NOTES
Once again, I've had very little free time to write due to work and studies. Just like the previous chapter, the intervals between updates will be longer than before. I am committed to continuing the story, and I appreciate your patience and understanding as I work to balance my schedule with writing.
Ralf: Original carácter
"I am still looking for a beta reader."
This is a story based on the Game of Thrones books and TV series, but be warned, it's a very AU (Alternate Universe) story. If you're someone who doesn't enjoy a story that deviates a lot from canon, where certain characters may act out of character, or if you're not a fan of romance with a good amount of fluff, and a story that ultimately has a happy ending, then this may not be the right story for you.
KING'S LANDING, THE RED KEEP
The morning sun barely managed to pierce the gray clouds that covered the sky, casting faint glimmers of light on the turbulent waters of Blackwater Bay. Tyrion Lannister walked briskly along the walls of the Red Keep, the icy wind biting at his face as his eyes scanned the horizon with a mixture of concern and determination. Beside him, Ser Addam Marbrand moved in silence, his light armor—adorned with the emblem of a tree in flames on a smoky background—glinting weakly in the uncertain daylight. Podrick Payne, Tyrion's loyal squire, followed behind with a scroll in hand, his cape fluttering in the wind, his face tense, reflecting the gravity of the looming times.
Tyrion observed critically the defenses he had ordered erected. From the ramparts of the Red Keep, overlooking the gray waters of Blackwater Bay, catapults, scorpions, and heavy crossbows were visible, ready to be manned if needed. Groups of men sharpened swords and adjusted shields, while the master engineers tightened the strings of the scorpions and oversaw repairs on the catapults. There was no boiling oil, but large vats of resin awaited in strategic locations to be heated if necessary. Although the battle was not imminent, the tension in the air was palpable, and the entire city worked like a hive, preparing for the storm they knew was coming.
Tyrion paused thoughtfully, observing the movement of the soldiers. "How many men have you stationed here, Ser Addam?" he asked, pointing to the battlements that rose above them.
"Two hundred archers, my lord," Ser Addam replied with a confident smile. "The best from Ashemark. Each one could hit an apple at a hundred paces."
"Your arrival with twenty thousand men, Ser Addam, has been fortuitous," Tyrion said, his voice tense but filled with gratitude as he tried to be heard over the roar of the wind. "Thanks to you and the diligence of our men, the defenses of King's Landing are now formidable. Stannis Baratheon will think twice before attacking."
Ser Addam nodded with a martial smile. "Lord Tywin tasked me with securing the capital, my lord. And so we shall." His gaze fell on the fortifications, expertly surveying the lines of defense. "Though I must confess," he added with a more somber tone, "that I doubt these walls will be of much use against the threat you spoke of. That Valyria has returned... we knew that. But dragons decimating entire armies... I still find it hard to believe."
"I do not blame you for your skepticism, Ser Addam," Tyrion replied, his voice low and grave. "I myself still struggle to assimilate it. But if those tales are true, then no wall, no army, will be able to stop them. Against dragons and the magic of Valyria, our defenses are like children's toys."
Despite Ser Addam's reassuring words, Tyrion's anxiety remained. His gaze rested on the distance, towards the bay where the horizon merged with the gray sky. "And what news of my father?" he asked, his voice laden with worry.
"Lord Tywin advances without incident," Ser Addam assured. "He has divided his forces to strike on several fronts. The rebels in the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale will not be able to withstand the fury of the Lannisters for long."
"Rest assured that your father will not be long in crushing those rebels," he added with characteristic confidence. "Soon he will return victorious to King's Landing."
"Arrogance may be the downfall of the Lannisters," Tyrion thought grimly, as his gaze swept over the ramparts, as if trying to anticipate the inevitable.
Tyrion recalled his aunt Genna's words about the devastation Valyria had unleashed upon the Dothraki, and the alchemist Hallyne's description of wildfire as a pale imitation of the fire power mastered by the Valyrians. Against a threat of such magnitude, surrender not only seemed inevitable but the only sensible option.
The thought tormented him, but he kept it to himself. It was not something he could share with Ser Addam, a man whose loyalty to the Lannisters was unshakable and who still clung to the hope of victory.
"Let's continue the inspection, Ser Addam," Tyrion said, turning his gaze away from the bay and refocusing on the defenses. War was approaching, and he had to ensure that King's Landing was prepared to withstand it, at least for a time.
The sound of hurried footsteps and strident laughter interrupted Tyrion's thoughts. He turned on his heels, his face twisting into a grimace of displeasure as he saw Joffrey approaching, flanked by Cersei, Petyr Baelish, Sandor Clegane, and a young maid struggling to keep her balance under the weight of a tray laden with goblets.
"Uncle Imp," Joffrey greeted with a mocking smile. "Why all this concern for the defenses? Afraid an army of eunuchs will come and steal your precious wine?"
Cersei, her green eyes glinting with a cruel flicker of amusement, stood beside her son. "You should listen to your nephew, Tyrion," she said in a honeyed voice that did not quite mask its venom. "Perhaps if you spent less time among books and more in the training yard, you wouldn't be so worried about a few arrows and stones."
Tyrion held back a biting retort, knowing that any response would only stoke the flames of discord. "Your Grace," he merely said with a nod. "I am just ensuring that the city is prepared for any eventuality."
Baelish, with his ever-present enigmatic smile, observed the scene with interest. His eyes, like a cat playing with a mouse, shifted from Tyrion to Cersei and then to Joffrey, as if analyzing each gesture and word for advantage. Sandor Clegane, on the other hand, remained impassive a step behind Joffrey. His face, scarred by burns, was a mask of weariness and disdain. He had seen too much of the young king's cruelty, and Joffrey's mere presence provoked him deeply.
"We should go inside," Joffrey said, quickly losing interest in the topic. "This wind is freezing me to the bone. I want wine and music!"
At that moment, a stifled scream escaped the lips of the young maid. "In the sky!" she exclaimed, pointing toward the east with a trembling finger. The tray slipped from her hands, wine splattering on the stone as the goblets crashed to the ground with a loud clatter.
"Idiot!" Joffrey roared, his face turning red with fury. "Can't you do anything right?" He raised his hand threateningly, ready to unleash his wrath on the terrified girl.
"Your Grace," growled the Hound, his deep voice cutting through the tension like an axe. "Look." With a nod of his chin, he directed the king's attention to the horizon.
Three dark, enormous, and imposing silhouettes cut against the gray sky as they approached at an astounding speed. They flew in a tight formation, their massive forms gradually revealing themselves. As they drew closer, it became clear what they were: dragons. Two of them, colossal and clad in armor that reflected an ominous gleam, eclipsed the sun with their outstretched wings. The third, though large, seemed small in comparison, flying behind the other two like a loyal squire trailing after its lords. Their advance, resolute and relentless, chilled the blood of those who watched from afar, unable to tear their eyes away from these majestic creatures.
A deathly silence fell over the ramparts. Everyone present, from soldiers to nobles, stared with open mouths at the spectacle unfolding before them. Disbelief mixed with fear, and a shiver ran down the spines of those who understood the magnitude of what they were witnessing.
Joffrey, for once in his life, was left speechless. The usual cruelty on his face vanished, replaced by a mask of pure terror. Cersei, pale as death, clung desperately to her son, her nails digging into his flesh as her gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "Dragons," she whispered with a trembling voice, barely able to utter the word. "They are dragons."
Tyrion's eyes widened with astonishment and dread. He knew that the threat from Valyria was real, but seeing it manifest in such a sudden and terrifying way filled him with profound unease. The dragons did not deviate from their course, flying past King's Landing towards the north. It seemed their goal was farther, into the heart of the Seven Kingdoms.
Ser Addam Marbrand, with a pale face, turned to Tyrion. "My lord..." he began to say, but the words caught in his throat. There was no need for further explanation. The sight of those dragons, majestic and dreadful, was more eloquent than any words.
The Hound watched the dragons depart, a sardonic grin on his face. "Well, here they are," he said with a dry laugh. "The end of the world. Or maybe just the beginning of something worse." His tone was bitter, resigned, as if the sight of those ancient beings confirmed a horrible and inevitable truth about the world's fate and human nature itself. "We're all killers, aren't we? Maybe we deserve to die at the hands of other killers."
Tyrion, his mind racing, tried to grasp the implications of what had just occurred. Where were the dragons headed? What was their objective? And what did this mean for the future of the Seven Kingdoms?
Questions crowded his mind, but there were no easy answers. All he knew for certain was that the world had changed forever.
Regaining his composure, Tyrion turned to Ser Addam, his expression full of concern. "We must inform my father immediately."
Ser Addam nodded, his face tense. "As soon as I get down from the ramparts, I will send a raven to Lord Tywin."
VALYRIANS (THIS SCENE OCCURS AT THE SAME TIME)
The icy wind whipped against Ser Jorah Mormont's face as he clung to Jaenara Vaelorn's waist. Below them, Jaenara's dragon soared through the skies with powerful beats of its wings, trailing behind the other two dragons flying northward. Before them stretched the vast expanse of the sea, a blue canvas marred by white foam.
"There was no need to pass by King's Landing," Jorah murmured, more to himself than to Jaenara. "We could have reached the North much sooner."
Jaenara laughed softly, her laughter warm amidst the biting cold. "You know Aelora as well as I do, my love," she replied, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. "She never does anything without a purpose. And this detour is not just for the scenery."
Jorah gave a faint smile. "No, I imagine not. It's a reminder, isn't it? A show of strength."
"Exactly," Jaenara affirmed, her eyes fixed on the silhouettes of the dragons ahead. "A message for the usurper's son. A reminder that the Iron Throne does not belong to him, that Targaryen blood, the blood of Valyria, still runs through these lands."
"A subtle message, but effective," Jorah added with a wry smile. "Three dragons flying over the capital... They won't forget that easily."
"Aelora does nothing halfway, my love," Jaenara replied with a satisfied smile. "And this is just the beginning. Soon, all of Westeros will know."
Jaenara's words faded into the wind as the dragon ascended with a powerful flap, following the others northward.
BEYOND THE WALL, NIGHT'S WATCH ENCAMPMENT / CRASTER'S KEEP
Grenn still stood with his mouth agape, astonished by the company he found himself in, when Elaena Targaryen, with a fluid movement of her hand, unleashed a torrent of fire that surged through the ranks of the combatants. The valyrian steel swords of the Night's Watch glowed with an orange hue, while the dragonglass weapons of their allies emitted an intense gleam. Lysara and Thoros, with guttural chants, imbued the shadows and flames with a palpable energy.
"Lysara," Thoros said seriously, "stay within the circle of fire. Control the shadows from here. It'll be safer."
Lysara nodded, understanding the importance of her role. "May the light of R'hllor guide us," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the approaching White Walkers.
"For the Watch!" roared Lord Mormont, raising his flaming sword. "For the Realm of Men!"
The battle cry echoed through the frozen night, defying the sepulchral silence emanating from the horde of wights. Jon Targaryen, his heart pounding furiously, felt a surge of adrenaline as he charged forward alongside his brothers and newfound allies.
"For Old Valyria!" shouted Elaena, her voice ringing with the power of her bloodline. Benjen, beside her, nodded with determination, wielding his valyrian steel sword. "Let's fight together."
The first wave of wights slammed into the defensive lines with the force of an avalanche. Valyrian steel met spectral ice in a deafening clash. Cries of pain and fury mingled with the crunch of bones and the tearing of flesh.
"Hold the line!" bellowed Ser Jarman Buckwell, his voice booming above the chaos of battle. "Don't break formation!"
Jon, with a ferocity that even surprised himself, swung his sword with lethal precision. Each strike was exact, carving a path through the horde of decaying bodies. Beside him, Samwell fought with a courage that seemed to defy everything he had once believed about himself. He had lost count of how many times he had been called a coward, and in his heart, he had accepted it. "I am a coward," he would repeat bitterly to himself, because he had fled before, had trembled in situations that would have emboldened others.
But now, with a dragonglass dagger in hand, each strike pierced the rotting flesh of the wights with a precision that belied his fear. Every time the dagger gleamed in the air, Samwell felt a flash of something new: courage. Despite the fear still pounding in his chest, he pressed on, fighting, because in this moment, being a coward or brave didn't matter; all that mattered was surviving and protecting his brothers.
But the true threat arrived with the wight animals. A spectral mammoth, as colossal as a living mountain, charged into the Night's Watch lines, sending several brothers flying through the air with monstrous force. The snow bears, with claws like obsidian blades, raged with inhuman fury. The ice spiders, swift and deadly, skittered through the shadows. Their fangs dripped with a freezing venom so cold that even the fiercest warriors felt their bodies numbing at the slightest touch.
Though the valyrian steel armor of the Night's Watch withstood the cutting claws of the beasts, their sheer brutal strength still managed to break bones and crush organs. Jon watched in horror as a giant snow bear slammed one of his brothers into a tree with such force that, though the armor remained unbroken, the body inside trembled under the crushing pressure. The man fell to the ground, dazed, a gurgle of blood spilling from his lips.
"Edd, look out!" Jon shouted as a wight lunged at his friend. Edd skillfully rolled to the side, dodging the attack, and with a swift spin, drove his dragonglass sword into the creature's chest, extinguishing the light in its eyes.
Ygritte, sheltered behind the circle of fire, launched flaming arrows with astounding skill. Each flaming projectile cut through the air and found its mark with lethal precision, turning the snow into a dance of fire and ash as the wights fell, consumed by the flames, reduced to smoldering cinders.
The White Walkers, mounted on their terrifying ice spiders, watched the slaughter with icy indifference, directing the horde with calculated and precise movements. Their ice swords gleamed in the twilight, slicing effortlessly through anything that stood in their way. Their eyes reflected a cruelty beyond comprehension, a palpable threat that loomed like a shadow over the battlefield.
Bran the Builder, with a determined gesture, raised an impenetrable wall of ice that blocked the advance of several spectral direwolves. Benjen, beside him, unleashed a blast of icy wind that toppled one of the ice spiders, sending it crashing heavily to the ground. Their collaboration was essential, creating a protective barrier amid the growing chaos. "Anguy, focus on the spiders!" Benjen bellowed, his voice struggling to rise above the howling wind. Anguy, without hesitation, drew his bow and, with deadly precision, began to take down the creatures one by one.
Lord Beric Dondarrion, wielding his flaming sword, fought with great determination. "The night is dark and holds horrors, but fire will purify them!" Lord Beric shouted, his voice filled with fervor.
Elaena, with unshakable determination, unleashed a wave of fire that swept over several wights. The flames, dancing obediently to her will, reduced the enemies to a shower of ash. From a distance, Lysara manipulated the shadows, weakening the White Walkers and sowing chaos among their ranks.
The battle raged on relentlessly. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and ice, and desperation was palpable. Jon felt the weight of the struggle, the magnitude of the horde, and the desperation of the fighters.
"They will never end!" Edd shouted, facing several wights with his Valyrian steel sword.
"Fight until the end!" Lord Mormont replied, his flaming sword shining brightly in the darkness.
Jon, driven by relentless adrenaline, threw himself into the fray with renewed fury. Each swing of his sword was a strike of justice, carving a path through the wights. He moved with fierce agility, dodging and blocking attacks while countering with deadly precision.
A direwolf, with icy intensity in its eyes, lunged at him. Jon, in an agile move, dodged the attack and quickly rose, his sword ready for the next move. With a precise blow, he neutralized the wolf, which collapsed onto the snow.
Jon watched the chaos of the battle unfolding before him. Amid the frenzy, his eyes fixed on Samwell, who lay in the snow, knocked down by a wight. The undead creature was on top of him, scratching at his face.
Without hesitation, Jon ran towards the scene. With a roar of fury, his sword cut through the air, and with a precise strike, he decapitated the wight. The monster's head rolled through the snow, and the lifeless body fell heavily to the ground, freeing Samwell from his attacker.
"Samwell!" Jon shouted, his voice cutting through the roar of the battle. "Get back inside the circle of fire, now!"
Samwell, trembling and with a bloodied face, struggled to get up. Despite his pain, he began to retreat towards the circle of fire, where Doreah, Marillion, and even Craster's wives were busy tending to the wounded.
Jon, once again focused on the battlefield, prepared to face the next wave of threats emerging from the darkness. His determination was unwavering as the fire from the bonfire cast dancing shadows over the snow, highlighting the fury and courage in his eyes.
Jon saw Tormund forging his way through the wights, his dragonglass axe shining with brutal intensity. Anguy shot arrows with relentless precision, each one finding its mark with impactful lethality. Lord Edric Dayne, with the grace of a Dornish knight, moved agilely among the wights, his dragonglass sword slicing through rotting flesh with ease. "For Starfall!" he shouted with each strike, his voice filled with resolve.
The White Walkers, although weakened by Lysara's shadows and Elaena's spirits, remained a formidable threat. Their ice swords gleamed in the darkness, clashing against Valyrian steel with destructive force. The chaos of the battle was deafening: the roar of the beasts, the clash of steel against ice, the cries of the wounded, and the chants of Lysara and Thoros blended into an infernal cacophony.
In the midst of the maelstrom, Bran the Builder, Elaena, Benjen, Jon, Lord Commander Mormont, Qhorin Halfhand, Tormund, and Leaf found themselves near the lifeless body of a snow bear wight. They seized a moment of respite, adrenaline pumping through their veins, to assess the situation.
"We need to focus on the White Walkers," Bran shouted, his voice barely audible over the roar of the battle. His gaze met Benjen's, Jon's, and the others', conveying the urgency of the moment. "But we need proof to convince the south. We must capture one alive."
The idea, though risky, resonated with logic amidst the chaos. Lord Mormont nodded, his face marked by the gravity of the decision. "Bran, do you think it's possible?"
"It's risky," Bran the Builder replied, his voice calm despite the raging battle around him. "But if we can immobilize it with magic and chains strong enough, it might be..."
"Ben, Tormund, come with me. We'll take care of the first one," Elaena ordered, pointing to the nearest White Walker. "We'll deal with it quickly."
Bran the Builder turned to Jon, his gaze penetrating and purposeful. "Jon, come with me. We'll go after the second one," he said firmly, as the icy mist surrounding the camp swirled around them, anticipating the battle to come.
Pyp, Grenn, and Edd, who had been nearby, heard Bran's words and exchanged glances. They knew Jon and Bran were heading towards something much more dangerous. Uncertainty briefly crossed their faces, but they soon made their decision.
"We're not going to let them face that thing alone," Pyp murmured, a flash of bravery in his eyes.
Grenn nodded, gritting his teeth. "If they're going, we are too."
Edd sighed, as always with his dark humor, but there was determination in his voice. "Why not? We're likely to end up frozen or crushed, but at least it won't be boring."
Without further words, the three decided to follow Jon and Bran, preparing for what they knew would be a difficult and possibly deadly battle. Although fear was palpable in their hearts, their loyalty to Jon and the promise to fight together drove them forward into the unknown.
Leaf, with the silent grace of the Children of the Forest, approached Lord Mormont and Qhorin Halfhand. Her green eyes shone with a supernatural intensity. "Lord Commander, Qhorin," she said in a soft but firm voice, "the Children of the Forest will help you capture the last one." Without waiting for a response, Leaf and the other Children of the Forest headed towards the last White Walker, their movements swift and fluid like the wind through the trees.
The battle then split into three fronts, each with a clear objective: two White Walkers would be eliminated, while the third would be captured alive, a living proof of the threat looming over the world.
Elaena and Benjen, united in a dance of fire and ice, faced the first White Walker with near-perfect synchronization. Elaena's flames enveloped the creature, the intense heat causing the air around them to sizzle as the Walker's ice armor began to crack. An enraged roar escaped the Walker's throat as it felt the consuming heat. Benjen, moving with impressive agility, seized the distraction. His Valyrian steel sword sliced through the frozen armor with deadly precision, filling the air with a metallic, chilling sound as the dark steel weakened the creature. Finally, Tormund, with a fierce roar, lunged at the Walker and drove his dragonglass axe into its chest. The Walker let out a high-pitched scream before starting to melt, its solid form transforming into icy water that fell to the ground and evaporated quickly, as if it had never existed.
The second White Walker, the most powerful of the three, faced Jon and Bran the Builder. Mounted on its enormous ice spider, the creature tried to ensnare Jon with the spider's deadly jaws. Bran, with a swift gesture, conjured a blast of icy wind that struck the ice spider with force, destabilizing it and causing it to topple on its side, its legs shattering against the frozen ground.
Jon seized the moment. He stepped back and, with his Valyrian steel sword, delivered a clean, lethal strike that shattered the spider's head. The sound of breaking ice filled the air. The chunks of its frozen body fell around them, breaking apart on the ground before melting into puddles of cold water.
The White Walker, enraged by the loss of its mount, rose from the wreckage and attacked with its ice sword, delivering a brutal blow towards Jon. Jon blocked the attack with his Valyrian steel sword, though the impact vibrated through his arm, causing him to stagger.
Bran, spotting an opportunity, conjured a lance of ice and threw it with precision, piercing the White Walker's shoulder. The enemy staggered, but its blue gaze continued to burn with anger as it rose, determined to continue the fight.
At that moment, Pyp, Grenn, and Edd, seeing the opening, charged the White Walker. Their dragonglass daggers glinted under the moonlight as they pierced the Walker's icy armor, extinguishing the light from its blue eyes forever. The creature fell to its knees, the ice that formed its body slowly melting until only a dark, icy puddle remained at its feet.
The last White Walker, mounted on its ice spider, lunged at Qhorin and Mormont. Its blue eyes gleamed with frigid fury. Leaf, with a sharp cry, gave the command. The Children of the Forest, hidden among the trees, launched a rain of obsidian darts at the ice spider, their small forms moving with surprising speed. The creature, startled by the stings, flailed and roared, diverting its attention from the two men.
Qhorin, taking advantage of the distraction, leaped with surprising agility for his age, landing on the spider's back. The White Walker, astonished by the explorer's boldness, turned its icy gaze towards him. Their swords clashed in a burst of sparks, Qhorin's Valyrian steel ringing out under the moonlight.
Mormont, seizing the opportunity, rushed at the spider, his Valyrian steel sword shining with incandescent fury. With a single, brutal motion, he decapitated the ice monster. The spider collapsed, its legs convulsing as it melted into a puddle of icy water.
Qhorin and the White Walker fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs and steel. The White Walker, agile as a cat, sprang up, its ice sword gleaming menacingly. But before it could attack, thick vines like serpents surged from the ground, wrapping around its legs and arms with irresistible force.
Leaf and the Children of the Forest, their green eyes glowing with ancient power, pulled the vines, immobilizing the White Walker against the ground. The creature writhed in fury, trying to free itself from the plant's embrace, but the forest magic held it fast.
At that moment, a circle of fire materialized around the White Walker, encircling it in a ring of blazing flames. Elaena, Benjen, Jon, Tormund, Bran the Builder, Pyp, Edd, and Grenn arrived at the scene, the victory over the other two White Walkers reflected on their faces. With a cold determination, Elaena Targaryen controlled the flames with a simple gesture of her hand. The fire licked at the White Walker's armor, weakening it even further.
From a distance, Thoros of Myr, with a wave of his hand, sent a surge of shadows that descended upon the enemy, immobilizing it completely. The White Walker, trapped by the fire, the vines, and the shadows, roared with impotent fury, its blue eyes burning with hatred and frustration.
"Chains!" Lord Commander Mormont bellowed, his voice echoing across the battlefield. "Bring Valyrian steel chains!"
Two brothers of the Night's Watch, their hearts pounding, ran up carrying the heavy chains. Elaena watched with curiosity as the chains, her gaze seeking answers in Mormont's face. The Lord Commander, noticing her interest, gave a slight smile. "Among the various weapons that Aelora Balaerys provided us," he explained, "there were also Valyrian steel chains. It seems she knew we might need them for more than just prisoners."
Elaena nodded and watched as the brothers, with trembling yet determined hands, secured the White Walker with the chains, ensuring it could not break free. Ten wights, loyal to the captured White Walker, charged in, trying to free their master. However, the Night's Watch men, along with Tormund and Elaena's allies, quickly intercepted them. Nine of the wights were eliminated easily, but one of them, Bran the Builder, conjured a block of ice that trapped the last wight, immobilizing it in the same way as its master.
Some of the Night's Watch men looked nervously at the captured White Walker and wight. The idea of having such creatures so close, even chained, sent shivers down their spines. "Lord Mormont, are you sure about this?" one brother asked, his voice trembling. "Wouldn't it be better to end them now?"
Mormont nodded gravely. "I understand your fear, brother, but Bran the Builder is right. We need proof to convince the lords and ladies of the South of the looming threat. A living White Walker and wight will be irrefutable evidence that winter is truly upon us."
The battle was won. The specters, without the guidance of the White Walkers, collapsed on the snow, inert. A heavy silence took over the battlefield, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the crunch of ice underfoot.
Exhausted but victorious, the survivors gathered near the ring of fire. Jon, Bran the Builder, and Tormund, with his axe still in hand, approached Benjen and Elaena, their breaths ragged. Grenn, Pyp, and Edd joined the group, their faces reflecting the tension and exhaustion of the battle. Lord Beric Dondarrion, Lord Edric Dayne, and Thoros, with their swords still smoking, approached Mormont, nodding in respect. Anguy, with his bow in hand, kept a watchful eye on the forest, ensuring no threat remained. Leaf and the Children of the Forest, as silent as ever, stood aside, observing the scene with their piercing green eyes.
Elaena, her gaze fixed on the fallen Night's Watch brothers, felt a lump of pain in her throat. Despite the victory, the cost had been high. Too many lives had been lost in the defense of this forsaken place.
Lord Commander Mormont, his face somber, looked at the bodies of his fallen comrades. Half of his men had perished in the battle, their Valyrian steel armors intact, but their lives extinguished by the brute force of the wights.
He approached Elaena, who was surveying the battlefield with a mix of fatigue and contained fury. In a low, rough voice, Mormont said, "A bittersweet victory." His gaze shifted from the lifeless bodies to the surviving members. "Many brave men have fallen tonight... but at least we have held our ground."
Elaena, her jaw set, nodded slowly. "Their sacrifices will not be forgotten," she murmured, her tone grave and solemn. A solitary tear rolled down her cheek, though her eyes remained firm, filled with an indomitable resolve. "But this is not the end... we know it well."
Jon, covered in sweat and frozen blood on his face, staggered towards them. "We won," he said, his voice cracking with fatigue. "But at what cost..." His gaze was lost on the horizon, where shadows stretched ominously under the moonlight. "These horrors will not stop... we must act before they return."
Benjen, breathing heavily, turned to the others, his face hardened but his eyes shining with fierce determination. "This was just the beginning," he said, his voice cutting through the silence. "What we faced today is barely a shadow of what is to come. We must unite... or we will fall."
Suddenly, the air around them turned unnaturally cold, beyond the chill typical of the North. The fire in the protective circle seemed to waver, its flames crackling with a palpable unease. A shiver ran through the clearing, as if a malevolent presence had just descended upon them.
At that moment, something darker than night itself stirred on the horizon. It was a dark blot devouring the light of the stars, a void absorbing all heat, leaving behind an indescribable sense of despair. It was as if the world itself were losing life, as if every breath were a titanic effort.
Bran, his eyes nearly white, murmured a name that echoed ominously in the hearts of all present: "The Great Other."
A grave silence descended over the clearing, a stillness so profound it seemed to absorb even the sound of heartbeats. The shadow thickened, spreading like a dark shroud that emanated an ancient presence, filling the air with a palpable sense of despair.
Suddenly, the shadow grew even denser, and a figure began to emerge from the depths of the forest. It was not just any White Walker. This entity was different in its darkness. Its armor, an absolute black, was adorned with arcane symbols that seemed to wriggle and shift, as if the night itself were alive. Its eyes glowed with a chilling intensity that seemed to consume the light and devour the souls of those who dared to look at it.
Bran, paralyzed by terror and disbelief, whispered with a trembling voice: "He is not like the others... it's older, more powerful." His voice cracked, fear evident in every word.
Panic seized the group. The figure moved forward slowly, the air around it growing colder, as if the world itself were yielding to the will of this new presence. Every movement of the figure quickened the heartbeats of those present, the terror mounting in an almost unbearable crescendo.
At that moment, a blinding light erupted around Jon, who let out a heart-wrenching scream, a mixture of pain and surprise, before collapsing onto the snow with a dull thud. The cold became relentless, and panic spread like an unstoppable wave as the ominous figure advanced, a shadow of death that seemed inevitable.
WITHIN THE CIRCLE, THIS UNFOLDS CONCURRENTLY WITH THE BATTLE
"Ygritte, Val, stay put inside the bloody fire ring," Tormund ordered, his voice tight with worry as he watched the White Walkers advance. "That's not a suggestion—it's an order."
Ygritte opened her mouth to argue, but Tormund silenced her with a stern look. "It's for the best, lass," he said more gently. "Don't need you risking your neck out there." He then turned his attention to the two shivering figures huddled nearby. "And you two," he said, nodding toward them, "stick close. These southron flames might be all that's keeping us alive tonight."
Val sighed, her shoulders sagging with frustration. She wished she could be out there fighting alongside Tormund, but she knew he was right. She had to trust his judgment. "Fine," she muttered, her voice barely more than a whisper. "But if anything happens to you..."
Ygritte, though frustrated, knew better than to argue with Tormund when he was like this. She lowered her bow and let her gaze linger once again on the striking young woman with the silver-gold hair and light blue eyes who had caught her attention earlier. Val, noticing Ygritte's lingering gaze, raised an eyebrow with a knowing smirk. She had seen that look before—the flicker of curiosity and perhaps something more in Ygritte's eyes. It was a look that suggested a fire burning hotter than any campfire.
"What's yer name, then?" Ygritte asked Doreah, her voice gruff but laced with curiosity.
"Doreah," the young woman responded softly, startled by the sudden attention.
"And yours?" Ygritte asked, turning her attention to the bard, who stood beside Doreah, gripping a dragonglass dagger tightly in his hand.
"Marillion," the bard replied, offering a nervous smile.
Ygritte nodded, her eyes flicking between Doreah and Marillion, who was watching with a nervous glance. "I'm Ygritte Casterly," she said calmly, without a hint of pride in her voice, "and this here is my cousin, Val Casterly."
Marillion's eyes widened, his jaw dropping slightly as he struggled to process what he'd just heard. "Casterly?" he repeated, clearly bewildered. "But... the Casterlys went extinct thousands of years ago, long before the Lannisters..." His gaze darted between Ygritte and Val, trying to reconcile their wildling appearance with the noble lineage they claimed. The notion of these two women, clad in furs and armed with crude weapons, descending from a once-powerful family of kings left him both baffled and intrigued.
Ygritte raised an eyebrow with a playful smirk, clearly enjoying the bard's shock. "That's what all you southerners believe, isn't it?" she teased, her tone mocking. "Always so certain about your tales, but legends are like the northern wind—shifting when you least expect it."
Her eyes sparkled with a hint of mystery as she added, "Many of the North's stories are more real than your southern tales and songs. And some of us... we're very much alive."
Val chuckled softly, shaking her head as she watched her cousin amuse herself at the bard's expense. "Don't mind her too much," she said to Marillion with a humorous tone. "Ygritte likes to keep people guessing."
Ygritte ignored Val's comment and turned back to Doreah. "What's a pretty lass like you doin' north of the Wall, Lady Doreah?" she asked, her voice warm and tinged with curiosity. "Ain't you meant to be snug in some grand castle, far from this icy wasteland?"
Doreah blushed, her gaze dropping to the ground. "I'm not a lady," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "I'm just a humble servant from Lys."
Ygritte's eyes widened in curiosity. "Lys? What sort of place is this Lys you speak of?"
Doreah glanced up, her cheeks still tinged pink. "Lys is a city... it's located on an island beyond the Narrow Sea."
Ygritte stared at Doreah, surprised. She had heard tales of lands beyond the Narrow Sea, but she hadn't expected to meet someone from those distant places, especially not here, north of the Wall.
Marillion, observing Doreah's nervousness and the revelation about Ygritte and Val, leaned in and whispered to her with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "Doreah, you should have called her 'my lady.' She's nobility."
Doreah looked up at Marillion, her eyes wide with confusion before she realized he was trying to help her navigate the awkward social moment. She glanced back at Ygritte and Val, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "My lady," she corrected, making a slight bow. "I apologize for my mistake."
Ygritte and Val, having caught Marillion's whispered advice, observed with amusement the interaction between him and Doreah, as well as Doreah's flustered response. They burst into laughter, their enjoyment evident. Ygritte's eyes twinkled with mirth as she leaned closer to Doreah, her tone playfully teasing. "Oh, lass, you can call me whatever you like," she said with a flirtatious smile. "Don't worry about Marillion's southern nonsense."
Val, chuckling, added, "Aye, don't fret about the titles. We're all just people trying survive out here."
Ygritte then turned to Val, her voice serious but tinged with determination. "I'll listen to Tormund," she said, her tone softer now. "I won't leave the fire ring, but that doesn't mean I won't fight." She grabbed her arrows and moved toward the edge of the protective fire circle, her sharp gaze fixed on the approaching wights. As she prepared to shoot, her attention was momentarily diverted by Craster's lecherous stare at Doreah. She didn't say a word, but her expression darkened with anger. She knew that, regardless of the outcome of that night's battle, Craster would be a problem.
MINUTES LATER
"Marillion, would you be interested in taking those classes on making healing creams and lotions?" Doreah asked with a pleading tone, her blue eyes shimmering with nervousness.
The battle roared around them, the ground vibrating beneath their feet, and the air was heavy with the scent of smoke and ice. Despite the heat of the protective ring of fire around them, Doreah trembled. The violence horrified her, and she desperately sought a way to keep her mind occupied, away from the carnage unfolding before her eyes.
Marillion, pale and wide-eyed with terror, looked at her in surprise. "Classes? Now?" he asked incredulously, his gaze shifting between Doreah and the battle raging just a few meters away.
Seeing the hesitation on the bard's face, Doreah clasped her hands together in a plea. "Please, Marillion," she begged, her voice trembling. "I need to do something, anything, to stop thinking about... about all of this." Her eyes filled with tears, and she gestured shakily towards the battle. "Besides, I know there will be many wounded who will need help. My ointments and balms could ease their pain."
Marillion, moved by Doreah's plea and also seeking a way to distract himself from the horror, nodded with a nervous smile. "Alright, Doreah. I'd love to learn how to make your magical creams."
Doreah, with a sigh of relief, rummaged through the leather bag she carried and pulled out several glass jars filled with fragrant herbs, essential oils, and brightly colored salves. "Perfect," she said with a trembling smile. "First, we need to prepare a base of shea butter and almond oil..."
As Doreah explained the steps, Marillion watched her with a mix of fascination and amusement. Despite the fear gripping her, she transformed when speaking about her remedies. Her eyes sparkled with passion, her hands moved with confidence, and her voice, usually soft, took on a tone of authority.
"And what is this for?" Marillion asked, pointing to a jar filled with a bright green liquid.
"It's a burn ointment," Doreah explained. "I learned it from Alyssar, one of the people who lived in the house when I arrived at Mole's Town. He was from Lys, like me, and knew a lot about herbs and remedies. He was very kind and patient, and he taught me so much." Doreah smiled nostalgically, remembering the old man who had taken her in and taught her so much. "It's very effective."
"And this red powder?" Marillion asked, intrigued.
Doreah blushed slightly. "It's ruby powder," she explained. "Alyssar said it helps wounds heal faster and prevents infections. He said that in Lys, they use many precious ingredients in their remedies. He believed that inner beauty reflects outward."
Marillion, with a mischievous smile, raised an eyebrow. "Ruby powder, huh? Sounds very... exotic."
Doreah couldn't help but let out a giggle. "It is," she admitted.
Suddenly, Marillion was startled, realizing that their conversation had caught the attention of others. Val, sitting nearby, watched them with an amused smile, as if she had discovered something unexpected. Several of Craster's women were also watching with curiosity, their eyes filled with a mix of interest and subtle hope.
"And you too, if you'd like," Marillion added, addressing Craster's women. "Would you like to learn how to make these remedies?"
One of the women, a young girl with tangled brown hair and a shy gaze, slowly stepped forward. "My name is Gilly," she said in barely a whisper. "I'd like to learn, if you don't mind."
At that moment, Craster's harsh voice cut through the conversation. "Stop wasting time with foolishness, woman," he growled, looking at Gilly with disdain. "And you," he added, pointing a bony finger at Marillion, "stay out of matters that don't concern you."
Craster approached Marillion menacingly, his dark eyes gleaming with cold fury. Before he could say anything else, an arrow whistled through the air, grazing Craster's cheek and embedding itself in the wall behind him.
Ygritte, with her bow drawn and a steely gaze, stepped between Craster and Marillion. "Let the women learn, old man," she said threateningly. "The wounded are going to need those medicines. And it won't do you any good to lose lives because of your stupidity."
Doreah looked at her in surprise. Ygritte, despite being focused on the battle, had been listening. A warm feeling spread through her chest, a mix of gratitude and something else she couldn't quite identify.
Craster, with the mark of the arrow's graze still red on his cheek, growled but didn't dare challenge Ygritte. The wildling woman had a look that promised pain, and he had no desire to test it. Reflecting his fury onto the women, he turned toward them with a sneer of disdain. "Do whatever you want," he spat before stomping away.
Marillion, still with his heart racing from the tension, smiled at Doreah. "As I was saying, Gilly, would you and the others like to learn how to make these ointments and balms? We could prepare plenty to help the wounded."
Gilly looked at the other women, who nodded eagerly. Marillion turned back to Doreah. "What do you think, Doreah? Could we teach them as well?"
Doreah, with a deep blush on her cheeks, glanced sideways at Lysara, focused on her magic and controlling the shadows slipping across the battlefield, and at Ygritte, who watched her with a playful smile and a defiant gleam in her eyes. "Yes," Doreah whispered, "of course. The more of us there are, the faster we can prepare the remedies."
Val, who had been quietly observing the scene, stood up and approached the group. "I think it's a wonderful idea," she said with a smile. "And if you'll allow me, I'd like to learn as well." Her eyes rested on Doreah, reflecting a look of admiration. "It seems you have a special gift for this, Doreah."
Ygritte, upon hearing Val, walked up to Doreah and draped an arm around her shoulders in a possessive gesture. "My lady Doreah is very talented," she said with a proud smile. "You'll see what she can do."
Marillion grinned and addressed Gilly and the other women. "Then, let's get to work," he announced enthusiastically. "Doreah will teach us all."
The women, excited at the chance to learn something new and useful, gathered around Doreah with anticipation.
Ygritte, though she had returned to the edge of the circle of fire where she kept watch over the battle, couldn't help but cast a knowing glance toward Doreah. The tension had lifted, and between them, a strange sense of camaraderie had begun to form.
"Let's get started then," Doreah said nervously with a smile as she opened her leather bag and pulled out more jars and containers. "I have much to teach you all."
MINUTES LATER
The battle raged outside the circle of fire, but within, an oasis of relative calm had settled. Doreah, with the patience of a teacher, instructed Craster's women and a progressively more fascinated Marillion on the healing properties of herbs and ointments. Gilly, with enthusiasm, followed every instruction closely, her eyes glowing with the hope of being able to alleviate the suffering of the wounded.
Ygritte leaned on her bow, her quiver empty, watching the battle with growing concern. Her arrows were gone, but her warrior spirit still burned intensely. From time to time, she glanced at Doreah, who was busy giving orders to Craster's women while tending to the few wounded who had made it to safety inside the circle of fire.
Suddenly, a staggering figure entered the circle of fire. It was Samwell Tarly, his face pale and bloodied, his body trembling from exertion and pain. A fresh wound on his face still bled, staining the snow red beneath his feet.
Val, who was closest to the entrance, was the first to react. With a swift and decisive gesture, she moved to Samwell and helped him stay upright, preventing him from collapsing.
"Are you all right?" Val asked with concern, her voice firm but gentle. "Let me help you."
Samwell, his gaze distant, barely nodded. The pain overwhelmed him, and chaotic images of the battle still danced in his mind—a confused mixture of screams, steel, and fire.
Val helped Samwell sit near a tree, her eyes filled with worry. Doreah knelt beside him, examining the wound on his face with care. "Gilly," she said firmly, "fetch clean water and bandages."
Gilly hurried to comply, bringing a bowl of water and clean bandages. As she began to clean Samwell's wound, she glanced at him with respect.
"I saw what you did, facing the White Walker to save Tormund," Gilly said, her eyes shining with admiration. "You're very brave. What's your name?"
Samwell blushed slightly at the compliment. "Oh, that was nothing. I couldn't just stand there doing nothing," he replied modestly. "My name is Samwell Tarly. And you, what's your name?"
"I'm Gilly," she answered with a warm smile as she continued cleaning his wound.
While Gilly worked, Samwell observed the other girl, noting her exotic features—her light blue eyes and golden-silver hair. She was holding small phials with vibrant, strange liquids. "Where are you from?" Samwell asked, trying to sound casual despite his nervousness.
Doreah, upon hearing the question, flinched and looked up. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson. "I… I'm from Lys," she whispered, lowering her gaze with timidity.
Before Samwell could respond, Ralf, a nearby brother of the Night's Watch being treated, snorted. "Lys, eh? Bet those phials she's carryin' are full of poison."
Doreah hugged the phials to her chest, her eyes beginning to well up with tears. "No… they're not poisons," she said in a barely audible whisper. "Not everyone in Lys is involved in… in that."
Marillion stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Don't listen to him. You're better than any of those stories."
"What stories?" Ygritte asked gruffly, though tinged with concern. Her eyes locked onto Doreah's face, catching her embarrassed expression.
Marillion sighed dramatically. "Lys is known throughout the world. It's an island of indulgence, where slaves are trained not just for pleasure in the bedchambers, but also as deadly assassins skilled in the use of poisons, like the infamous Tears of Lys. But a person's worth isn't dictated by the place they come from. Doreah is talented and loyal, and no amount of tales or legends can define who she truly is."
Samwell, hearing Marillion, wanted to add something positive about Lys. "I've read that Lys is a beautiful place, with blue skies and a warm climate," he said, trying to offer a more balanced perspective. "It's not fair to judge someone just based on rumors."
Ygritte shuddered at the mention of slavery, a chill running down her spine. In the old faith of the Gods of the Forest, slavery wasn't just despised—it was considered blasphemous, an abomination against the very essence of life. To the freefolk, the idea of owning another being was as foreign and repugnant as the chains they had never worn. Ygritte felt a surge of anger mixed with sadness as she looked at Doreah, her heart swelling with compassion.
She glared at Ralf, and with sharpness in her voice, said, "So what if she's from Lys? People say plenty about my folk too. In the south, they talk of us freefolk like we're wild animals, sayin' we eat human flesh. But ye don't see me chewin' on bones, do ye?" she spat.
She turned to Doreah, her voice softer now, though still fierce. "I don't care what they say about Lys. Ye ain't like them. Just like not all my folk are the monsters they make us out to be."
Doreah blinked, surprised by the sudden support. "Thank you," she whispered.
"Were you a slave?" Ygritte asked softly, her voice barely audible.
Doreah nodded, her gaze lost in the fire. "I was sold when I was nine," she whispered. "I almost ended up in a pleasure house, but… I was lucky." Her voice broke as she recalled the anguish and fear of those dark days. She glanced toward the edge of the fire circle, where Elaena Targaryen fought with a ferocity that contrasted with her usual calm demeanor. "She and Lord Jon Connington saved me from that fate," Doreah added, her voice a mix of gratitude and sorrow.
Unable to help herself, Ygritte wrapped Doreah in a protective embrace. The warmth of Ygritte's body, the scent of the woods and snow, comforted Doreah, who nestled into her arms, seeking refuge in her strength. The battle continued to rage around them, but in that moment of stillness, everything seemed to stop.
Ygritte leaned her head toward Doreah, whispering in a firm yet gentle voice, "If we survive this… if we make it past the Wall, I'd like to see Lys someday. To see those blue skies that Samwell and your bard friend speak of, and to know the place you once called home. Maybe then you could show me."
Doreah looked up, surprised by the offer. A faint smile touched her lips as she nodded softly. The light in her eyes, this time, was not one of sadness but a spark of hope.
At that moment, Lysara, who had been focused on controlling the shadows fighting the wights, turned toward the group. "We should focus on the battle," she said seriously. "We haven't won yet."
MOMENTS LATER
Within the circle of fire, the tension was so thick it could be cut with a knife. Doreah, her hands still carrying the scent of herbs and ointments, felt a knot in her stomach caused by the battle raging just meters away. Ygritte held her firmly, as if trying to pass some of her strength to her.
When the first White Walker fell, a gasp escaped Doreah's lips. The sight had been as awe-inspiring as it was terrifying: Elaena, wrapped in flames like a vengeful goddess, and Benjen Stark moving with the icy fury of winter. Finally, Tormund, the red-bearded giant, charged at the enemy with his dragonglass axe, delivering the final blow that destroyed the ice creature. Val and Ygritte, their eyes shining with fierce pride, exchanged a look filled with meaning.
"TORMUND!" Val and Ygritte roared in unison, their faces lit with a mix of pride and relief. Val gave Doreah a friendly slap on the shoulder, her smile radiant. "That's my cousin! No one wields an axe like him!"
Ygritte, her eyes still gleaming with excitement, nodded eagerly. "He showed those ice creatures who's really in charge of the true North!" she exclaimed, before hugging Doreah again, a blend of joy and protection in the gesture, as if it could keep her safe from the brutality of the world around them. As the echoes of the battle faded for a moment, in that embrace they shared a breath of hope amid the chaos.
Lysara, pale from the effort of controlling the shadows that weakened the monsters, nodded with satisfaction. "One less," she murmured, her voice hoarse from exhaustion.
The fall of the second White Walker unleashed a wave of cheers among the wounded. Samwell, adrenaline still coursing through him from his own near-death encounter, stood up suddenly, forgetting for a moment the pain in his bruised face. "They did it!" he shouted, his voice full of disbelief and relief. Gilly, with a stifled cry, threw herself into his arms, hugging him tightly. Samwell, surprised but moved, returned the embrace, feeling the blush rise to his ears.
The capture of the last White Walker, immobilized by the magic of Leaf and the Children of the Forest, brought a tense joy to the air. The women, tears in their eyes, embraced one another, murmuring grateful prayers to the old gods.
Doreah, still shaken by the brutality of what she had witnessed, remained in Ygritte's protective embrace, feeling her warmth as a shield against the horrors of the outside world. As her breathing steadied, a familiar figure approached through the crowd. It was Marillion, his smile filled with relief. Without saying a word, he wrapped his arms around her, adding another layer of comfort.
"We made it, Doreah," he whispered softly but with deep emotion. His voice, laden with hope, resonated like a comforting melody amidst the storm they had just weathered.
Despite the euphoria of the moment, a cold premonition settled in Lysara's heart. The cheers of battle had fallen silent, replaced by an unnatural stillness that crept from the forest like an icy fog.
"Quiet," Lysara hissed, her voice tense and sharp. "Something is coming."
A chill ran down Doreah's spine. The fire within the circle, which had once burned brightly, now flickered weakly, casting dancing shadows that twisted and stretched like wraiths. The air turned frigid, and the stench of decay and death filled their nostrils.
A shadow, vast and imposing, stretched from the forest, swallowing the starlight and enshrouding the clearing in unnatural darkness.
Craster's women screamed in terror, seeking refuge among one another, their faces pale as death. Marillion jumped to his feet, his dragonglass dagger trembling in his hand. Samwell, eyes wide with fear, clung to Gilly's arm.
Craster, with a guttural growl, unsheathed his dagger, his face twisted in a grimace of hatred and fear. "By the old gods…," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the sound of the wind howling through the trees.
Lysara, her eyes fixed on the approaching shadow, took a step back, her face pale as a corpse. "The Great Other…," she whispered, her voice filled with an ancient terror.
Out of the shadows emerged a White Walker unlike the others. Its presence was more imposing, its armor gleaming like black ice, and its eyes burned with an unnatural blue light. It was taller, colder, like a personification of death itself.
A blood-curdling scream, filled with pain and agony, pierced the clearing, shattering the deathly silence. Samwell clutched his head, his eyes wide with horror. "JON!" he screamed, his voice tearing through the night.
Lysara, her eyes filled with a different, deeper fear, stumbled backward. "It can't be…," she murmured, her voice barely a strangled whisper. "Not him… not now."
All eyes turned to the source of the sound, their hearts pounding in their chests.
Jon lay on the ground, unconscious, his body wrapped in a blinding light.
Val, staring at the scene in horror, felt a shiver run down her spine, an icy premonition that froze her in place.
Suddenly, she felt an unusual warmth in her chest, right where the ancient Casterly key rested against her skin. She glanced down, expecting to see only the golden glow that had begun to appear days earlier, but instead found something different. The key now emitted a pulsating light, a mesmerizing blend of icy white and intense blue, like flames trapped within a block of ice. Val stared at it, her mouth slightly open, bewildered by the sight, and wondered what connection this ancient family relic might have to the looming horror surrounding them.