Dragons of Ice and Fire

by Diablo Snowblind

There are things hidden in the far north, secrets buried under ice. Jon Snow faces the white walkers early, and stumbles upon a power that could change the world. It forges a new path for him and everyone around him - and a new journey south, a journey as a dragon. The world begins to change - with steel and snow, fire and blood…

16. The battle for Hardhome

The battle for Hardhome, on the bay and in the forest

---

Val

The world was screaming.

Val ran blindly through the forest, clutching her sister's newborn baby in one hand and her sword in the other. Bodies thrashed and flailed between the trees, a confusion of violence so thick that she couldn't even tell who was attacking who. Living and dead, crow and free folk, it was mad chaos - all of it, forward and behind, to the sides, everywhere.

Death and screams, everywhere.

The babe never stopped screaming, still bloodied and naked, bundled in as many cloaks and furs as Val dared lest he suffocate. He was a pale, fragile, nameless thing, with delicate bones and pale skin. Skin that had never seen the sunlight - perhaps never would. The babe had been born screaming, born into a world of blood and death, and might now be about to die screaming too.

Only an hour old, and already fighting for his life.

Dalla was barely conscious, being carried between two men, her body weakened and bloodied from childbirth. Harma Dogshead ran at the front, wielding her maul in one hand and a torch in the other, barking orders to the remaining free folk as they fled.

Her sister was alive, but left so weak from childbirth that she had to be carried. The midwives had done their job. Dalla had survived - but she was so, so fragile. Craster's wives ran with them, huddled and cold, along with Gilly and her babe. Gilly was young and wild eyed, soft-featured and plump and a little ugly, but the terrified girl desperately kept next to Val for support, while Harma's warband flanked them from the sides.

They had gathered maybe three dozen free folk to them - men, women, and children, running with them, clutching whatever weapons or scraps of fire they still had. Val kept on calling for more to rally to her, but like sand falling through her fingers, more would fall away every second as well. The forest felt alive with terror.

Still - she had shouted together something in the way of a formation. Women and children running in the center, while their few remaining raiders and spearwives tried desperately to cover them.

"Keep together!" Val bellowed, trying to shout over the forest's screaming. "Keep together!"

She knew it was useless. Her voice was just one more shout in the orchestra of chaos. She was trying to get warriors to rally, to bring together the remnants of their forces, but the group was fracturing, raiders and spearwives falling away to fight wights or flee into the trees, while all around her, so many others were bellowing to attack, or screaming for them to run for their lives. They aren't listening to me.

The dead were everywhere, their blue eyes gleaming through the forest's dark and smoke like stars of ice.

She may have been the first leader who brought together this desperate march of ten thousand free folk, but she had never had control; not even in the loose sense that Mance had. And now they were suffering for it.

In the darkness, it was difficult to tell the crows from the free folk, or the dead from the living. Only their eyes gave them away. Blue eyes, shining in the blackness.

Val's heart pounded as she saw a hulking wight lurch from the shadows, a man in ragged furs, his leg twisted at a grotesque angle. Harma shouted for Val to get back, then met him head-on - swinging her maul with brutal force. The stone hammerhead cracked the wight's skull, splattering its brains all across the snows - but it kept moving, clawing at her with black, powerful hands. Even with half of its head collapsed, it still tried to lunge at Harma. It wasn't until a torch was shoved into its chest by another spearwife that the wight crumbled, burning as it still tried to drag itself forward towards them.

There were more wights all over the forest, and perhaps even worse than them - the ice spiders. Silent and deadly, dropping from the trees like white rocks with too many legs, chasing down men as they fled for their lives.

It was less a battle and more just a constant brawl scattered through the trees. A moonless night sky - a good night for an ambush. The white walkers waited for the perfect time to ambush both of us - free folk and crow, Val realised with a shudder.

Off in the distance between the trees, Val watched two crows trying desperately to hack apart a wight before it could grab them. They were still hacking its body down even as an ice spider - as large as a hound - dropped from the treetops and plunged its fangs through their necks.

Everywhere Val looked, she saw blood and death. It's like the Frostfangs again, she realised, her blood turning cold. There's a leader behind the attack, controlling it.

They used the wights as their main force - lumbering, but also strong and durable. The wights were scattered across the forest, chasing down the living, but it was the ice spiders that were the real danger. The ice spiders were precise, deadly and stealthy - stalking between the trees and always attacking from behind.

Val could feel her heart pounding furiously. The Others only had one goal here; kill as many living as possible. Each man or woman that died was another body for their army.

Val staggered through the woods, clutching the babe tightly. So much screaming. Her hands were trembling so madly, and it wasn't just from the cold.

Behind her, two men at the rear of their group were dragged down by ice spiders the size of ponies. There was no time to go back to help them. Val kept on running.

"Hold! Hold!" A voice ahead of them shouted, through the darkness. "Fire! Steady! Hold! Fire!"

Val stared at the figures up ahead. Crows, she realised. The men of the Night's Watch had gathered ahead - huddled defensively back to back on a small hill, surrounding a heart tree. The bloody face on the white bark looked like it was crying.

The crows had rallied better than the free folk. The crows had come to ambush the wildlings, but now they were being ambushed by the dead. There were barely a hundred crows gathered around the heart tree, fighting back wights from all sides using lances and torches.

One voice bellowed above the rest - a strong old voice from a man standing in the centre. "Burning arrows!" The old man bellowed. Even the crows looked terrified. "Light burning arrows! Bring out the tar, set torches in the ground, hold the hill!"

"That's the Lord Commander," Gilly whispered beside her, wide eyed, clutching her babe tightly. The Night's Watch were making their stand less than a hundred feet away, fighting for their lives.

They were screaming, Val saw. The crows looked absolutely terrified as the dead shambled towards them.

… Good, Val thought viciously. Let them scream.

"They're distracting the white walkers for us," Val said after a pause. "Let's go."

She saw Gilly hesitate, taking a half-step towards the crows slightly before another of Craster's wives grabbed her shoulder.

"Where?" Harma said. Her brow was dripping blood from where the wight scratched her.

"East, meet up with Rattleshirt - find the Magnar and his men," Val ordered. "We need to stay together and move."

Harma cast her a nervous glance. Sticking together wasn't in their nature. They had too many weak, elderly and children with them. Dalla was so weak she could barely stand - it took two strong men to carry her. Val knew that by herself she could probably survive - she knew the forests better than most - but with a baby and her sister to slow her down? How long would it be before the fighters abandoned the weak to try and save themselves?

Panic and confusion were the worst foes imaginable.

I'm not letting my sister die. Never. I'm going to give her a chance to hold her baby.

"Stay together," Val repeated, looking at Harma. "No matter what, we stay together."

Behind her, two of the crows tried to flee their formation, breaking into the woods. The Lord Commander shouted 'craven' at them, but they never lasted long before three ice spiders lunged at them from the trees.

"Nobody run!" The Lord Commander bellowed. He had a strong voice for one so old. "We stand together! We fight together! For the Watch! For the realm!"

It could have been inspiring, if not for one for the sound of agonising screams that howled in the backdrop. There were more shadows converging on them from the trees. The heart tree rippled around them.

Gilly hesitated, staring at the crows. "Come on, Gilly, move!" Val hissed.

She paused, glancing fearfully at the Night's Watch. "… There's a man I want to see again…" Gilly said under her breath, before rushing after Val.

They ran. Harma led the way, but there were more wights coming from every side. Men and women running blindly through the forest, stalked by lumbering shapes. Wolves would panic a herd, so the pack could pick them off one by one.

It's a hunt, she thought as a shiver ran down her back. They sent in their puppets first, to scatter us. And now they come themselves, heading straight for the leaders. They know how to hunt the living.

Val felt them coming before she saw them. She felt the cold chill her bones.

Val turned, and the ghostly shapes glowed in the dusk. They walked over the snow and never left a mark, stepping gracefully between the bodies. An inhuman grace to every movement. Their swords were as delicate as glittering ice. Even in the dark, their bodies shimmered and their eyes shone like blue stars.

Val felt the world freeze with every step the Others took.

Three of Craster's wives, both old women, dropped to the ground as they saw the Others. They didn't stand up again. Val couldn't go back for them.

The Night's Watch was screaming for order as the Others approached. Their officers were bellowing for the men to stand firm, but the fear was thick in the air. The Others approaching the west, slowly, cutting down every living creature they saw as they walked through the forest.

The Others looked so bright, beautiful and terrifying that it took a long time for Val to see the hulking shapes flanking them. The shapes of beasts with rotting flesh and frozen blood

The undead giants walked with heavy, powerful steps, their bloody, rotten fur covered in hoarfrost. One of the giants was missing a head, but it still moved even with arrows sticking out of its fur. The army of the white walkers came in all shapes and sizes; from hulking giants to bears, boars, elks and wolves - all with glowing blue eyes.

The crows are fools, Val thought, staring at the force coming towards them. Standing firm might work against a few wights, but there was no barricade in the world that could stop the force the Others brought with them.

"Stand steady!" The Lord Commander bellowed, his voice hoarse. "Archers! Archers fi—"

The words were cut off as three giants shambled out of the cold mists, charging into the formation of spears and shields. They each grabbed wights, and flung the shambling undead at the Night's Watch with inhuman force. They're launching wights like a siege engine launches boulders, Val realised. Clawing, undying boulders.

The flailing bodies were still moving even as they clattered into the centre of the crows. The impact was devastating. One wight was cut to pieces as it landed, but even without legs, it still still scrambled towards the crows.

The ranks broke. All discipline was lost. Confusion reigned supreme.

"Stay together! Stay together!" The Lord Commander bellowed, as the men ran to escape the flying dead. "Fold up, fall back, fold up—"

That was the last thing he said before another flailing wight's body was flung towards them. The Lord Commander raised his shield, but the solid impact of the thrashing corpse still sent him scattering to the ground. Two of his men tried to pull him upwards, but even half-broken by the impact, the corpse was biting and scratching, and reaching for the Lord Commander's neck.

The Night's Watchs stand collapsed. Dozens of wights poured out of the darkness, chasing them down. Val saw the undead giants pounding towards them, along with lumbering bears and rotting wolves. Ice spiders so large they could be used as mounts littered backwards, clicking and hissing next to their masters.

The Others just watched, occasionally speaking a language like cracking ice. This is just a game to them. They watch and laugh.

Val ran. They all ran. Everyone who could still run was running for their lives. All of them running east, away from the Others. They ran as fast as tired, sprinting legs could take them through the thick trees, darkness and uneven ground.

In the distance, a wolf howled.

Val heard shapes charging after them, cutting through the darkness. Inhuman shapes, on four legs, running faster than any man could. Val saw three wolves, a shadowcat, a boar and even a giant elk, all with eyes of blue, rotting skin and hoarfrost on their fur, chasing them down.

We won't make it to Hardhome, Val realised. Not all of us.

Her grip tightened. For my sister.

"Take the babe!" Val ordered, pushing Dalla's child towards Gilly. The girl looked startled, trying to clutch two howling children at once. "Take the babe and run! All fighters form up!"

Harma nodded, turning around with her. Val forced the men carrying her sister to keep on going, but there were about a dozen warriors and spearwives stopping with them. All eyes were grim. They knew they wouldn't be able to outrun the dead.

The wight animals didn't howl or snarl, they just charged and galloped with unnatural bloodlust. "Free folk!" Harma roared, swinging maul and torch together. "Free fol—!"

The wolf pounced on her. She met it with fire, but sharp claws and fangs still snapped at her even as it burned.

Val swung her blade at another wolf as it lunged at a man next to her, and then a spear pierced a dead shadowcat that tried to take her from the side. Val couldn't even keep track of it; undead creatures all around her charging against the free folk.

The great elk charged into them, taking three men down with its antlers as it barrelled through them. Its left antler cracked and snapped smashing against a man, but the beast was still trying to gouge another using its right. A blade cut off the creature's left foreleg at the knees, but it was still squirming forward in a chaotic crash of bodies and muscle.

The wildlings fought furiously, but the dead never stopped. They never paused, they gave no quarter. The tide was relentless. More are coming.

Val saw the shape of a frozen, rotting snow bear lumber above them, roaring furiously, and flanked by half a dozen wights. The snow bear's fur was peeling off, its skin black with frozen rot, but the creature was large and powerful.

Val's sword was trembling so badly she had to clutch it with both hands. She stood her ground, side to side with Harma against the beast. "… Dalla…" Val whispered. "… For Dalla… For Dalla…"

The bear charged. Harma met it straight on. She slammed her torch into its mouth and swung her maul into its skull, but the pure force of muscle still took her off her feet. Val heard Harma scream as sharp teeth mauled at her.

Val lunged, trying to save her friend. The bear's fur was alight, but it was enough large enough it could still thrash as it burnt. Val's sword bit into the bear's neck, through frozen fur and dry flesh, but its paw swung. The paw hit her with bone-shattering force. Val heard the crack from her ribs, but she didn't feel the pain. She felt too numb, too much adrenaline, for pain.

The massive bulk of muscle crashed downwards. Val watched it all with open eyes. She saw the paw swing to crack open her skull.

"… Dalla…" She whispered, watching the burning bear crash downwards. "… Dalla… Dalla…"

Sharp black claws glinted in the torchlight. For a second, her heart stopped.

All she heard was the growl as sharp teeth lunged.

A shape pounced over her. A white shape that burst out of the trees. Val could barely breathe.

A wolf, she realised suddenly. A white wolf - the largest wolf she had ever seen. So large it could knock the bear backwards.

The direwolf crashed into the bear, tooth and claw. Red eyes flashed against bright blue. The snow bear was still on fire, but the direwolf gnarled away at its legs until it crashed to the ground to burn into cinders.

Val was still lying on her back, staring with wide eyes. There were barely four of the wildlings still standing, but then that direwolf was there, pouncing into the wights. A wight wolf tried to snap at him, but the direwolf tore out its spine with a vicious growl and shook it like a rat.

That direwolf, Val thought with a frantic gasp. Her body was still shivering. I've seen it before.

Shouting behind her. More men were rushing out of the forest. Living men - clutching weapons and screaming furious war cries. Men charging to meet the dead, clutching torches and swords. Burning arrows fired from behind them.

A wight tried to shamble at Val. A burning torch and an axe tore it to pieces before Val could even stand.

"You alive, girl?" A voice snarled above her, glaring down. Val stared with wild eyes.

She recognised the scythe and watery gaze instantly. "Weeper?"

"Aye," The man snarled, glaring at the shadows. "You done lying on your back, bitch, or are you ready to fight?"

"Go fuck yourself," Val snapped, wincing as she clambered upwards, struggling to hold her sword through jagged breaths. The Weeper only grinned.

Harma, Val thought urgently, turning to stare at the bodies littering the ground. She saw her friend lying in bloody snow. She could see the deep scratches across her body where the bear mauled at her, its teeth in her shoulder. For a second, she looked like a corpse. Then, Harma gasped - choked, pained gasps of air.

"She's alive," Val gasped, clutching her friend tightly. Gods, Harma was a tough old bitch - she would survive. She would have to. She motioned to the Weeper. "Harma - Harma Dogshead. She's alive."

Val could see the Weeper growl. The Weeper had spent years fighting against Harma in the past, for a frightening second Val thought he would leave her to die. "… Get her out of here!" The Weeper snapped, pointing two men. "Get her onto one of the horses, get her back! And hurry, you cunts!"

The men obeyed - most followed the Weeper's orders promptly, else they could lose a limb if they didn't. Val snatched a torch of one of them, dropping her short sword into her belt.

In front of them, the direwolf howled as the wildlings slashed and burnt through the wights.

"What are you doing here?" Val demanded, still glaring at Weeper.

"Call me a savior today, bitch. I'm here to rescue you," the Weeper barked with laughter.

The Weeper saving my life, Val thought. It must really be the end of days.

"How did you find us?"

He shrugged, nodding at the wolf. "Follow the wolf." He readied his scythe. "Can you fight?"

"Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?" Val retorted, brandishing her torch like a club. She needed fire more than the steel here.

All around them, the raiders were spiralling out of the trees. The Weeper's war band - at least a few hundred strong. A few hundred good free folk warriors that had come prepared to face their foe.

"Set the trees on fire!" The Weeper ordered, screaming at his men.

"What?"

"The trees! Set the bloody trees alight!" He snapped. "We burn this fucking forest down if we have to! I want a line of burning trees across here!"

The trees were pine - cold and covered in snow. They wouldn't burn easily. A man started to protest, when the Weeper grabbed his cloak and held his scythe to the man's face. "You either get those trees burning, or we'll see if cravens will burn any easier!" The Weeper warned.

The panic was everywhere. Burning the trees is a good idea, Val realised. The forest around here is mostly pines, and they'll burn even when they're cold. Use the fire to keep the wights away, and a large burning bonfire to rally anyone running blind, a signal to bring people towards them.

The Weeper wanted a flaming wall. Here, he could get one.

Raiders ran around in a mad frantic rush, setting fires as screaming refugees fled to Hardhome - they were so close that Val could smell the salty tant in the air. But she heard fighting ahead. The Weeper glared at Val. "How many are we dealing with?" He demanded.

She shook her head. "I don't know," Val replied. There had never been a chance to count. "A few hundred, a thousand, five thousand?" Her gaze darkened. "I saw five white walkers approaching from behind."

The Weeper's scowl darkened. "Get those fire burning!" He roared, screaming at his men as they hacked at the trees. There were still wights up ahead, but the raiders cleared through the forest, setting up a perimeter in the snow. Val glimpsed the direwolf pounding along the forest, disappearing into the dark like an apparition.

The Weeper's men were trying to secure the perimeter gather the survivors from the camp and bring them to safely, but Val knew the Others wouldn't be far behind. They needed to hold the ground while they gave the survivors a chance to make it to Hardhome. The forest was buzzing with figures running, and great fires catching light. The shadows danced with the flickering flames and suddenly the forest seemed alive.

Five hundred men, maybe, Val thought, plus however many survived the ambush and could still fight . It was enough to give the Others pause, but they were still spread out wide.

There were shouts up ahead. Five wildlings forced three men in black cloaks down to the ground. "We've got three crows!" A man in bloody furs howled to the Weeper. "We caught them running!"

The three crows all looked terrified as the wildlings forced them down, blades to their throats. There faces face were ghostly pale. The Weeper smirked cruelly as he looked at the men. "Kill them and dump them on the fires!"

The man was just about to swing his axe at the crow, when a sudden snarl interrupted him. The direwolf was there, teeth bared as the wolf snapped at the man about to execute the crow.

One of the crows, a large man with thick arms and a dull face, stared in shock. "… Ghost?" The crow exclaimed, looking at the direwolf.

The Weeper cursed in the Old Tongue. He appeared to hesitate for a moment. "… Don't kill them," The Weeper ordered, sounding reluctant. Val had never known the Weeper change his mind before, much less spare a crow's life. "… Take all crows prisoner!" He spat the words in disgust. "Tie them up and march them back to Hardhome for questioning."

Val looked at him in surprise. This wasn't the Weeper that Val knew - the Weeper Val remembered would never have risked his life for anyone, let alone spare an enemy. He's working for Jon Snow, Harma had said. Val could still scarcely believe it. Just what sort of hold did Jon Snow have over the man?

The direwolf - Ghost - was everywhere, running around the perimeter. It took Val a few seconds to realise that the Weeper kept one eye on the wolf, following his lead. All of the men were following the wolf.

Those red eyes look more intelligent than any animal I've ever seen, Val thought. Warg.

Around them, the fires were burning bright. More people were taking shelter through the forest, while the raiders covered their retreat. How many people could they save? Val wondered. How many from her host were still alive? Until they stopped to count however many were still standing, there was no way to know. They could only hold the line.

There was a sound up ahead. The direwolf howled again, splitting the night. Every man tensed at the sound.

Then, there were figures rushing back from the trees, banging furiously on their shields. "They're coming!" A man screamed. "They're coming!"

"Get behind the fires!" The Weeper ordered, retreating backwards. "Hold the line, force them into the flames!"

The smoke and fear were so thick in the air that Val could hardly breathe. She saw the shadows ripple, and shapes taking form. The lumbering bulk of the undead giants towered into view, flanked by creatures of all shapes and sizes. Val saw ice spiders as large as horses skitter in the gloom.

The shimmering bodies of the Others hovered, barely visible, letting their puppets charge in front. The Weeper screamed bloody curses, threatening to flay any man that turned craven, all the while the raiders took cover.

Val could hear the screaming and fighting all around her, even if it was too chaotic to see a thing. She was charging forward, swinging the torch like a club as the dead shambled at her. Bodies, alive and dead, thrashed around her.

The confusion and panic felt as thick as the smoke and darkness around her. How long until daybreak? She thought with panic. How many dead, how many to follow?

An undead giant charged straight through one of the bonfires, sending wood and cinders flying everything. Even as the creature burnt and thrashed, the Weeper hacked at its legs viciously with his scythe. Val roared as she threw her burning torch straight at the giant's rotting skull.

And in front of them, the darkness rippled. The dead charged out of the trees towards them like a tidal wave.

---

Jon

Everywhere Jon looked, he saw ice. The ice plumed and roared across the bay like fire. The blades of ice sprouting upwards were as sharp as knives. Cold steam hissed from the jagged chunks of ice littering the bay. He could see the ice cracking, with waves rolling over the serrated spikes as the whole bay was consumed by chaos.

Sonagon roared, flapping powerfully through the air. The dragon was big, but strong enough to fly with natural grace. With outstretched wings, the dragon could smother any ship in its shadow. The white, cold fire exploded from Sonagon's throat in constant bursts, each stream scorching the ocean into solid ice. From above, Jon could see the icy tendrils spiraling out with surprising beauty. For a moment, it seemed surreal how the ice twined and spiraled outwards in sharp jagged strikes, cutting through the great galleys.

Run away, Jon thought, his heart pounding as the scene below dissolved into absolute panic. Please, just run away. I don't want to kill any of you.

The dragon roared, another breath causing the ice to crack and sharp icicles scraped against the hull of the ships.

Below him, he could hear the screaming. Men scattered around the ships like ants running wild. Each breath turned the sea to ice.

Sonagon's frostfire was so cold it could shatter rock. What chance would wood have? Sonagon could have easily destroyed the ships, if Jon had given the order. The wooden vessels would have cracked all the way down to the keels, the men on them wouldn't even stand a chance of survival this far out into the water.

If Jon had wanted to, Sonagon could have destroyed the entire fleet in only a few passes, leaving only shattered wrecks and frozen splinters behind.

No. I won't do that. Instead, Jon focused Sonagon's breath only the ocean, zigzagging around the ships. He froze the sea in front of the ships, weaving white streaks between the ships. The dragon didn't like it - but he listened, for now.

Sonagon was in a particularly good mood now that he could fly again. So Jon was allowed fully into the dragon's skin, controlling the dragon's jaw and wings as if they were his own. He could feel the pounding wind under leathery wings, he could feel the inferno of frostfire around his heart, and the power exploding from his throat.

Freeze the ocean, block their path, force them to turn around, Jon thought, gasping as he tried to breathe through the cold air rushing by him.

By the first sweep, the ice was so thick it was tearing against their hulls. Some of the men tried to fire arrows upwards at the dragon, but it was useless as the dragon was already streaming past.

Still, the men never broke. He could see running and screaming, but none of the ships were turning around. Jon was giving them as much leeway as he dared - directing Sonagon to pass wide. Trying to give them a chance. Jon cursed. Why aren't they running?

Realisation struck. They couldn't run, not easily at least. The dragonfire was colder even than Jon had expected - the ice spread outwards. It froze into sheets of ice stretching out from the spiked strokes, ice freezing their hulls.

The wind and waves pushed the ships further and further against the ice. Maybe if they had an organised crew they could have escaped through, but the sailors were going mad with panic. Too many running wild, and letting their ships get trapped even further in the fleet.

Sonagon broke off the attack, flying wide and soaring further out off the coast before twisting around. The dragon's wings were aching, still very sore. Jon had to concentrate to keep Sonagon steady, pushing him forward.

This far from the mainland, looking down from a dragon's eye view, Hardhome just looked like a cluster of lights in the darkness. The fleet was a scattered flicker of lights in absolute disarray.

One more pass. I'll make one more pass, one more line of ice - enough to a form barricade to make sure they can't pass around and continue the attack. After that, I'll back off - give the ships time to run away…

They would run. They have to.

Sonagon howled. His wings pounded so hard they caused depressions in the water below. The dragon twisted and started to fly back towards the coast, building speed with every flap.

Then, he saw the light. There was something on-board one of the ships at the front - a larger ship, the flagship - dazzling like nothing Jon had ever seen before. A rippling light cutting through the darkness.

Jon had to squint to see through it. It was blinding white. Jon could only just make out a figure clutching a glowing sword, standing on the deck, thrusting upwards.

Men cheered around the glowing sword. The soldiers rallying.

That was the last warning Jon had before he saw the arrows shooting upwards.

The dragon roared in pain as the arrows from the boats below hit him. The arrows were like pinpricks, but the bolts from the ballista were dangerous even to the dragon. Jon felt his pain as the soldier's fired. Sonagon convulsed, wings thrashing-

Damn! Jon cursed. It was the very first time riding the dragon into battle, and he already knew he had just made a stupid mistake. Too confident - too stupid - flying too low. It left the dragon an easy target for the archers. He thought they'd be too panicked to fire back-

The light flashed. The fire hit him like a flash of lightning.

Through Sonagon's eyes, Jon glimpsed a woman in red on the deck of the ship. To the dragon, she smelled of shadows, like an entire pit of burning flesh. To Sonagon's eyes, while everything around her was cold, she blazed impossibly hot.

Jon screamed - his mind going blank. It felt like the fire scorched his brain. It felt like his skull was about to explode. He felt fire flash in the air. They weren't real flames - like shadow fires, an illusion that burned his mind rather than his body. The fires hit Sonagon, but it was like they were transferred through to him. Illusionary pain that still burned.

His connection to Sonagon vanished under the pain. The warg link disappeared - like Jon had been scorched out of Sonagon's skin.

The dragon roared in pain, body convulsing. Wings folded inwards. Air rushed past.

Magic, Jon realised dumbly. Actual magic. That red woman did something.

He couldn't understand what - but he could the feel the pain. He could barely even blink, trying to process the air howling…

Sonagon was crashing downwards into the icy sea. The dragon wasn't following Jon's orders anymore; it pained Jon to even try. The red woman burned our link.

The wind howled so loud Jon couldn't even scream.

Barely a second before Jon saw the frozen sea zoom into focus. His legs worked on instinct, dropping off the dragon's horn and then Jon was half-jumping, half-falling.

The fall felt like an avalanche. The cold hit like a warhammer. Sonagon dived into the water, with so much force he broke straight through the ice. Chunks of ice flew everywhere on the waves.

Jon splashed into water, breaking through a fine layer of ice coating the surface. The force made him gasp. He could already feel the bruises forming. He could see icy water filling his vision, the blackness choking him.

There was no moment of hesitation, he just thrashed. The water threatened to pull him down, but then Jon shrugged off his cloak and splashed upwards. His boots very nearly drowned him. He felt his hands slide against solid ice, finding handhelds in the coarse surface, barely enough to pull him upwards. There was hardly any leverage but he kicked and thrashed, trying to clamber upwards onto the icy surface.

The cold pierced him to the core. Jon gasped, staring around him a jungle of icy blades.

I'm on the ice, he thought through wheezy breaths of shock. His body was dripping wet. He knew he was cold, but he could barely feel the chill through the fire in his blood and his heart beating so hard. He could hear the ice crackling all around him. The mist rising everywhere obscured everything, the ice so cold that it hissed.

He saw a ship in the distance burst into flames. Pots of oil and flaming arrows from their own sailors set the ship alight as the crew started to panic. Arrows were still falling from the cliffs at the trapped vessels closer to the shore.

He heard the sea rumble. Sonagon dived beneath the water, while Jon was left lying on the frozen sheets of ice.

The water rolled over the ice, the waves pushing it up to his ankles. Jon clutched his furs and leathers tightly, but there was no warmth against the wet cold. All around him, he saw jagged icicles from where Sonagon's breath had frozen the water as it splashed. If Jon had landed even a dozen feet to one side, the ice could have skewered him.

Jon stared in shock. Around him, there was a tremendous crack. One of the ships nearby was being torn apart against the ice, capsizing and splintering over the frozen spikes. Jon stared in shock, gasping as he tried to pull himself off the ground. The ice wasn't smooth - it felt rough and coarse. Even the small frozen blades were sharp enough to cut into his palms.

All around him, there were screams and shouts. It was dark Jon could barely see - but then he saw a light split the sky. A shimmering, unnatural light. One voice rose above them all.

"One king! One god! One realm!" A man bellowed. "Forward! For the realm!"

He could see dozens of men drowning in armour in the cold sea or falling overboard to be skewered on jagged ice spikes - but there were more clambering overboard from the cracked ship. Men in chainmail and clutching swords were trying to traverse across the ice, escaping their ships.

The screams and noise was deafening. From above, from the dragon's back, it had seemed distant and almost surreal, but on the ice there was just pure chaos. The whole bay had been thrown into pure, frantic chaos.

They charged. The soldiers were staggering across the uneven ice, trying to get towards the shore. The ice was sharp, cracking and barely stable, but they were still risking it.

"Brave men…" Jon gasped. Only the brave or suicidal would dare to try and charge across ice this treacherous.

The soldiers were rallying. He saw men abandoning ship - rallying across the frozen bay. His heart pounded in horror, but they weren't stopping. They weren't running away. There was no retreat, just a horrified, desperate charge.

All Jon had been trying to do was stop the battle from happening, but these men were insistent on fighting to the end. Fighting in panic rather than running in fear.

"… No no no…" Jon wheezed, clutching Dark Sister as he staggered forward. He could barely breathe. It was all going wrong; that Red Woman had done something, Jon couldn't feel Sonagon, and they were still going to attack the camp.

He could feel the ice swaying gently in the waves. He could hear the war cries and rallying calls.

Five hundred feet away, Jon felt Sonagon bursting from the ocean like a sea monster of old. The ice dragon had abandoned the sky, and attacked the ships from the sea instead. The dragon was furious, and not even Jon could restrain him anymore. Jon's mind was spinning, he couldn't warg. Sonagon tore the ship apart from underneath with claws and icy breath.

The sight sent tremors down his spine. Sonagon barely looked recognisable. It lunged out of the water looked like some wrathful god. The dragon was all coated in glistening spikes, looking bigger, bulkier than ever. Ice, Jon saw. That's why it dived instinctively .

Sonagon used his own breath to freeze the water to its body - using its own dragonfire to form a second skin of hard, crystalline armour around its scales. Maybe the frost and rime slowed the dragon down too, but from the water the visage was horrifying. As if it was made out of ice itself. An ice dragon, glittering white and black.

Jon heard men's screaming as the ship was shredded underneath them. He saw men die from breath so cold it ruptured their bodies, splattering them into gruesome frozen shards.

Twenty-four ships. One ship had just been completely pulverised. About another half a dozen had been destroyed - shipwrecked against the ice. There were more ships frozen in place in the bay, and that left only maybe two or three ships that might be able escape the ice altogether and sail away.

Jon spun, staring between the darkness and icy spikes. There was no coordinating this battle, there was no organisation, nothing but chaos and terror. Jon could never have imagined anything like. The panic so thick it was suffocating. How could everything go so mad so quickly?

All around him, men were dying. Loyal men. Brave men. Men fighting for the realm.

Dammit! Jon felt like screaming. Why did you have to attack? Why didn't you just run?

Around him, people were shouting. How many men could still rally from the wrecked vessels to assault Hardhome? It was impossible to tell - but the best of Hardhome's fighters would have left with the Weeper. Even if there were still a hundred soldiers left alive to attack the camp, they could be assaulting women and children…

He glimpsed arrows in the air. Screams. The men from the front ships had reached the coast, the sound of battle rang in his ear.

Jon clambered up over the ice. His head twisted and spun, struggling to keep track of the surroundings. The ice had formed a twisting labyrinth from the swirling strips that Sonagon had cut across the ocean…

"There he is!" Jon heard the voice behind him. "It's him! It's him!"

There were soldiers behind him, struggling to clamber up an ice cliff. Jon stared at men in heavy armour, his gaze turning to a bright light behind him.

Jon saw the man with the glowing sword. He was an older man, bald with a hard face. He had gaunt cheeks, high cheekbones and a close-cropped beard. He wore heavy armour, fine armour, clutching his flaming sword and a steel shield, but there was a crown on his head. Jon stared - was this man a king?

The king with the flaming sword was flanked by two dozen men - knights, all of them. At the sight of Jon, the whole crowd rippled.

"By the God…" He heard man bellow, staring at Jon in awe. "It's him. The champion!"

"Seven save us… !"

"For the Red God! For the Lord of Light!"

More and more men were gathering out of the wreckage of their ships, clinging onto treacherous ice paths.

The icy path between Jon and the knights was sharp, twisting and perilous. The ice was dangerously thin in parts and frightening sharp at other places. The ice was rocking, creeping and cracking from the waves. It was perilous, and any men that fell into the black water would easily be swallowed by it.

Still, these men didn't even hesitate. "Attack!" The king with the flaming sword bellowed, charging forward fearlessly. His glowing blade shone and blazed. "For the realm! Attack! "

No time for hesitation. No rational thought, just pure instinct. His blade was in his hands. His heart pounded furiously - Jon's blood rushed so fast he never even felt the cold.

Jon saw men with bows. He jumped forward and dropped down, running towards the soldiers so there'd be no clear shot.

The knights charged like fanatics. At least twenty of them - so many Jon couldn't even count. They were all bigger, older, with heavy steel. Jon wore furs and leather armour, but these men were clad in plate and chainmail, with helmets, boots, and gauntlets. Dark Sister was a fairly lean and light sword, while these men had broadswords, heavy weapons and shields.

Jon's heart pounded, but there was no choice. He knew with one glance that they wouldn't listen to reason, his blood was burning, and he wasn't prepared to run.

The man in the crown, Jon thought. Their leader, their commander. If Jon could take him down, put a sword to his throat, force his men to retreat. Best way to save lives would be to end this battle quickly, try to regain control as quick as possible. Capture the king.

Jon swung Dark Sister to meet them, his whole body rushing.

A man swung a broadsword at him, but Jon was already shoving his palm into the man's breastplate, knocking him backwards. On the rocking ice, there was no saving himself as the knight toppled and crashed into icy spikes. The ice cracked and blood splattered. The warm liquid hissed against cold frost. Another knight tried to jump at him from behind, but he tripped and dropped before Jon could even raise his sword to meet him. He fell into the water and disappeared.

In a fair fight, Jon would have been overwhelmed by them in a second. Still, right now, their heavy armour was their biggest weaknesses. The ice underfoot was cracking and unstable, and Jon saw heavy steel boots fail to get a footing.

These were all southron knights - totally unsuited to the cold or frost. On a level, grassy plain they would be fearsome, but they had never fought on icy terrains like this. But Jon had walked across icy mountains and rough terrain for so long that his body balanced instinctively. He kept his mass low and his feet balanced, swinging and snapping like a wolf on the ice.

These men were angry, and aggressive. Jon was small, lean and fast. He stayed defensive; his posture stiff and secure to compensate for his bad leg, while his foes were left shambling around him.

The treacherous path between them was so narrow they had to fight Jon almost one by one. They had to clamber upwards, over cracking and jagged shards to reach him, and in their numbers they were slipping and bumping against each other. Jon had every advantage; he could control the fight, while they were all dazed and weak.

Jon's sword slashed faster and swifter than it had ever moved before. The men fell in front of him, one by one. His swordsmanship was so good that Ser Rodrik would have been proud. It took only the slightest slash before the knights lost their footing and fell.

And still, Jon's blade slashed faster and faster.

A man swinging a mace tried to crack his head open, but then Jon ducked and Dark Sister severed the man's foot at the ankle and he toppled backwards. He was still screaming even as he fell in almost slow motion. The man managed to grip the ice to save himself from the ocean, but left dangling uselessly in freezing water, unable to pull himself up, as he bled out with a missing foot.

In the distance, Sonagon surged out of the ocean again. The roar echoed across the bay as he tore his way through another ship. Even as Jon fought, the dragon was in the sea destroying the ships one by one.

"Kill the champion!" The man with the burning sword bellowed. His blade illuminated the battlefield with eerie white, reflecting on glittering spikes. "He controls the dragon, kill him! Kill the boy!"

There was no time for Jon to even reply. He was too busy trying desperately to fight against two heavyset men at once. It was less a fight and more a gamble to see who would lose their footing first.

A man with a cloak of white and blue stars fell first. He toppled, and Jon pushed him into his colleague and then they were both falling together.

You trip you die, Jon thought, panting for breath. His lungs felt raw, but his sword was singing.

Five men dead. Then seven, then eight, then nine. They dropped one after another, some in bone-rattling cries of pain, others cut down before they could speak. The ice cracked beside them, and at least four men fell into the ocean before Jon could even touch them. He was light enough to dance across the thinner ice, while the shambling knights stood no chance.

Arrows shot over him. Then screams. Jon glimpsed other figures - men in furs with spears. The wildlings. They were charging over the ice to meet the soldiers. They were all roaring, vicious. It was a scene so savage it made his hands twitch - wild men tearing over the bay, illuminated by the flickering flames and glittering ice.

But Jon could barely even look at them. He couldn't look at anything except the man in front, and then the next, and the next…

Before long, Jon had lost count of how many men had fallen beneath his blade. He knew men were dying, but he wasn't - his blood was pumping, his sword was swinging and he just suddenly felt so alive. A single misstep would have killed him, but he was dancing between them so lightly it felt like his feet barely touched the ground.

He felt alive. It felt like his body was trembling.

"For R'hllor!" A man roared, gasping for breath as he barely parried Dark Sister. "R'hllor! R'hllor!"

The knight swung wide, completely abandoning any defence just on the hope of hitting Jon. Perhaps the man was counting on his chainmail to protect him. It didn't. Dark Sister cut straight through his chest.

The black blade seemed almost hungry in the moonless night as the blood splattered. Two more men followed him down in short succession.

"Boy!" A heavyset man tried to barrel at Jon. A burning red heart blazed on his surcoat. He was growling in rage as their blades clashed. He was too big, too strong, Jon scurried backwards. "… You are nothing but a boy!" The man roared, his face red. He slashed forward. Left, right, left. "I will kill you boy! Ser Godry the Dragonslayer; give the name to your evil master, boy!"

Jon remembered his lessons, eyes following every blow. Wait. Patience. Pause, and wait for the right moment.

He saw it. The knight overreached himself in a long cut. Dark Sister slashed. To his credit, Ser Godry managed to parry the strike, but barely. The knight was forced onto the backfoot, struggling to keep up as Dark Sister hissed at him time and time again.

"This boy is about to kill you, ser," Jon whispered coldly. He saw fear in the man's eyes, right up until he took one step backwards too far. The ice cracked underfoot and the man crashed straight into the ocean.

Around him, Sonagon was busy destroying the fourth ship in the fleet. Jon couldn't see it, but he heard the screams and roars.

There were men rushing around Jon. There was fighting everywhere. The free folk had rushed onto the ice too, and they were clashing furiously even as more ships crashed and more and more men fell into the water at every second.

Dark Sister isn't killing them, Jon thought between gasps and swings. They're killing themselves. Their own fanaticism is murdering them faster than I ever could.

It was like no battle Jon had ever imagined. Like a giant brawl scattered on a jagged, frozen hellscape. Whether by bravery, fear, or fanaticism, Jon couldn't say, but the soldiers never backed down. They fought with fury right up until their cold deaths. A battle of ice.

Bodies littered around him. Jon cut a bloody path straight through the men. Not all of the men were dead, but they were all left bleeding out. One man was still alive, gurgling for breath despite falling straight onto an icicle that pierced straight through his chest. Their blood steamed against the cold, causing Dark Sister to smoke softly.

There were free folk behind him, hollering and shouting as they covered Jon's back. He just gripped Dark Sister with both hands as he limped forward with small, careful steps.

The king with the burning sword glared at Jon with hard, cold and furious eyes as he approached. There were other soldiers, but they were all holding back. The ice was now so thin that only one man could approach at a time, and now it was the king's turn.

He was a big man - tall, lean, broad shouldered and sinewy, with a hard jaw and merciless eyes. There was a flaming heart inlaid on his breastplate. Unusually well-crafted armour, Jon noted. He could see the detail-work, the filigreed ornamentation, the exceptionally finely-crafted articulation that allowed shoulders and elbows to bend even under full plate - he hardly even had any visible chainmail. His warhelm was crafted like a crown, with seven golden prongs like swords.

Under the helm, the king's expression was hard, dark, like something that could have been chiseled out of stone. The king dropped his shield so he could fight sword on sword easily. It was a smart move - anything that restricted mobility was deadly in a battle like this.

"Stannis!" A voice shouted from the soldiers. The chant rose among them. "Stannis! Stannis! Stannis!"

Jon's eyes flickered. The crowned man charged forward fearlessly. Jon swung Dark Sister to parry. Their blades clashed. Black metal scraped against the glowing sword.

For a second, it was like the world was watching as their weapons clashed.

Jon glared at the man, even as his mind worked, piecing together all that he was seeing. Stannis, the knights were screaming. He wore a crown. The stag. Jon put it together. "… You are Stannis Baratheon," Jon said, parrying his blade. The resemblance to the great fat king his father had feasted at Winterfell wasn't immediately obvious, but Jon started to recognise the hard jaw, the thick brow and dark whiskers.

"I am the Rightful King," Stannis growled, panting for breath. Jon could see the sweat dripping down the man's brow; his eyes gleamed with intensity. "First of His Name!" clash. "King on the Iron Throne!" clash. "Lord of the Seven Kingdoms!" clash. "Protector of the Realm!" clash. "Wielder of Lightbringer!" clash. "Champion of the Dawn! Azor Ahai!"

The man growled the words, gasping as his glowing sword spun. Jon never knew what they meant. Stannis was a good fighter; practiced, experienced, good balance. He didn't give ground and he knew how to use his size. He was stronger than Jon and his form was solid, but Jon was still fast enough that the king struggled to keep up.

That glowing sword was dangerous; up close it was so bright it was blinding. Jon could barely focus with how the sword blazed in front of him, and the light scolded his eyes.

The man glared at Jon with pure hate and fury. "I will defeat you, 'Champion of Night '!" He snarled, teeth gnashing. "It was promised!"

His sword swung wide, a heavy blow that Jon could barely block. The sound rang out shrilly. "… I will not let you take what is mine!" He spat. "Dragonspawn. Savage. Usurper!"

Jon had never heard a man speak with as much hate as Stannis put into the next word.

"Targaryen." The word was like a curse from Stannis' throat.

Dark Sister parried. Stannis gripped his glowing sword with both hands, trying to force it to Jon's skull. There's no heat, Jon realised suddenly. The blade was cool. Nothing but phantom fire. Jon had been trying to keep his distance from the fire, yet there was nothing but light.

Jon's fist slammed into the Stannis' stomach. The blow against the hard chainmail bruised his knuckles, but it knocked Stannis backwards and broke the grapple.

"You talk a lot about titles and names," said Jon. Stannis tried to attack, but Jon was swifter. His blade forced Stannis backwards. "… And not enough about your men dying."

Stannis roared, striking hard. His attacks were vicious, but he was also tiring faster. Jon had spent months fighting and living hard, growing lean, strong and restless. He towered over Jon, but Jon had fought larger and stronger opponents. Jon could strike twice for each blow of his. Jon knew he would not fall first, not like this.

Jon was angry too. He felt so, so angry. He was angry at Stannis for forcing this fight, he was angry at himself for fighting. He was angry at having to kill so many men when all was trying to do was save as many as possible from the dead.

In the background, there were howls as Sonagon demolished a fifth ship. Over half of Stannis' fleet was already gone.

"These men," Jon growled, meeting the king's blue eyes, "they died because of you. They followed you here, and you killed them. No one had to die, but you and all your names killed them, knight and free folk alike." Dark Sister scraped against Stannis' shoulder, but didn't quite pierce the plate. "Yield, 'king.'"

"Never," Stannis growled, but he was falling backwards. He was still strong, but slowing, while Jon was only getting faster. The soldiers were still chanting his name, but every eye was focused on the glowing sword flashing in the night.

"Yield," Jon pushed, striking harder. Stannis crumpled, falling to a knee, and then Jon's good leg kicked him in the chest.

Stannis Baratheon fell backwards on the ice.

Nobody was chanting anymore. Two of Stannis' soldiers tried to rush into their king's aid, but Jon's blade cut one of them down without a second glance - and then the other backed away, his eyes wide. It gave Stannis enough time to clamber back to his feet, but he was still struggling for footing on the ice.

Jon gave him no time to recover. He struck forward, knocking Stannis backwards with a ferocity and speed that the king could not match. More and more of Jon's strikes were going through whatever remained of Stannis' rapidly tiring guard, cutting deeper and deeper into his plate armour.

Behind him, another ship fell to Sonagon.

Jon could feel the air shift. It was like the fanaticism that drove the men was being hacked apart with every blow that Jon landed to the painted red heart on Stannis' chestplate. "Yield!"

The man was losing ground, but there was still that power in his gaze - an iron ferocity that said he would never, ever back down.

Jon remembered what Donal Noye once said. Stannis was pure iron; hard and strong, but also brittle. He'll break before he bends.

His army was being broken now. Sonagon was massacring his ships on the sea, and the free folk were massacring his men on the ice.

Vaguely, between the blows, Jon was aware of movement among Stannis' soldiers. Screams and shouts. Men were turning to run, and other men were stabbing soldiers in the back. There were barely any soldiers left, and it looked like a mutiny. There were foreigners - brightly dressed and from the Free Cities most like - stabbing at the soldiers with cutlasses and rushing to pull lifeboats from the wreckage.

Too many of Stannis' loyal men had died rushing to their deaths, Jon thought. There would be bodies littered in the bay for a long time. That left all of the disloyal ones to break free.

Perhaps Stannis could feel it too. There was no one left to charge against Jon anymore. He saw his posture crack.

Still, he never wavered, not even for a second. Stannis screamed a wordless cry of fury as he swung his glowing sword with both hands, as hard as he possibly could. Dark Sister met the blow. The blades clashed for a final time, the sound ringing out like a bell.

Jon felt the metal crumble. Stannis' magic sword exploded into shards under Dark Sister. The light disappeared without a trace.

Stannis' eyes widened in shock as the shards of metal sprinkled across the ice. Dark Sister was still swinging.

"You should have yielded," Jon whispered, as Dark Sister slashed through Stannis' wrist.

The gauntleted hand disappeared in a splatter of blood, leaving only a bloody stump on Stannis' hand.

The king never screamed. He never even flinched. He just stared at his missing hand in quiet horror as his body fell backwards.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, someone started screaming. Jon heard a man howling "Stannis!" and the noise echoed in the bay.

The very last of the king's men rushed to their liege's side - maybe five or six men desperate enough to risk the thin ice. Jon's body was still trembling, his sword hand swinging - he cut down the first figure that tried to charge him without a second thought. Dark Sister was already swinging at the second before his eyes managed to catch up.

There was a boy before him - clutching a dagger that was trembling so hard that he could barely even hold it. A boy younger than Jon; maybe eleven or twelve. He wore a leather squire's raiment, and there was a black onion stitched into his surcoat. He had dark hair, pointy ears, and wide eyes that were staring up at Jon fearfully.

Jon's blade stopped. The squire looked so much like Bran.

Bran wanted to be a knight, Jon thought suddenly. He thought back to all the knights that he had just killed.

Jon met the boy's eyes and lowered Dark Sister, watching quietly as the king's men dragged their liege away. Maybe they could still a reach a lifeboat. If they were good sailors, and lucky enough, maybe they could even get away. Jon should have stopped him, but the squire stood in his way. The boy's eyes…

Jon lost all interest in fighting. He let them escape. After a moment of stunned silence, the squire stared at the dagger in his hand, before turning to chase after the group dragging the king away.

The sounds of violence never stopped. Whatever soldiers had escaped the ice on to the coast, the wildlings were there to hack them to pieces. They fought well for a moment, but this was less a battle and more of a massacre now.

All of the fury, the pain, the fear and the adrenaline… it was like Jon could feel it bubbling inside of him. He paced restlessly among the bodies. He screamed wordlessly into the darkness, just to try and release the pressure in his chest.

Sonagon roared from the ocean, still tearing through the ships. There were some boats in the open water, but few, and the other ships were left trapped in the ice.

And Jon suddenly felt so, so tired. It was like all the adrenaline and the fire suddenly dropped out of his blood.

I need to take prisoners, he thought. I need to stop them. The free folk would just kill any survivors, and Sonagon wasn't like to leave any survivors at all. The free folk won't listen easily - I have to stay strong to convince them to take hostages instead.

He wasn't quite sure if there was anything that could convince Sonagon not to destroy everyone remaining though. That witch had hurt it, and the dragon would demand its due.

Jon turned, staring at the bodies scattered across the ice. Anyone had been left alive was dead now - the cold and blood loss had just drained their lives away.

The ice would be breaking up soon, Jon would have to find a way off it quickly before it cracked or drifted off in the waves. Jon staggered, limping as he tried clambered across the icy paths as quickly as possible, his sword clenched tight in hand. The smell of blood and fear in the air left a foul taste in his mouth.

All around him, there were bodies littered on swords of ice.

I'm on the side of the living, Jon thought with pained gasps. All I want to do is save people.

Now why the hells is so hard to stop everyone from killing each other?

---

Davos

Davos gagged, feeling the pain in his chest. Everything felt cold, colder than it had ever been.

All around him, the world roared. The sounds were like nothing he had ever heard before - the sounds of pure panic and chaos. Everything was black, except for the torchlight reflecting off glistening spikes of black ice.

His heart was pounding. Davos' felt an involuntary, harsh scream break from his throat as he tried to pull himself upwards. He felt blood oozing out of his chest, the slick liquid freezing against the ice.

His shoulder ached. I broke my shoulder, he realised. Maybe a couple of ribs too. He fell out of the ship when it capsized, landing on hard ice…

The ice wasn't smooth - it felt sharp and jagged. Davos gulped and staggered as he felt a spike of ice protruding into his stomach. It was so numb he could barely feel it. He had landed half-skewered onto one of the frozen spikes.

My jerkin. The reinforced leather jerkin was the only thing that had stopped the spike, but the ice still pierced through. It pierced at least an inch into his chest.

Davos stared upwards. Barely five feet away there was a man lying with a spike of ice jabbing through his skull.

It could have been worse. The ice was barbed and jagged like frozen thorns, but Davos had been lucky to land on one of the more mostly flat surfaces.

His whole body ached as he tried desperately to stand up. he could feel the ice shifting in the waves, the ice cracking underfoot…

All around him, there were people screaming. Davos saw men jumping from the flotsam of the shipwreck, trying to clamber onto the ice. The waters swirled and thrashed around him. The wreck of the Valyrian was alight with flames - the wood burning and crackling even as it capsized and the wind shredded the ship into splinters against the ice.

Davos stared, wide eyed. The ship was burning. Davos saw men - men he recognised - clinging uselessly onto the broken mast, even as it snapped into the black water. The only ones who survived would be the ones that jumped off onto the ice.

Devan. My son. My son was on that ship.

His head pounded so fast his vision blurred. I can't lose any more sons…

Stannis. The king. Devan squired for the king. The knights. The soldiers. How many men made it off…?

There was almighty crash from the water. A chorus of screams drowned out by a bone-rattling roar. Davos' brain shut down, reverting to pure, instinctive panic.

He watched as the beast - the dragon - burst from the ocean like a sea monster. The beast bigger than ever, made out of jagged ice. White fire exploded from its jaws, and then suddenly the dragon was ripping apart another frozen ship with claws and teeth.

Men jumped overboard like ants fleeing a storm. The waters would be suicide, but they still jumped.

The entire bay was dotted with streaks of ice - jagged flames frozen on the water's surface. The ships were trapped in the bay, and any men that wanted to survive were fleeing overboard on the ice.

It was chaos.

Move, Davos ordered himself, groaning as he staggered upwards. Find the king, find my son…

Davos saw the light. He gasped as he recognised the light beaming in the distance, over the jagged icebergs. Lightbringer - Stannis' sword. The king must be alive; he must have escaped the shipwreck. Stannis could use the light of his burning sword to rally the men…

There was tremendous splash as the dragon dived into the water again. Another ship destroyed. At this point, the dragon was just demolishing the crippled fleet one by one.

Ice cracked. Davos gasped, clutching at his side. He could feel blood oozing over his fingers. Stannis was there, on the other side of the ice - along with the soldiers. All around him, there was fighting, burning and freezing.

The wildlings are on the ice too. The savages broke onto the ice from the coast, hacking down the fleeing soldiers. There was no great battle, just skirmishes at every corner. Davos saw clashing shapes highlighted by the fires and men fighting desperately for their lives.

Still, the water killed more men than swords ever would. The ice was treacherous, sharp and unstable.

Davos glimpsed three men ahead, clutching to the ice with their swords, trying to lever a bulky shape out of the water with ropes. A lifeboat - four soldiers were trying desperately to recover one of the lifeboats thrown from the Valyrian. Not a big boat, but large enough for maybe a dozen cramped men.

Then a figure walked up behind one of the soldiers and gutted him from the back with a sharp knife.

Davos could do nothing but stagger, staring in horror as the bodies fell.

"My ships!" The figure screamed furiously. "My men! Mine! Your king thinks he can wreck me? Me!"

One of the soldiers tried to fight back. The attacked lunged at him, stabbing him savagely with his knife. "… I am Salladhor Saan!" the man hissed, letting the body drop. "I will see your king ruined for this! I will gouge out his eyes and fuck his wife until she screams my name!"

The Prince of Narrow Sea looked almost feral. Salladhor had always been a flamboyant; a courteous, perhaps even charming man when he wanted to be: but that was all gone. Now, his silks were drenched in seawater and blood, his eyes were crazed, and his expression was twisted like an animal's.

Of course Salladhor Saan survived too. Underneath his silks, his flamboyance and his smile, the pirate prince was as hard a pirate as any on the seas.

More men clambered behind him. The pirate's words were sharp. "Grab the boat!" Salladhor ordered to his men. "Quickly now, drag the boat over the ice!"

They're cutting down Stannis' men, Davos realised in horror. Pirates had escaped the wreck too. While the soldiers were trying to charge forward, the pirates were cutting them down from behind. Fighting was everywhere. Not just against wildlings, against the other shipwreck survivors too.

Davos watched as Salladhor's men dragged the boat out of the ocean. The Lysene pirates fought with cutlasses and more experienced skill than the panicking soldiers.

The pirate lord saw him, still clutching his knife. "… Oh Davos…" Salladhor growled. Davos staggered, still holding his chest. The men hoisted the lifeboat upwards, onto the ice unsteadily. "… My old friend… By rights, I should kill you too."

Davos gulped. There was pure murder in the pirate's eyes. "… Stannis…" Davos wheezed weakly. "… Stannis…"

"Your king is done," Salladhor spat. "You cost me my fleet. You cost me my livelihood, my legacy. All for your bloody promises."

His eyes narrowed, staring at the wound on Davos' torso. Davos had never been a fighter, and he most certainly couldn't fight now. "… Congratulations, old friend. You finally get to do what you've always wanted. You get to die in the service of your king, like any other onion. Are you happy now? Does this make you fulfilled?"

Davos could barely even stand upright. "… Stannis…" he gasped. "… Where is Stannis?"

Salladhor just grunted. "Of course…" He hesitated with his knife. "Your loyalty is wasted on him, smuggler. Stannis is doomed to nothing but despair - the more fool I for not realising it sooner."

Davos nearly staggered. The pirate caught him. Salladhor paused to tearing off his jerkin and forming a very crude binding around his wound. "… Consider this a final kindness, old friend," Salladhor whispered. "… If you want to survive, come with me now. I have no intention of letting him steal my life too."

He took a deep breath. His hands clenched. "Stannis," Davos rasped.

"But of course," Salladhor snorted, already moving away. "… You're doomed to despair too."

Davos watched wide-eyed as the pirates staggered away from him the ice, half-carrying, half-dragging the lifeboat. He means to carry the lifeboat to the edge of the ice, to open water so he can sail away, Davos realised. It would be perilous - a boat like that would be unlikely to survive waters like these for long.

Then again, it might be better odds for survival than anybody left here. The bay was a slaughter.

Davos knew that the king's men might need that boat too, but there was nothing he could do to stop the pirates. Salladhor had the right idea - they needed an escape route.

Perhaps one of the ships could get free of the ice before the dragon destroyed them? Was it too late to run away?

He took a deep breath and staggered forward. He paused to pick up an iron dirk from the one of the corpses, holding it with one hand as he cradled his wounded side with the other.

Every step felt like it would be his last. Davos struggled to make sense of it, gasping and wheezing weakly as his feet almost slid off the ice. The whole iceberg was rocking in the waves, and the sound of screaming never stopped.

His eyes darted around the ships that remained. It was hard to recognise them, half-swallowed by ice. The Saathos Saan, the Oledo, the Bountiful Harvest… Which one of those could still escape? Which one was most likely to get away? Which one would the king flee too?

The Bountiful Harvest had been at the rear rank, Davos thought. Where the ice was thinnest. If any could break free, it would be the ships that had been at the rear.

It was the speck of red that caught his attention. Red so bright it shimmered in the gloom. Davos tightened his grip on his blade.

The dragon was at the other end of the bay, demolishing another ship. Davos could still see the light of Stannis' sword nearby, flashing through the darkness. Davos was wheezing as he limped unsteadily. Even underfoot, he could feel the ice cracking. The cold water swashed over the ice, with freezing sea water washing up to his ankles with every wave.

It was so, so cold. And yet, somehow, the Red Woman burned as bright as ever.

Melisandre's dress was impossibly pristine. It was like the cold and water never even touched her. The ruby on her throat glimmered brightly. Melisandre stood on the ice, watching as the Bountiful Harvest groaned against the waves.

They were at the edge of the fighting. The Bountiful Harvest was an old cog - a strong, sturdy cog built for sharp weather - its hull was thick oak, tough enough to survive the ice. The ice was thinner here too, the dragon was distracted from the edge of the fighting. The Bountiful Harvest was still trapped, but now there were men dragging ropes, shouting and screaming as they tried to recover the ship.

She's preparing the ship to leave, Davos thought with a gulp. Every other man had been caught in the chaos, but Melisandre… she had been prepared.

She must have known what would happen. She positioned herself next to the king to flee the shipwreck of the Valyrian easily. After that, Melisandre must have gathered enough queen's men around her, enough to recover the Bountiful Harvest from the ice.

Davos glimpsed the shape of Lord Axell Florent from the deck, bellowing orders. He was following Melisandre too. They were pulling at the rigging, using axes and swords to chop at the ice, trying to hold the ship against the wind and waves.

Davos stared. All around the ship, the ice was cracking and slipping. It's melting, he realised. Impossibly, only around that single ship, the ice was melting enough to free the vessel. Ice so thick and cold should have lasted for weeks, if not months, yet Davos could see it dripping away unnaturally fast in a matter of minutes. As if the heat of an invisible fire was scorching it.

Behind him, ships that had been set alight during the panic. Vessels burning, the men on board trapped between fire and ice, scorching like funeral pyres for all of the men on board. Even amidst the screams, he could hear the fires howl. She's using their deaths, Davos realised. The deaths of the men trapped in the fires. She's using them to keep herself unarmed, and to prepare her own escape route .

Melisandre turned. "… Ah, Onion Lord," she called with a smile. In the distance, the dragon sent another ship crashing down. "You survived. Good. The flames were ambiguous whether or not you would or not."

Davos staggered forward. "… You knew…" he gasped. "… You knew what… you led all of these men to their deaths…"

She raised a perfect eyebrow. "… I warned you that the night was dark and full of terrors."

His hand trembled, still clutching the dirk. She has doomed us all. "… You let this happen! You knew… !"

She must have seen her own survival in the flames. She knew everyone else would die, but she would survive, so she just... let it happen. Even when thousands of men perished, Melisandre took the steps she needed to prepare an escape route - but one just for her.

"… I know that some battles must be lost for the war to be won," Melisandre replied coolly. "Some defeats are necessary."

"Necessary!" Davos croaked. "What could be necessary about this?"

"It is necessary that Azor Ahai sees the threat he must face," Melisandre said. "And he has. This is battle that will define him. It will drive him to do what he must, without hesitation, without pause, to save the world."

"You promised—"

"I promised a great battle of ice and fire in which all true believers would rally," Melisandre said, with a touch of sadness. "I did not promise that the battle would be won."

The sound of swords clashing caused Davos to turn. Two hundred feet away, across the jagged paths of ice and rolling waves, he gasped as he saw the burning blade flash.

Stannis. He could see King Stannis - clad in all his armoured glory - as he swung Lightbringer. The sword had never shone so bright. So bright it was a like a star.

Davos saw the figures charge. He heard clashing blades and thrashing bodies in the gloom. They were too far away for Davos to reach, instead all he could do was watch.

He watched as the shadow cut through them all.

His lungs froze. The scene sent tremors down his spine. Davos watched a battle on jagged thorns of ice, absolute destruction all around, highlighted by the glowing sword as men fell one by one.

"… You see it," Melisandre whispered next to him. "You see the champion of night."

It's him, Davos realised. The white-haired boy, no, more of a young man who rode the dragon. He was on the ice too; clad in black and grey furs, sword in hand as Stannis' knights charged at him.

And Davos had never seen sword-work like it.

The dragonrider held a fine black blade, one that moved faster and sharper than any Davos had ever seen before. It cleaved through plate armour like a burning knife through butter. There were knights charging at him, trying to overpower him, yet the white-haired boy cut through them all with wicked grace.

It was the best swordsmanship Davos had ever seen, and they fell before him one by one. He was a blur of slashing black. The bodies dropped faster than Davos could recognise them. Ser Patrek, Ser Brus Buckler, Ser Benethon Scales, Ser Dorden and Ser Godry Farring…

Davos' throat jammed as all of those corpses littered the ice. The boy was outnumbered twenty to one, yet he was cutting down Stannis' men faster than they could reach him.

And then suddenly the boy was on Stannis. Davos watched as his king slashed his glowing blade downwards - fighting against one on one against the white-haired boy who had just slaughtered a dozen knights.

The king was all fire and fury as he locked blades. In the light of the glowing sword, the boy's face was solemn, focused and unyielding. There was no rage, no anger… just a persistent ice-cold determination…

For a half a second, Davos thought his king might be able to beat him. Then he saw Stannis being forced backwards.

The men were shambling, but they couldn't even get there in time.

Stannis is going to lose, Davos thought with trembling hands. Hells, Stannis has already lost. The dragon demolished his fleet, and then the boy cut through his knights. Any that survived wouldn't last long against the wildlings.

"You did this…" Davos wheezed, turning to stare at Melisandre. "You did this."

The images of Blackwater Bay rippled before his eyes. First Dale, Allard, Mathos and Maric… all burnt at the Blackwater, and now Devan was out there, caught on the ice. How many men have to die in the Red Woman's machinations?

How many sons must I lose?

He glared at her. In the shimmering light, she looked more like some beautiful demon than a woman. His hands were trembling, his fingers numb as he clutched the blade.

She met his gaze. "… Careful, Onion Lord," Melisandre warned. She doesn't breathe, Davos realised suddenly. The air was so cold that a faint mist scattered in the air from Davos' haggard breaths, but there was nothing but lies coming from Melisandre's lips.

"Why?" Davos demanded, feeling his heart scream. "Why would you lead so many men to their deaths?"

"Their sacrifices are needed for the Lord of Light," she replied.

He shook his head, suddenly not caring about the pain. He was wounded, but she was unarmed. He had the right idea after Blackwater - he should have killed the Red Woman then.

"No…" Davos growled. "Too much has been sacrificed for your god already."

He raised the blade and charged. He saw Melisandre's ruby flash.

And suddenly the ice underfoot cracked. One second Davos was staring at her beautiful, horrible face, and then, the next, he was plunging downwards into dark, cold, black water.

---

Val

"Fight, you cunts!" The Weeper roared. "Fight!"

Val barely heard him. The wight lunged at her, and she caught its attack wielding her torch like a club. The creature flailed and scratched even as it burnt.

Then, a second wight launched from the darkness. Val had to drop to floor to barely escape its lunge.

It did that on purpose, she thought. The first wight charged deliberately into my torch just to disarm me. It sacrificed itself to leave an opening for the second. Val had been watching, there was no communication between them, but the wights still moved with perfect synchronicity. How?

All around her, the battle raged. The wights would charge into their blades and torches madly. They thought nothing of sacrificing themselves, they only cared about killing. The wights died quickly, but there was that inhuman intelligence directing them.

"Fight, you bastards!" The Weeper screamed, trying to hack a burning wight giant apart with his scythe. There weren't many of the dead giants, but each creature was devastatingly large and powerful. "Fight!"

All around her, Val could see their line breaking. The wights slipping through either side of them, but there was no option to run. She could only fight for her patch of ground in the forest and hope everyone else did the same.

She dragged herself up, coughing and spluttering. Her ribs ached. Her head was spinning and her hands trembling.

All around her, she could see fighting. She could see men of the Night's Watch, free folk and wights all shambling together in the dark.

The Weeper's line is breaking, she thought. They're pushing through.

The giant the Weeper was fighting finally died. It took half a dozen men to hack off its legs, and then its arms, and then its torso. The Weeper himself hacked off its head with three swings from his scythe. All of the limbs were still squirming.

Val almost stumbled as she tried to walk. She felt an arm grab her, lifting her upwards.

"Val," the woman croaked into her ear. "Stand up, Val."

"Harma?" Val stared, as Harma dragged her upwards. The older woman was bleeding and staggering, still clutching at her shoulder where the bear mauled her. Her body lurched, unsteady but strong.

"Come on," Harma wheezed, holding a stone axe with both hands.

"Dalla… the babe…"

"They're fine. We ran into Garth. He took them both and rode them into camp."

"You should have left…" Harma was injured. She could barely stand. Why did she come back for me?

"Bugger off," Harma growled. "You don't tell me what to do."

They staggered upwards. The lines of wights were fading. A shambling creature tried to attack her, but Harma crushed its head with three short strikes of her maul.

Val took a deep breath, trying to recover. It was so, so cold, even despite the fires burning in the forest. The flames hissed and crackled, starving against the cold.

And then, the fires went out. One by one, the fires went out.

She saw the cold mist spill through the trees, a creeping cold that spread over the fires - snuffing them out.

Silence swept over the battlefield.

It didn't make any sound, but Val heard it coming from the way the ground froze under its stride, frost crackling.

Val saw the pale, almost ethereal figure walk towards them, over the bodies.

She felt her breath freeze in her throat. Her blood had never felt so cold. The Other stood before them, sword drawn, clad in crystal ice armour, as still as a sculpture. Its armour flickered and reflected softly in the firelight, as if it could fit into the gloom, with flesh as pale as moonlight. Its eyes blazed like blue fire, mist drifting around its body. With every step, she felt the world go cold. Impossibly cold.

It took everything she had to keep her grip on her sword through trembling hands. Her skin felt numb. The Other stared straight at her, as if it's gaze could pierce her body.

Slowly, challengingly, the white walker drew its blade - a slender, almost delicate sword, but so cold and so sharp it crackled in the air.

"Stand up you fuckers…" The Weeper whispered, gasping for breath as he paced. "Anyone who is still alive, you stand up and you fight right now…"

The Other waited. It stood and it waited as the free folk surrounded it.

Val stood in front of it. Even amidst the screaming, the air felt so cold and quiet. The Weeper paced from behind, as the free folk surrounded the white walker.

Val had her short sword. The Weeper his scythe. Harma staggered up next to her, clutching her maul with weak, strained breaths. Five other free folk clambered around them, circling the Other, armed with axes and spears.

Eight against one, Val thought. She could feel the fear like tar in her blood. We outnumber the monster eight against one - eight good warriors.

Still, the Other didn't look concerned. It's movements were slow, lazy, taunting. Eight against one, Val repeated, her hands trembling.

There was a long moment of still. The Other stood as still as the dead.

The Weeper charged first. He hacked from behind with his scythe, without warning, without restraint. Strong, fierce strikes so fast the air hummed.

And the Other blurred. It moved in a haze of cold mist, so fast her eyes couldn't keep up.

She saw the Weeper knocked backwards. Harma roared a loud battle roar, all injuries forgotten charging in with her maul. The white walker just seemed to flow around her. The stone maul of Harma's cracked under its blade, cleaving straight through like a burning knife through snow.

They all attacked at once, attacking from all sides. Val ducked downwards and lunged, swiping her blade and its legs. The Other blocked two men at once, and then spun. Val couldn't even blink as she felt a foot collide with the centre of her chest.

She gagged. Its boot felt so cold it burned. She could see her furs crackling and hissing with ice from where it touched.

She dropped to the ground. Two others fell as well. Two men dead in a matter of seconds.

To his credit, the Weeper didn't fall. He remained fighting, barely - and Val had never seen so much rage in a person's eyes. Harma kept fighting as well, swinging her broken maul like a club. Another fighter - a man with a spear, tried to jab at the Other while the Weeper and Harma distracted it from the front and the back, but it flowed deftly between them all.

Too fast. Val gasped, but staggered up to her feet. It moved too fast to even touch; faster than she could swing a blade.

The Weeper fought stubbornly, but then he tried parrying the sword of ice, and his scythe split into frozen shards. The Weeper barely dived backwards in time, narrowly avoiding the Other's sword splitting his skull.

Two men tried to catch the Other from behind. It cut them both down. A stone axe shattered against the Other's armour.

Four dead. Even eight against one and we don't stand a chance.

The Other paused, waiting for the free folk to stand up again. It cocked its head, waiting.

It's mocking us. We're like a game to it.

"… Val," Harma growled. "Run."

Val's hands shivered as she clutched her blade.

"Run," Harma snarled. "Now. I'll hold it, you run."

The Weeper dropped his scythe and drew his two bronze swords, screaming a challenge. The Other raised its blade, staring around the clearing. Slowly, those bright blue eyes turned to focus on Val and Harma.

Harma attacked first. Even with a broken maul, a wounded shoulder and a limp, Harma was as fearless and as strong as ever. Harma threw herself like a bear, and the Weeper lunged from behind.

The Other's blade arced.

The Weeper's sword shattered against the Others neck. Val heard ice crack as well.

It bleeds cold, Val realised. The Other's wound wept like ice. There wasn't much, but she could see it. Pale blood that ran like milk.

It didn't flinch, but for a brief second the Other seemed almost irritated.

Harma dropped to the snow. The wound across her chest steamed.

She grabbed its hand, Val realised. Harma threw herself on its sword, just to grab its hand, to stop it from blocking the Weeper.

Val's heart pounded as Harma collapsed limply.

The Other took a sword to the neck and seemed to shrug it off. The Weeper gasped as the Other's hand lunged and grabbed him around the throat. The man screamed from the cold of the creature's grip.

Val was on her feet and sprinting, swinging her sword. The Other blocked her with an idle swing with its blade, and her sword shattered into icy shards.

The Weeper croaked, facing turning purple. The Other's hand on his throat steamed with cold.

Then, the other free folk, the only one still standing, struck from behind without warning and brought down his axe against the Other's wrist in a vicious strike. Both the axe and its arm shattered like ice.

The Other gave something that almost sounded like a tut as it looked at its severed stump, before turning and skewering the man in a swift motion.

The Weeper dropped to the ground, croaking with an ice hand still clutching his throat. The Other rubbed its missing wrist, looked around, and slowly walked away. Like the battle had lost all interest now.

Six dead bodies littered the ground. The Other walked away.

"Harma!" Val shouted, rushing to her friend. Across from her, the Weeper struggled to pry the hand off his throat. "Harma!"

She didn't move. The wound wasn't bleeding, but the blade stroke went deep. Harma's strong. The strongest person I know. She can survive…

Val felt Harma lurch slightly. Val gasped in hope, but then she opened her eyes. Harma's eyes were suddenly bright blue.

"No no no…" Val muttered. Her eyes stung. Around her, all of the bodies were starting to tremble and lurch. Corpses twitching like puppets, their strings being jerked.

Harma's arms started rise. Val gripped them tightly, holding the corpse in a hug as tightly as she could.

"You bastard…" Val cursed, her voice nearly choking. "You utter bastard, I'll… Damn you Harma…"

The corpse started to squirm. Val gripped tightly, hugging the body as she pulled out a dagger from Harma's furs.

"Why did you come back, Harma?" Val snapped. The cold froze the tears on her eyes. "You could have run, you should have run… Why the bloody hells did you come back!"

"Get a fucking move on, girl!" The Weeper spat.

The body thrashed, so hard Val gasped. "Damn you Harma!" Val growled, her eyes weeping as she stabbed the dagger into her friend's cold throat. "Why the - why did you come back for me? Why?"

The flesh tore roughly. Val stabbed and stabbed - and yet Harma's corpse never even flinched. It felt…wrong. Vile, because her friend was still freshly-dead enough to bleed.

Harma kept her dagger sharp, but Val still had to work hack to cut the corpse's head off.

"You should have bloody run…" Val cursed. Harma's headless body was still squirming.

The Weeper grabbed her and dragged Val upwards. "Move, girl!" He growled, his throat still raw.

"We need to burn her." The last thing Val saw was Harma's empty blue eyes staring upwards from her decapitated head, still blinking.

"Fuck that. Move."

The other wights were standing upwards, still clutching weapons. We fight them, and their army becomes bigger by the end of it. Val took a deep breath, and turned to run.

The line was collapsing. The free folk were fleeing. The night was screaming, and howling.

"Through the forest!" The Weeper bellowed. "The gates of Hardhome ain't far."

Behind her, there were only pale blue eyes.

Val ran.

She heard the dead pound behind her. Only the Others could fight a battle and come out with more soldiers than they started with. Every single man, woman or child that had fallen was on their feet again; but changed.

They charged through the forest like a tidal wave. A pure mass of bodies shambling behind her, gaining ground.

She heard men holler, horns ringing. Their line had fallen, the wights were everywhere. Thousands of them, a horde of bodies charging blindly.

She heard a howl around her.

And suddenly the sky started drumming.

Val gasped. It sounded like the greatest war drum she could ever imagine, pounding above her. Like a hurricane blasting in heavy, consistent bursts.

Her legs collapsed. She felt the whoosh of air as something very, very large flew above her. Trees cracked.

Val might have screamed. It was hard to hear or think anything at all under something that big.

Behind her, the fires hissed and extinguished under the rush of air.

"About bloody time!" She vaguely heard the Weeper bellow.

She saw white light flash. Instantly, the monster whooshed forward, and a line of burning white scorched through the forest.

White mist billowed. Pine trees exploded. Val dropped backwards. At first, she thought it was fire, but then she saw the spikes of ice pluming, and the cold draft knocking her off her feet. The saw rime cracking the trees with every icy gust.

The wights splattered into pieces. They didn't scream, didn't make a noise, as they were obliterated in the cold fire.

The first streak left a white scar through the forest. Then, the storm twisted, and another flash of white light carved through the forest, a gash along their perimeter. Val glimpsed wights left with limbs so frozen they couldn't move, flesh scoured do brittle that it collapsed.

Her heart was pounding. She saw it. Even though the trees and the darkness, she saw it in the flash of white light. A monster with white flesh and immense wings.

"… What is that thing?" Val bellowed. She couldn't stop the quiver in her voice.

"… That…" The Weeper shouted, failing to hold back a grimace. "That's our new god."

She could hear the free folk shouting, cheering. The monster scorched the forest in brief, broad and destructive strokes, tearing through the wights. It's keeping its distance, attacking the rear. It's trying to avoid catching any of the free folk too, Val realised, but lighting up a perimeter better than any of the Weeper's bonfires. It's making a wall of jagged ice.

She saw wights through darkness, but they weren't attacking, they simply turned to run without hesitation. Every wight moved as one.

The wights didn't even try to recover the battle - and maybe they could have, even with the monster in the air - but no. They just folded, instantly. Val saw the logic of it. It was a totally emotionless decision for them; with that monster in the air the Others were now more likely to lose more bodies than they could kill.

Her mouth was hanging open as she stared at the monster above. With every breath, a hundred entire feet of forest disappeared into cold, white light. It was a sight so immense, so incredible, so terrifying that she couldn't even breathe.

The great dragon roared, and the world trembled.