white walkers and wights. He focused back on them a moment later, still angry yet surprisingly calm. Everything seemed to go unnaturally quiet as his eyes met Jon's. Even the wind stopped howling, so great was the tension. Jon didn't dare to so much as blink. He didn't know what was about to happen, but every fiber of his being was screaming that whatever it was was something he had to witness, no matter how terrifying it might be.
Still not daring to break his gaze, the Night King slowly, hauntingly, raised his arms.
For a brief moment, nothing happened. Other than the creaking of their boat as they bobbed along the waves, all was silent. Chillingly silent. Nobody even moved, be it here in the collapsible or back on the land… and then he saw it.
It was only one at first, one body. One body with glowing blue eyes slowly rose up from where it had fallen and was stumbling to its feet, turning immediately to glare threateningly at their tiny rowboat as they rowed away. Then came another. And another. Two more after that. Three more — no, six — ten — screw it, it was too many to count, now. All along the shores of Hardhome, thousands of dead Free Folk who'd just been slain rose to their feet, newly risen again to serve their new master. Each one of them had been alive not even an hour ago, talking, laughing, scorning the Night's Watch for their deceptive offer of peace and safety… and here they were now. Dead. Mindless, soulless creatures who had no purpose in their second lives except to act as fodder for the Night King's army.
Within seconds, Tormund's daughter burst into terrified tears as she sobbed into his shoulder. "Yerrah… Yerrah!" she wailed.
Tormund hung his head, his own eyes wet as he turned away from the nightmare and stroked her hair.
Jon felt as though he'd been sucker punched right in the gut as he stared out at the horrifying sight. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He couldn't even speak, so great was his shock. What was one supposed to say or do after seeing something like that? How was he supposed to react?
A whimper at his side drew his attention back down to Lyaella. If he'd thought she'd been pale before, it didn't hold a candle to how she was now. She was as white as snow, her face frozen in unmistakeable horror. She was clinging to his tunic so tightly, she was nearly dragging him down to her level without even realizing it.
Without a word, Jon slowly sat down and pulled her as close to him as he could. She didn't so much as respond to the gesture, she was so paralyzed with fear. Silent tears flowed down her face, freezing to her cheeks as she stared at the Night King and the army of the dead. She'd been skeptical until now, but she couldn't deny their existence after seeing them for herself now.
Jon only ran a hand through his hair and stared down at his feet. He'd thought that the dead had been a severe threat before. Now? He didn't even know what word was great enough to describe the danger they posed to humanity after today.
"We're not returning to Castle Black."
A pallor of smoke still hung over the camp. Harsh winds bracketed it with snow and ice — though not the worst these lands could suffer from what they had seen and heard — but still the stench of greasy soot, charred wood, and burned flesh predominated, stinging Stannis' nostrils every time he inhaled.
And with six words the King coolly assigned his men back on the task at hand. A task made ever harder by what had transpired. Twenty men… twenty men crippled me. It was galling, but Stannis cared not. He had come too far to give up his destiny. Looking towards the command tent, he saw the Lady Melisandre standing next to his wife, both looking to him. I am the warrior in the flames, holding Lightbringer. It was his destiny.
Ser Davos, loyal as he was to Stannis, was more realistic in his assessment. "Forgive me your Grace. I don't presume to be an expert in military matters, but if we can't march forward and we won't march back…" He let it hang, implication obvious.
Looking back at his prophetess and his wife, the former expressionless but the latter fearful, faltering, Stannis sighed. "Butcher the dead horses for meat." He moved towards the tent. "But we will not retreat."
"Yes, your Grace," Davos called back, trotting off to his duties.
He passed into his tent, followed close behind by Melisandre and Selyse. "If you have something to say to me, woman, then say it," he barked gruffly, addressing it to the both of them. Stannis was sure one would be chastising him.
Turns out he was correct. "Twenty men?!" Selyse was so dumbfounded and angry that she was close to shaking. "Twenty men crippled your entire army?!"
"My army is not crippled," Stannis countered. "We still have our strength, our swords, and our spirits. This was but a setback." It was a defense grounded in bravado the way Robert would have put it, so not a strong one. He was a good enough commander to see reality and not try and coat a turd with honey.
It turned out that Selyse was more enraged of something else other than military reality. "If twenty men could sneak into this camp unnoticed, then what was to stop them from killing me?! Or Shireen?!"
He frowned. "The sentries that fell asleep will be executed for their incompetence."
"Oh please." Selyse was in a mood for a brawl that moment, Melisandre quiet and standing to the side — watching the spat. "Men are men, weak and easily fooled. I don't know what sorts of savage brutes the Boltons have in their employ, but the fact is they outsmarted us! You aren't safe, I'm not safe, and our daughter is not safe!"
"Well what would you have me do, woman?!" Stannis yelled back. His head throbbed, not wanting this right now.
Taking a deep breath, what Selyse said next shocked him. "Send Shireen back to Castle Black with Ser Davos."
Blinking, Stannis was sure he misheard. "What?"
"Jon Snow is bringing back the Wildlings. They're savages, but they're bodies you could use — and they can fight in the snow."
She had a good point. Perhaps she was more than just a Queen he kept for duty's sake. "Why can't Davos do that alone? Shireen is my warmth, and I can't be parted from her." Whatever sentimentality Stannis had remaining was saved for his girl.
"She can convince Lyaella Snow to join us."
"Wait, you want her to join us? You hate her."
"Face facts, husband, we're stranded here without cavalry and without siege weapons as winter arrives. We need every advantage." Selyse ran a hand through her hair. "Dumb as our daughter was to bond with that bastard dragonspawn, I suppose it can actually be of use to us now. She'll be safe, you'll get reinforcements, and potentially a dragon."
When it was put that way… "I can keep her safe."
Selyse looked hard at him. "You couldn't keep your camp safe. Is your daughter more precious to you than horses or siege weapons?"
Yes. It was the hardest decision he could make. "Melisandre? Perhaps you should weigh in on this?"
By now, she was staring silently into the brazier — watching the wood crackle as the flames licked at it. "She should go."
"Why?"
Another length of silence. "The flames are vague, Lord Stannis. They only show what the Lord wants me to see. Everything was clearer before we left Dragonstone, then when we reached the land of snow it became… murky. Flickering but no less strong as it ever was, almost as if something caused a ripple in the cosmic energy." Melisandre finally looked up. "Recently though I did get a clear image. Of a girl, your daughter, fighting alongside a dragon."
"So she is destined to bring Lyaella Snow to me."
Melisandre shrugged. "I cannot say, but I do know she has a part to play in the wars to come." She made her way to the tent flap. "The night is dark and full of terrors. Those too weak or too young at the moment should be kept safe… especially the ones that will matter in the future." With that, she was gone.
Taking a breath, Stannis sat in a camp chair, his face in his hands. "Make arrangements for Shireen and Davos to go on the morrow with a hundred-man guard," he told his wife. The rightful king would just have to endure without the warmth his daughter gave him.
Longclaw 1-6:
So the Night King has seen… something in Lyaella. What could it be that has him so spooked? So angry?
Poor Tormund, losing a daughter. But Munda lives and has probably become one of Lyaella's best friends just from bonding in battle. We'll see plenty more of her.
And yep, Stannis is sending Shireen to Castle Black. The butterfly effect has now hit her, and the terrible fate that awaited her in canon has been averted.