Uprising

by litwater44

A blue rose, surrounded by fire and ash. Rhaegar Targaryen's triumph at the Trident was bittersweet, shrouded in the mystery of Lyanna Stark's death and her stillborn child. Years later, the bastard of Winterfell returns to Westeros astride a fierce black dragon whose flames will reignite the whispers of war.

34. What Remains

Ned

The wind beyond the Wall cut sharper than any blade, howling over the bleak expanse of ice and snow. Ned Stark drew his cloak tighter around him, though it did little to ward off the chill. The North was harsh, but this was something else—a land unyielding, where even the sun seemed reluctant to linger. Ahead of him, the column of men marched silently, their breath misting in the cold. Behind them, the Wall was a distant memory.

"Hardhome lies two days east, if your pace doesn't falter," Mance Rayder said, his tone clipped. The wildling king, bound with iron chains, trudged beside Ned's horse. His eyes burned with defiance despite his captivity.

Stannis Baratheon rode on the other side of Ned, his jaw set like granite. He wore his black cloak of the Night's Watch with the same grim authority he'd once worn since he was a child. "We'll reach it in less if they march faster," he said.

"They're not southerners," Ned replied. "They'll hold."

Stannis gave a curt nod but said nothing more. His silence was as relentless as the cold.

It made Ned think of Robert Baratheon and how his laughs could have warmed the bones of his enemies.

Behind them, banners fluttered weakly in the wind, sigils of the great northern houses: the bear of Mormont, the sunburst of Karstark. Lords and their men followed, wrapped in furs and steel, their grim faces mirroring the landscape. Ten thousand souls, all marching into the unknown.

Ned glanced at Galbart Glover and Halys Hornwood, riding together near the front. Maege Mormont and Rickard Karstark rode with their men, speaking in low voices, while Wylis Manderly and Helman Tallhart kept a watchful eye on the rear.

Ned's gaze lingered on them, his heart heavy. So many of the North's best had followed him beyond the Wall. He prayed their faith in him would not be their doom.

The journey north had already been marked by blood. Stannis had executed Craster just days ago, after the truth of his vile practices came to light.

"An affront to gods and men," Stannis had said before swinging the sword himself. "I will not let this scum breathe our air.."

The wildlings had scattered after Craster's death, his wives and daughters too terrified to speak. The fires of his keep had burned long into the night, the stench of smoke and death mingling with the freezing air.

Mance had been silent during the execution, his face betraying nothing. Only later, as they marched away, did he speak.

"You think you've done a mercy?" he had asked. "Craster was a monster, aye, but he kept the Others at bay. They don't come for him because he gave them what they wanted."

"What did they want?" Ned had asked, though he feared the answer.

"His sons," Mance had said simply.

Even now, the memory of those words chilled Ned more than the wind. What sort of creatures demanded such a price?

How could a man be so vile as to sacrifice his own sons? Ned thought of Robb, Bran, Rickon...and Jon. Anger made the chill seem pleasant. He wished he was the one to take Craster's head.

It was near dusk when the first attack came.

The horns blared from the rear, sharp and urgent. Ned wheeled his horse around as chaos erupted among the column. Wildlings emerged from the treeline, their cries fierce and guttural.

"Shields!" Galbart Glover roared, his sword flashing as he spurred his horse toward the fray.

Ned drew Ice and charged. The world became a blur of snow and steel as he clashed with the attackers. The wildlings fought like wolves, their axes biting deep, but the northern lords held their ground.

Maege Mormont was a fury, her mace crushing bone and splitting shields. Rickard Karstark fought with cold efficiency, his longsword cutting down man after man. Stannis joined the battle as well, his black cloak billowing as he hacked through the wildling ranks.

Ned's horse reared as a wildling lunged at him. He brought Ice down in a deadly arc, and the man crumpled to the ground. Around him, the snow was stained red with blood.

The battle was over as quickly as it had begun. The wildlings retreated into the woods, leaving their dead behind.

"Casualties?" Ned asked, his voice hoarse.

"Two dozen dead, twice as many wounded," Helman Tallhart reported grimly.

Ned nodded, though the weight of the losses pressed heavily on him. They were still days from Hardhome, and already the cost was high.

Later, as Ned wiped the blood from Ice, his eyes cold and distant, he turned to Mance and spoke with quiet resolve. "So far, we've faced the wildlings—but not a single sight of the dead. What game are you playing?"

Mance looked at him quietly. "It is their game. And their rules are cruel."

The fire crackled in the chill of the northern night, sending fleeting shadows dancing across the faces of the men sitting around the campfire. The sound of distant winds and the ever-present crunch of snow beneath boots were the only interruptions to the stillness. A heavy silence hung in the air, one that was broken only by the occasional murmur from the camp.

Ned Stark sat, hunched over with his cloak wrapped tightly around him. Across the fire, Mance Rayder stared into the flames, his face unreadable. The former King-Beyond-the-Wall had been surprisingly helpful so far—though no less enigmatic. He was a man of secrets, and even though Ned had tried, he hadn't been able to uncover the full depth of those secrets yet.

Tonight, however, Ned couldn't sit still. His thoughts kept drifting back to one person—the person he'd been unable to leave behind, the person who had shared Lyanna's warm laughter.

"Where is Benjen?" Ned demanded, his voice sharp, cutting through the stillness of the camp. "Where is my brother?"

Mance raised his eyes slowly, studying Ned with a look that seemed almost pitying. The wildling's lips curled into a smile, but there was no humor in it. "Benjen Stark," Mance said softly, his voice low as though speaking of a lost friend. "I had him in my custody... along with Halfhand."

Ned's heart tightened, his fists clenching around the hilt of his sword, which lay beside him on the ground. "You had Benjen?" He leaned forward, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. "Where is he? Is he alive?"

Mance's eyes darkened as he continued, his tone grave. "The White Walkers attacked before we could do much with them. The last I saw of Benjen Stark, he was running with the Horn of Winter in his hand."

The words hit Ned like a blow to the chest. Benjen... with the Horn of Winter? The thought of his brother, alive, clinging to that ancient, cursed artifact, filled Ned with a fleeting sense of hope.

"He's alive," Ned whispered, almost to himself, before looking sharply at Mance. "You're sure he's alive?"

Mance's eyes glinted with something between amusement and pity. "Don't get your hopes up, Lord Stark. If Benjen had the Horn, then the White Walkers will be on his trail. That horn calls to them, in a way... draws them to him. They'll have already found him by now."

Ned's stomach turned with a mix of dread and rage. His brother had gone missing—possibly trapped by the very creatures they were now hunting—and he hadn't known. The weight of the possibility that Benjen had been walking toward a doomed fate pressed heavily on his chest.

"No," Ned said, his voice firm, though the despair he felt could not be hidden. "I have to find him."

Mance didn't respond immediately. He seemed to weigh the words, his gaze distant, before speaking again. "The Horn of Winter is an ancient legend, Stark. Some say it can wake giants from their graves. Others say it can destroy the Wall itself. Some even say it can bring down the whole of Westeros, if it's used properly."

Ned frowned, disapproving. "If you blew it, you would bring down the Wall. You'd destroy any protection we have against your 'White Walkers'."

Mance shrugged, an expression of nonchalance creeping over his face. "It was only a threat," he said, his tone dismissive. "A way to get the Crows to let us through the Wall. Nothing more."

Ned stared at him for a long moment, the fire crackling between them. He wanted to call Mance a liar, but he couldn't. There was too much truth in the wildling's words. Too many strange things had happened since they crossed the Wall. The Horn of Winter, whatever it was, was far more dangerous than anyone could know.

"After our defeat at the Fist, most of the clans fled to Hardhome for refuge," Mance said, his eyes locking with Ned's. "And I know what you're thinking, Stark. You intend to raise your banners and burn Hardhome to the ground, cutting down every Freefolk with your steel and fire."

Do I have a choice? I did not bring a small army to have tea and cakes.

Ned's lips curled into a grimace, his hand resting on the hilt of Ice. "And why wouldn't I? The wildlings have raided and pillaged across the North for years. They've slaughtered innocent people, stolen livestock, burned homes. They've earned nothing but punishment."

Mance's expression soured. "Punishment? You think that's what this is? A punishment? You're going to burn them all alive in the name of justice, Stark? Do you think every Freefolk is a murderer or a thief?" He stepped closer, his voice rising. "We are not your enemy! Not all of us. You think you can kill your way through this, but all you'll do is create more death. More bodies for the dead to rise and walk again. Just like the ones you're so eager to kill."

Ned's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. "You've been a thorn in the side of every lord in the North, Mance. You may talk of your women and children, but I've seen what your people are capable of. I know what they've done. Every raider, every killer, every band of savages that crossed the Wall—they are your responsibility. I'm not here to make peace with you, Mance. I'm here to make sure the North is safe."

Mance's voice dropped, but it was no less fierce. "Safe from what? From me? From my people? You think we want to destroy the North? We don't want to be your enemies, Stark. What we want is the same thing you have. A place to live, a place to survive. We've lived for centuries beyond your Wall. We've been forced to live in the cold, hunted and hunted again. You think you can wipe us out with your swords and your law?"

Ned was silent for a moment, the weight of his words pressing down on him. "What's your plan, then? To sneak your people into the lands south of the Wall? You think we'll just let you flood our lands with your kind?"

Mance's eyes flashed with frustration, but there was something deeper in them too—something that spoke of weariness. "You think I want that? You think I want more death? No, Stark. We're not running to your lands. We're running from something far worse. The dead that are rising in the north. The white walkers. They're coming for all of us, whether we're Freefolk or lord. The Wall might not even stop them."

Ned's grip on Ice tightened, but he was listening now, his anger momentarily quelled by the gravity of Mance's words. "Then why don't you tell me what you want, Mance. If it's not death, what is it?"

Mance exhaled a breath, almost as though he'd been holding it in for too long. "We want a wall between us and the dead. The white walkers are the real enemy here. They're coming for all of us, Stark. You may not believe it now, but you will. And when they do, no lord, no Freefolk, no man will be spared. We need something to separate us from them. A wall that stands, not against the living, but against what's dead."

Ned stared at him, his mind racing, but his voice remained steady. "A wall. You think another wall will save you? You'd rather put up another barrier, hide behind it like cowards, instead of facing the enemy head-on?"

Mance shook his head, his expression grim. "We've fought the dead before, Stark. You think we're cowards? You think we want to hide behind your Wall? The truth is, there's nowhere to hide from them. We need a truce, a united front. I don't care about your banners or your titles. But we cannot fight this alone. Not without allies."

Ned looked at him, distrust and confusion warring on his face. "And what do you expect me to do? Join you in some kind of alliance? After everything you've done?"

Mance didn't flinch, his voice cold as he responded, "What do you expect me to do, Stark? Kneel to you? Beg you for mercy? I'll give you one chance to see reason. We can join forces, face the dead together, or we can fight to the last. And the dead will be the last ones standing."

The words hung in the air between them, charged with the weight of unspoken truths. The campfire crackled in the silence, casting long shadows over the two men, but Ned couldn't shake the thought gnawing at him. Mance's words about the white walkers had an edge of truth that he couldn't dismiss.

"Tell me more about these white walkers," Ned said after a long pause, his voice quieter now, though still skeptical. "What are they really?"

Mance's eyes hardened, his voice low as he spoke. "They are not like any men you've ever fought. They don't bleed. They don't die. The dead will rise under their command. They have power. Power we don't fully understand. They're coming for us all."

The firelight danced in Mance's eyes, and for the first time, Ned could see the weight of what he'd been carrying—the fear, the helplessness, and the cold, bitter truth of what lay beyond the Wall.

"So, you want me to fight alongside the very people who've been raiding my lands, killing my people?" Ned's voice was hard, but the conflict within him was clear. "What's to stop you from turning on me the moment the threat passes?"

"Nothing," Mance said, meeting his gaze. "But I don't want to be your enemy. I never did. What I want is survival. For all of us. And that's something we can only achieve if we stop fighting each other long enough to face the real enemy."

Ned was silent for a long time, his thoughts swirling. His hand slowly released its grip on Ice, and he turned his gaze to the horizon, as if expecting to see the dead already coming for them.

"I don't trust you, Mance," Ned said, his voice low. "And I don't trust your people. But for the sake of the North... and for the sake of those who can't defend themselves... I will listen. I will hear you out. But there will be no peace until I know you speak the truth."

Mance nodded once, sharply, as if he knew what was coming. "Then we shall parley. But remember this, Stark: If we fail, if the dead win, there will be no one left to fight. Not you, not me, not anyone."

The winds howled like the cries of lost souls as Ned Stark and his northern lords stood in the half-ruined courtyard of Hardhome. The bleakness of the place matched the mood of the gathering. The remnants of the wildling settlement lay in ruins—charred buildings, cracked stones, and scattered debris. The air smelled of brine and rot, of saltwater mixing with the stench of decay. The distant rumble of waves crashing against the cliffs sounded like the drums of a funeral march.

Around them stood the wildlings, their faces grim, hardened by the trials of life beyond the Wall. Most of them were armed, hands resting on swords and axes, eyes narrowed with suspicion. They glared at the Northerners, as if daring them to make the first move. There was no warmth in their eyes—only a cold, enduring resistance.

Ned stood at the forefront, flanked by his bannermen, his brow furrowed. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, a habit that betrayed the tension in the air. Beside him stood Mance Rayder, bound in chains but carrying himself with the quiet authority of a man who was used to leading. Despite his imprisonment, Mance commanded respect, and the wildling leaders watched him closely, as if waiting for his signal.

"We've come to parlay," Ned said, his voice steady. He had known this moment was coming, but the feeling of hostility in the air still sent a chill down his spine. "What is it you seek, wildlings?"

Mance glanced at him, then addressed the crowd of wildling leaders, who had reluctantly gathered at his command. They were not here because they wanted peace, not because they trusted the Northerners—but because they trusted Mance. And they would follow him, even if it meant standing in the cold ruins of Hardhome and bargaining with their enemies.

Tormund Giantsbane, the giant of a man with a wild red beard, was the first to speak, his voice gruff and loud, belying the irritation that churned beneath his words. "Speak plainly, Stark. We're here because Mance said so, not because we think your kind are worth our time."

Ned's eyes flicked to Mance. The wildlings' stubbornness was evident in their every word and gesture. They were here to listen to Mance—not to him. And it irritated Ned, but he held his tongue.

"I'm listening," Ned said, his voice calm but firm. "Why should we trust you, after everything your people have done?"

Tormund snorted. "Trust? What do we need trust for? You think we're fools?" His eyes flashed, hard and defiant. "I know what you've been saying—'wildlings are thieves, raiders, murderers.' Your lords and knights have called us savages for generations. And we've returned the favor."

He pointed a finger at Lord Karstark, who stood stiffly beside Ned. "Your men've done worse than what we've ever done. Who do you think killed my brothers and sisters on the Frostfangs? Who burned our villages? It wasn't us. It was your kind, Karstark. Your damned kind."

Lord Karstark's face twisted into a grimace, but he did not retort. He had heard the tales of wildling raids, of the brutal raids beyond the Wall, but now that they faced a greater threat, it was clear that old grievances would be hard to set aside.

Val, a tall wildling woman with pale, hard eyes, stepped forward next, her voice low but filled with conviction. "Tormund's right. I'm here because Mance says we must speak, not because I think you've earned it. You think we don't know what's coming? The dead are walking. And you want us to kneel before your castles, your walls, your gods? To bend to your will like sheep?"

Her gaze swept over the northern lords, hard and unyielding. "I've lived a long time, Stark. And I've seen enough death to know that you don't survive by clinging to old ways. Your kind may want to fight among yourselves, but the dead care nothing for your feuds. They will kill every last one of you, and the wildlings will be next. You think we're barbarians? Wait until you meet the things out there, beneath the ice."

The tension between the two sides was palpable, the air thick with the unspoken disdain that had been building for years. The wildlings were a proud people, and they were not accustomed to pleading or negotiating. They had survived by their own strength, and they saw little reason to humble themselves before the Northerners.

Ned's voice cut through the tension, sharp and deliberate. "I ask for your fealty. I ask for your cooperation. If what you say is true—if the dead are truly coming—then we must set aside our differences and stand united. But I will not simply let you through the Wall. There are rules, traditions, and people to consider."

At this, Mance Rayder's eyes flicked toward the wildling leaders. He had remained silent until now, but his voice rang out with the weight of authority.

"Stark, you can't keep us out forever. The Wall's a barrier, not a shield. You know it, and I know it. We can't keep running. If we are to stand a chance against the dead, we need more than just your castles and your steel. We need allies. We need food. We need a place to call home."

Harma, a rough-featured wildling woman who had been silent until now, took a step forward, her voice low but filled with sharpness. "You talk of survival, Stark, but for what? To sit behind your walls and wait for death? You think we don't know what's out there? We don't want your castles. We don't want your 'honor.' What we want is to live."

Mance's voice grew softer but carried a depth that none could ignore. "Listen to them. They are stubborn. They will never kneel to you, Stark, not unless it's the only choice they have left. But they listen to me, because I've led them through the worst of winters and the harshest battles. And I'm telling you, there is no time for pride or petty differences. The dead are coming for all of us."

Lord Umber's voice was gruff, tinged with frustration. "And what of your people? Your tribes raid our lands, take what they want, and leave us with nothing. We're supposed to welcome you in?"

Tormund's eyes locked with Umber's, a cold fire in them. "You don't welcome us. You don't have to. But you can either fight alongside us, or you'll die alone. You think the dead will care if you're a Karstark or an Umber? You think they'll spare you just because you're 'honorable'?"

Ned's patience was wearing thin, but he understood the point. "And if we refuse? If we do nothing?"

Val's face hardened. "Then we'll do it alone, Stark. But we won't forget that you let us die, just like you won't forget when the dead come for your people."

Mance nodded, his voice steady and commanding. "The dead are not some story to scare children, Stark. They are real. And the Wall is no longer a protection—it's a tomb for all of us if we let it be."

For a long moment, the air was thick with the weight of their words. Tormund, Val, and Harma stood resolute, unwilling to show weakness. But it was clear—this was no longer a meeting of equals. The wildlings were here because Mance had commanded them to come. They were not interested in peace, not truly. They were stubborn, proud, and desperate. And they were not about to bend to anyone's will, not even for survival.

Mance Rayder, despite his chains, held the meeting in his hands, his voice the only thing that kept it from descending into chaos. He had earned their respect—not through diplomacy, but through strength, leadership, and the burden of being the one who dared to stand between them and their extinction.

Tormund Giantsbane scowled at the Northerners, but it was the others who spoke next. Crowkiller, a wildling with a face like a slab of stone, sneered at the Northerners. "We don't need your help to get through the Wall, Stark. We've lived long enough in the cold and the dark. If we want past your cursed Wall, we'll do it our way—by killing every last one of you."

Beside him, the Weeper, a gaunt wildling with hollow eyes and a cruel grin, laughed harshly. "The Wall may be high, but it can't stop the free folk. We've taken castles before, and your Wall's no different. You talk like we're too weak to climb over, to take what we want. Well, Stark, let me tell you—if you stand in our way, I'll cut you down just like any other man."

Rattleshirt, his face a twisted patchwork of scars, stepped forward with an air of authority, his voice low and dangerous. "And what if we don't need you at all? What if we just take what's ours? You think the wildlings are so desperate for your land and your castles that we'll beg? I'll fight every damn man in this camp if I must. I'll gut you all, fuck your skulls and carve my way south."

The words struck like a slap in the face, and the tension in the air thickened, like a storm about to break. Ned's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. He had heard many things in his life—many threats—but there was something in these wildlings' voices, in the fierce defiance they carried, that made his blood run cold.

Stannis grinded his teeth, as the Night's Watch behind him shimmered in anger. "Should just take their heads and be done with it."

Lord Karstark's face twisted with anger. "So that's how it's going to be then?" he spat, eyes flashing. "We're supposed to help you, after everything you've done? After the blood you've spilled?"

Tormund stepped forward, his gaze hard. "It's you who needs us, Karstark. Your pretty castles won't save you when the dead come. But fine, if you want to die with your pride, we'll leave you to it. I've no care for what you think."

Ned raised his hand, his voice low but cutting. "Enough. We're here to talk, not fight."

But the wildlings weren't done. Crowkiller sneered, leaning forward with malice in his eyes. "Talk? You want to talk? Then let's get to the point—will you stand with us, or will you die with your Wall and your honor? Because if it's the latter, we won't wait for you to make up your mind. We'll make it happen ourselves."

The words hung in the air like a sword poised above their heads, and for a moment, the entire gathering seemed to hold its breath. The Northerners were visibly angered, their hands straying to their weapons, but Mance Rayder stepped forward, his voice cold and commanding, cutting through the rising anger.

"Enough," Mance's voice carried, though his chains rattled slightly as he spoke. "You'll do as I say, not as your impulses tell you." He locked eyes with Crowkiller, Weeper, and Rattleshirt. "We are here because we must be, because survival requires it. If you want to destroy every last man, woman, and child of the North, fine. But know this—we are all dead if we don't unite against the true enemy."

Ned, sensing the rift growing between his lords and the wildlings, forced a calmness into his voice. "If we are to stand any chance against this... dead, we must stand together. I will not pretend we are friends. But if what you say is true, I would not let people die alone."

The wildlings, however, remained steadfast in their distrust. The Weeper's grin was gone, replaced by a cold stare. "You still think we owe you something? You think we should kneel to you? We came here for one reason—to survive. If you can't offer that, we'll make our own way south, through your Wall and over your corpses if we must." Then he laughed, sharp and cruel. "And take your eyes while were at it."

Lord Umber clenched his fists, his voice thick with fury. "You think we'll let you walk all over us? We're not some craven fools to bend to your will. We've fought for every inch of land we hold. And we'll die with honor, not as pawns in your wildling game."

Mance's expression hardened, but he spoke again, this time with the weight of a man burdened by both leadership and the threat of annihilation. "The Wall is no protection anymore. Not from the dead. And not from the other dangers waiting beyond. I don't ask for your fealty, I ask for your help."

A low murmur swept through the crowd, but before it could escalate into further argument, the temperature seemed to drop even further. It wasn't just the chill of the wind—it was as though the very air had frozen. The wildlings stiffened, their hands tightening around their weapons. The Northerners felt it too, the sudden, unnatural cold creeping into their bones.

The voices died down, and for a moment, no one moved. A cold unlike any the Northerners had ever known filled the air, a biting frost that cut through the bone. It was not just the winds from the sea, nor the sharp cold that the far North brought. It was something else, something deeper. The temperature seemed to plummet in an instant, and even the wildlings, who had lived in the harshest of conditions, shuddered.

Gods...why is it so cold?

Ned's eyes darted around, his senses heightened. He had felt the presence of something ominous in the air—the wind that shifted so suddenly, the cold that cut so sharply, the unsettling silence that followed. The wildlings fell quiet, their faces drawn with worry.

Mance, too, seemed to feel it, his eyes narrowing as he looked into the distance. The cold was unnatural. It was a warning, the calm before the storm.

The cold spread across the land, a herald of something far worse than any argument, any parley.

The chill in the air deepened to a cruel, biting cold that made Ned Stark's breath plume in thick, visible clouds. The hairs on his neck stood on end, his instincts screaming a warning that words could not express. Around him, the men of the North and the wildlings alike had fallen into a tense silence. The waters of Hardhome stank of salt and rot, the icy wind carrying an undertone of something worse—decay and death.

Then they came.

The dead shambled forth from the shadows of the forest, from the icy shorelines, from the black water. At first, it was just a few—a skeletal child dragging a broken spear, a woman whose jaw hung loose, her blue eyes blazing with unnatural light. Then the numbers swelled, wave after wave of the undead pouring out like a tide of death. Men, women, children, some missing limbs, some little more than bones held together by threads of sinew. Behind them came creatures: bears with matted fur and gaping maws, shadowcats with frozen pelts, and wolves that howled with a sound that should have died with their flesh.

Gods...they are real.

Ned's grip tightened on Ice, the greatsword's cold steel almost comforting against the unnatural sight before him. His heart pounded, his mind reeling with the realization that Mance Rayder's warnings had been no wildling exaggeration. These were not stories to frighten children. These were horrors beyond the reckoning of any sane man.

Yet, despite the terror clawing at his stomach, Ned Stark stood firm.

"Mance!" he barked, his voice hoarse but resolute. "What are these things?"

Mance's response came in a roar. "Fire! Burn them all! That's the only way to stop them!" His commands cut through the frozen air as he rallied the wildlings around him, but it was chaos. The clans, stubborn and proud, refused to mix, each forming their own haphazard lines, squabbling even now about position and honor.

Ned turned to his men, his voice cutting through the rising panic. "Form ranks! Shields up! Hold the line!" The Northerners moved with practiced precision, locking shields and raising spears, their unity a stark contrast to the disarray among the wildlings.

On the other side, the Weeper shouted at his own people, his scarred face twisted in fury. "Get in line, you fools, or I'll cut your eyes out myself!"

"We don't need their help!" Rattleshirt snarled, glaring at the Northerners. "We've fought worse than this and lived!"

"You think these walkers care about your boasts?" Mance bellowed. "Shut your mouths and fight, or you'll end up among them!"

The tension between the two sides threatened to boil over, but the dead gave no room for debate. They crashed against the makeshift lines like a storm, their assault relentless and horrifying. The wildlings fought in scattered groups, each clan shouting in their own tongues, their weapons clashing against icy flesh. The Northerners, though better organized, struggled to maintain their formation under the unyielding assault.

The sounds were a cacophony of terror: the wet thunk of swords splitting frozen flesh, the bone-chilling groans of the dead, and the screams of the living as they fell. The smell of burning flesh—both living and dead—hung heavy in the air as the few fires set by the wildlings took hold.

Ned swung Ice in great, arcing sweeps, cutting through the dead with grim determination. Each strike sent shards of frozen flesh and bone scattering, but they kept coming. His arm burned with the effort, and his breaths came ragged and shallow. For every undead he felled, three more seemed to take its place.

The dead were too coordinated. They moved with a singular purpose, swarming over weak points in the lines like a hive of insects. They struck in unison, overwhelming the disorganized wildlings and even threatening the sturdy Northern ranks.

"They're too strong!" shouted Ethan Glover as he drove his sword into the chest of a frozen archer, its blue eyes extinguishing as it collapsed.

"Then we make them weaker!" Ned roared, stepping forward. "Mance! Get your people in line, or we're all dead!"

Mance cursed, his face lined with frustration. "Tormund! Varamyr! Spread the word!" He turned to the Weeper, who was still swinging wildly at the dead. "Get them in formation, damn you!"

The Weeper bared his teeth, but he obeyed, his voice rising in harsh commands. "You lot! Stand together! You think you'll survive this on your own? I'll gut you myself if you don't listen!"

It worked. Slowly, grudgingly, the wildlings began to follow the Northerners' lead, their lines stiffening into something resembling a formation. The dead faltered against the newfound resistance, their relentless tide briefly slowed.

But then the cold deepened.

The air grew so frigid that it seemed to sap the strength from every living thing. The cries of the dying fell silent, replaced by an oppressive stillness. From the darkness came a figure that seemed to embody death itself—a White Walker.

It moved with terrifying grace, its frost-shimmering armor shifting between hues of white and crimson as it strode into the fray. An icy blade hung in its hand, glinting with unnatural light. Behind it skittered ice spiders, their legs clicking as they surged toward the lines.

Ned froze for a heartbeat, the sight of the Walker shaking him to his core. This was no mindless ghoul. It was intelligent, predatory, and utterly without fear.

The Walker attacked with inhuman speed, cutting down Ethan Glover before he could raise his shield. Theo Wull fell next, his cries silenced as the icy blade pierced his heart. The Walker's strikes were precise, calculated, and devastating. Its armor shifted colors—white as the snow one moment, red as blood the next, as if it were mocking the lives it had taken.

Ned gripped Ice and stepped forward. "I'm Ned Stark of Winterfell," he growled, his voice steady despite the fear pounding in his chest. "Come at me then, and die."

The White Walker tilted its head curiously.

The Walker's blade met Ice in a clash that echoed across the battlefield, a haunting, alien sound that seemed to vibrate through the very air. The Walker was impossibly fast, its movements a blur as it struck again and again. Ned barely managed to parry, each blow forcing him back. He could feel the raw power in every strike, the icy chill radiating from the Walker's blade numbing his fingers.

Maege Mormont charged from behind, her axe aimed at the Walker's back. It dodged effortlessly, spinning to face her. Tormund roared and swung his club, but the Walker sidestepped with inhuman agility. The Weeper and Rattleshirt joined the fray, their strikes wild and desperate, but none found their mark.

Then, in its arrogance, the Walker grew careless.

It stepped too close to Ned, underestimating the man who bore the name Stark. With a roar, Ned swung Ice in a wide arc, slicing through the Walker's wrist. Its hand fell to the ground, shattering like glass. The Walker froze, staring at the stump where its hand had been, a flicker of shock crossing its otherwise emotionless face.

"Seems like you can perfectly die like any other man."

Ned didn't hesitate. He brought Ice down in a powerful stroke, cleaving through the Walker's neck. Its head tumbled to the ground, its body collapsing into shards of ice. A wave of silence swept over the battlefield as the dead crumbled, their blue eyes extinguished. The remaining dead began to retreat, their ranks broken.

The living stood in stunned silence for a moment before a roar of triumph erupted. Wildlings and Northerners alike cheered, their cries of victory echoing into the night.

Ned looked around the battlefield, his chest heaving. The wildlings were staring at him with a mixture of awe and respect. Even the Weeper and Rattleshirt nodded grudgingly, their hostility momentarily replaced by acknowledgment.

For the first time, Ned Stark felt the weight of what he had witnessed—the horror of the dead, the strength of the living when united. He met Mance's gaze and saw the grim understanding in the wildling leader's eyes.

They had won a battle, but the war was far from over.

The fires burned low, their embers casting faint, flickering light across the makeshift encampment. The battlefield still stank of death—of blood, burned flesh, and something far worse, an unnatural stench that clung to the air and refused to be blown away by the icy wind. Ned Stark stood apart from the others, Ice resting tip-down in the frost-covered earth beside him. His body ached from the strain of the battle, but it was his mind that bore the heaviest weight.

Mance Rayder approached, his fur cloak pulled tight against the cold. His face was lined with exhaustion, his expression grim as he lowered himself to sit across from Ned. He carried a skin of sour wine, offering it silently. Ned shook his head, but Mance took a long pull before speaking.

"Hard years," Mance began, his voice low and weary. "Hard years getting the chiefs to see reason. You think your Northern lords are stubborn, Stark? You've never tried to convince a Thenn that his steel ain't the sharpest or a Hornfoot that his feet ain't the fastest. Took me near a decade to make them call me king. Even now, some only listen because they're more scared of the Others than they are of losing their pride."

Ned's gaze was fixed on the dying fire, his thoughts far away. "Villages," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "How long have they been disappearing?"

"Years," Mance said bitterly. "More every winter. At first, we thought it was just the cold, the hunger, the usual. Then it was raiders, we said, or beasts from the Frostfangs. But no raider strips a village bare, leaving nothing but blood and silence. No beast does that, neither."

"The Others," Ned said firmly, his gray eyes cutting through the shadows to meet Mance's. There was no hesitation in his voice, no question. The truth of it was as sharp and unyielding as Ice itself.

Mance nodded, his jaw tight. "The dead don't leave much behind. Not food, not steel, not men."

Ned's thoughts turned back to the battle. For every wight he'd cut down, another had risen to take its place. Their blue eyes burned with cold fire, and their movements, though jerky and unnatural, were unrelenting. He remembered the archers, long-dead men who had fired blindly into the chaos, their arrows finding both living and undead alike. They did not care. They did not falter.

Then there were the spiders—monstrous, grotesque things, skittering through the snow with fangs like shards of black ice. Their venom worked quickly, spreading agony through veins until screams were silenced by mercy blows. Even now, Ned could hear those cries in his mind, abruptly cut off. He had seen men fall, only to rise again moments later, their eyes burning with the same unnatural blue.

And the White Walker—it moved with a grace and skill that made even the most seasoned warriors look clumsy. Its blade had sliced through men and steel alike with terrifying ease. Ned had fought Robert Baratheon in tourneys, and he had seen Jon spar, but nothing compared to the Walker's inhuman precision. He had barely survived the encounter, and only through a combination of luck and Ice's Valyrian steel had he been able to bring it down.

Ned let out a slow breath, his hands curling into fists. "The Horn of Winter," he said, breaking the silence. "Tell me again, Mance. Where is it?"

Mance hesitated, his gaze dropping to the fire. "If I had to guess, the Others caught up to Benjen Stark and took it."

The words hit Ned like a blow, but he couldn't deny their logic. The Others moved with purpose, their every action calculated. If they had the Horn of Winter, the implications were dire. "And is there any chance of retrieving it?" he asked after a long pause.

Mance frowned, considering. "The cold takes its time," he said at last. "The Others, they don't rush. They sweep through the villages, clean out everything—every man, every child, every scrap of life. If they've moved on, there's a chance the Horn's still in the snow, waiting. But it won't be easy. We'd have to move together—freefolk and Northmen both."

The thought was bitter, but Ned couldn't argue. He closed his eyes, taking in a deep, steadying breath. "I would like nothing better than to take your head, Mance Rayder," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You're a deserter and a thief. But the Others are a threat we have never seen before. If we're to destroy our common enemy, we'll have to set aside our grudges."

Mance's expression darkened. "I don't trust your lot, Stark. And you don't trust mine. But the dead don't care for trust, do they? All they care about is taking everything from us. So I'll take your truce. For now. Your right – we have to destroy our enemy. Even if we have to venture to the lands of always winter to do it."

The two men sat in silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound between them. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled, its mournful cry echoing over the frozen wasteland.

Benjen

Beneath the unyielding sky of the Lands of Always Winter, where the pale aurora danced ceaselessly, Benjen Stark walked. Or rather, he was guided—no longer a man but something else entirely. A shadow of himself, bound by the Great Other's will yet still holding fragments of the man he once was. Around him loomed the Great Other's city, a place of haunting beauty and alien splendor.

The city stretched as far as the eye could see, built from glacial spires that shimmered with a prismatic glow. The walls of every structure were formed of ice, not jagged or crude, but impossibly smooth, as though shaped by hands that understood the art of perfection. The buildings spiraled upward, their shapes resembling snowflakes frozen mid-dance, with intricate carvings etched into the ice—scenes of hunts, rituals, and creatures from ages long forgotten. Bridges of translucent ice connected the towers, glowing faintly with an inner light, casting long, eerie shadows.

The streets beneath were wide and immaculate, paved with compacted frost that neither cracked nor crumbled underfoot. The air itself seemed alive, filled with a soft, almost musical hum—whispers of the city's ancient magic.

Unlike the wights, who stood motionless outside the city's gates in endless, silent formations, the White Walkers moved with purpose. They prowled the streets, their tall, elegant forms clad in alien garb: robes spun from shimmering threads of frost, shifting hues of blue and silver with every step. Their bodies radiated cold, yet their movements were fluid, almost graceful, belying their inhuman nature.

Some Walkers bore symbols etched into their skin with what appeared to be veins of frozen sapphire. These marked their rank or station—hierarchies within their kind. Others carried tools of their trade, not weapons but instruments of unknowable purpose: rods that pulsed with cold light, strange containers of crystal, and small carved idols that resembled no god known to men.

Their laws were evident in their conduct. Walkers gave each other wide berths, inclining their heads slightly when crossing paths, an acknowledgment of rank or kinship. Beneath their unspoken codes lay a strict order, one that Benjen could feel but not comprehend. He noticed a group gathered in a circle beneath an archway of ice, exchanging fragments of something crystalline. Trade, perhaps, or offerings to their own kind.

Scattered throughout the city were creatures unlike any Benjen had ever seen. Massive ice hounds prowled at the heels of some Walkers, their translucent bodies emitting faint wisps of cold vapor with every breath. Their eyes glowed an eerie white, and their movements were unnervingly silent.

High above, great winged beasts with crystalline feathers perched on the spires, their mournful cries echoing through the streets. Smaller, insect-like creatures skittered across the walls and ceilings, their glassy exoskeletons reflecting the cold light of the city.

One Walker passed Benjen with a creature slithering behind it—a serpent-like being composed entirely of frozen water, its form shifting and curling as it moved. It hissed softly, its frozen tongue flickering in the frigid air.

Benjen was escorted by two Walkers who bore no visible weapons but radiated an authority that chilled him to his hollow core. They moved in complete silence, their steps creating no sound against the frost. Benjen's boots, still those of a man, crunched faintly beneath him—a reminder of what he had once been. The Walkers did not look at him, but he felt their presence, oppressive and commanding.

They led him through the heart of the city, past towering halls whose facades glistened like starlight. In one such hall, dozens of Walkers sat in a semicircle, listening intently to one of their own who stood before them, gesturing with precise movements. A council? A lecture? Benjen did not know.

He was guided into a vast plaza, at the center of which stood a monument—a colossal figure carved from pure ice. It depicted a White Walker with arms outstretched, holding aloft a sphere of frozen light. Around the statue, smaller sculptures knelt in reverence, their faces turned upward as if pleading. The air here was colder still, and Benjen's wight-body shuddered involuntarily.

In the distance, Benjen could see the towering palace where the Great Other resided, its form a fusion of ice and darkness. Its spires seemed to pierce the heavens, and the shadows that clung to it were alive, writhing and shifting. The Walkers' reverence for this place was palpable; those who approached its gates lowered their heads, and some knelt, pressing their foreheads to the frost.

Benjen was taken no further, left standing in the plaza beneath the watchful gaze of the great statue. The Walkers stepped back, their roles fulfilled. As he waited, Benjen's faint memories of warmth, of family, and of life flickered and faded against the overwhelming alien beauty of the city. The Great Other's city was a realm of order and power, unlike anything in the world of men, yet suffused with a cruelty that no warmth could ever reach.

In the distance, the wind howled—not as a warning, but as a promise.

The icy whispers of the White Walkers filled the great plaza as Benjen stood motionless beneath the towering statue. Their voices were sharp and frigid, like the bite of the wind on bare skin, though their words were spoken in a language he could not comprehend. Their shifting, frost-laden armor glimmered faintly in the cold light as their glowing blue eyes occasionally turned to him, filled with disdain and something more—a curiosity laced with contempt.

Two Walkers stood slightly apart, their gestures sharper and more pronounced. Their debate was heated, their icy tones sharper than the frost that clung to the city. One of them pointed toward Benjen with a long, frost-covered finger, its sapphire-blue veins pulsing faintly in the air.

"He should not be here," the voice cut through the silence, startling Benjen. It was not the harsh language of the Walkers but the Common Tongue, spoken with an unnatural, echoing cadence. The figure turned toward him, its pale visage stretched tight over an inhuman face. "This place is too good for you, Stark."

Benjen stiffened, unused to hearing his name from such lips. The words echoed in his mind, the icy voice pressing against the fragile boundaries of his consciousness. Another Walker stepped forward, their gestures less volatile but no less resolute. Their exchange grew faster, more forceful, with quick, alien movements of their hands and bodies—a language of gestures and glances Benjen could not hope to decipher.

Yet he felt their mental probes, cold tendrils brushing against the edge of his thoughts, testing, searching.

He clenched his jaw. Even in this wight-state, there was a fragment of Stark pride that resisted. He did not shy away from their glowing stares, though he knew this defiance was meaningless here.

A final gesture ended the argument. One of his escorts, taller than the others and draped in what appeared to be a mantle of glimmering frost, raised a hand. The others fell silent, though the tension remained palpable, their disdainful glances still sharp as knives.

"Come," the taller Walker commanded, its voice softer but no less commanding. The gates to the palace loomed ahead, and Benjen was forced to follow.

The gates opened soundlessly, revealing a hall that seemed to stretch into eternity. Walls of impossibly smooth ice reflected Benjen's dim, lifeless shadow back at him. Massive pillars lined the hall, carved with ancient, intricate runes that seemed to shift and writhe under his gaze. The floor beneath him shimmered like glass, a mirror that reflected not the ceiling above but the endless black of the void.

The air was colder here, the oppressive chill sinking deep into the wight that was Benjen Stark. Yet there was something else—a strange energy, a heartbeat of power that pulsed faintly through the ice.

At the far end of the hall sat a figure unlike any Benjen had encountered among the Walkers. He was pale, yes, his skin like freshly fallen snow, but his features were disarmingly human. His hair was silver-white, falling loosely around his shoulders, and his eyes, though icy blue, held a depth of intelligence and sorrow that was almost mortal. He wore no armor, only flowing robes of frost and shadow that shifted as he moved.

At his side stood a creature of terrible beauty: a massive direwolf, its form wrought entirely of ice and cold. Its translucent body shimmered with an inner light, and frost poured from its maw with every silent breath. Its eyes, two glowing orbs of sapphire, fixed on Benjen, unblinking. The creature radiated power, more alive than any wight, yet more alien than any direwolf.

Benjen couldn't help but marvel at the beast. For all the cruel, cold beauty of the city outside, nothing compared to the sheer majesty of this wolf. Its size rivaled that of a small horse, its movements graceful and silent as it prowled closer to him, the frost beneath its paws forming new patterns with every step.

The Great Other watched in silence, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke, his voice smooth and deep, yet layered with an unnatural echo, as if a thousand icy winds carried his words.

"You are awed, Stark." The Great Other's lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. "Good. Awe is the only appropriate response for the likes of you."

Benjen found himself at a loss for words, but his escort did not give him time to ponder. A sharp nudge from behind sent him stumbling forward, and he knelt, not entirely of his own will, before the figure.

"You have come far," the Great Other continued, his gaze piercing through Benjen's wight-mask. "Farther than any Stark before you. And yet, you do not come as yourself, but as something else. A servant bound by cold and me."

The direwolf let out a low, rumbling growl, its breath frosting the air around Benjen's face. He could feel its disdain, its icy breath like the winds of the Wall itself.

"Tell me," the Great Other said, his tone curious. "What drives you? What purpose do you think you serve, crawling around my horn and fighting my people?"

Benjen's hollow chest stirred with what might have been a flicker of his old resolve, but in the presence of the Great Other, that ember was snuffed out by an overwhelming chill. His silence hung in the vast, frozen hall, an affront that made the Great Other's smile widen—a razor-thin curve of frost and menace.

"Speak," the Great Other commanded, his voice low and glacial, like the shifting of an ancient iceberg.

The words broke free from Benjen as though torn from him by force, clumsy and hoarse. "I fight your people to save mine."

"Your people are not worth saving."

Benjen's lips curled in defiance, surprising even himself. "Of course, you'd think that," he snapped, his voice shaking but resolute. "You're an icy demon with monsters to do your bidding."

Benjen thought of Ned, of his children, of the sacrifice his brother made to keep his promise to Lyanna. What does this monster know of love?

The Great Other's crystalline gaze hardened, a crackle of frost spreading outward from where he stood. "You thinkI'm the monster?" he snarled, his tone sharper than the edge of a broken blade.

Benjen's defiance surged. "You kill my brothers and raise them as slaves to death. You are a monster—heartless and cruel."

The hall fell silent, and for a moment, the Great Other did not move. Then he began to tremble. The icy perfection of his form faltered as cracks spiderwebbed across his translucent skin, faint but unmistakable. The air around him shimmered, the temperature fluctuating wildly between biting cold and sudden warmth.

"Heartless… cruel?" The words escaped the Great Other in a breathless, fractured whisper, as though the weight of them was too much to bear. His entire frame quivered, the movement unnatural and involuntary. The frost on the walls seemed to ripple, as if reflecting his turmoil. "What of the atrocities your people committed against mine?"

The trembling grew worse, his tall, regal figure bending under an unseen weight. The cracks deepened, the shimmering light from his icy skin exposing deeper fissures—wounds that had never healed. His icy veneer, once so impervious, now seemed on the verge of shattering.

Benjen's voice rose, unthinking, his anger overpowering his fear. "The only atrocity I know is you and this city of death!"

"Enough," came a voice, sharp and commanding, its tone a colder, cleaner kind of frost.

From the shadows, two White Walkers emerged, their movements smooth and soundless, like the drifting of snow. They glided to the Great Other's side, their hands ghosting over his trembling form with a surprising gentleness. He resisted for a moment, his fractured body shaking violently, before allowing himself to be led away. The figures disappeared with him into the shadows, leaving a silence more profound than the echoing vastness of the hall.

Benjen's ragged breath filled the void.

Only now, in the aftermath, did he notice the scars marring the Great Other's icy form—deep fissures that ran jaggedly across his surface, as though he had been broken and pieced back together countless times. The realization struck him like a blow: this creature, this so-called god of death, bore the marks of unspeakable suffering.

Good. He needs to suffer some more.

"You shouldn't have done that," said a new voice, soft but sharp, each syllable cutting like the chill of fresh snow.

A figure emerged, her beauty ethereal and otherworldly, her form shimmering with an icy elegance that Benjen could not fully comprehend. Her piercing blue eyes bore into him, equal parts warning and curiosity.

They have women here too?

The daughter of the Great Other tilted her head as she studied him, her gaze unnerving. "My father suffers," she said quietly, her voice carrying an edge of accusation. "His scars run deeper than you could ever imagine. And you…" Her gaze hardened. "You prod at them like a reckless child. You forget you a mere thrall, benefited with consciousness because of your blood."

Benjen straightened as much as his undead body would allow, his hollow voice a rasp. "I speak the truth."

She regarded him in silence for a moment, then smiled faintly—cold and enigmatic, as if she knew truths that Benjen would never begin to grasp. "What do you know of the truth, Stark?"

Benjen's hollow chest filled with a simmering defiance, the icy chains of fear loosening just enough for his voice to rise. "The truth is that your father is a monster," he said, his voice echoing harshly in the vast chamber. "And so are you. You and your kind threaten the very lives of the world—the people I love. You will consume the warmth and hope of this earth, devouring it in ice and death until nothing remains but cold and silence."

The daughter of the Great Other stood perfectly still, her blue eyes fixed on him, unblinking. Her gaze was unnervingly intense, alien in its sharpness, and Benjen felt it pierce through the brittle remnants of his soul. The silence stretched on, so heavy it became oppressive, filling the air with a palpable tension that made his icy body quiver.

Instinct clawed at his mind, a sense of dread whispering that he had gone too far. Slowly, almost involuntarily, he dropped his gaze to the ground.

Without a word, the daughter turned and began to walk away, her movements smooth and deliberate, as if gliding on the ice beneath her feet. Benjen hesitated, his resolve faltering, but an unseen force—whether guilt, fear, or something deeper—compelled him to follow. He trailed after her like a shackled ghost.

The daughter led him through the labyrinthine palace, its walls shimmering with an unnatural light. She guided him to a high balcony, the frigid air cutting like a blade as they emerged. Below stretched the city of ice, a sprawling, glistening expanse of crystalline towers and frozen streets, more vast and intricate than anything Benjen had ever imagined.

Her voice, soft but commanding, broke the silence. "This city," she said, her tone laced with an almost wistful pride, "has never allowed a wight to grace its streets. Until you."

Benjen glanced down at the avenues below, where White Walkers moved with purpose, their alien forms clad not in armor but in shimmering, ethereal garb. They appeared engrossed in their own lives, their strange customs playing out in graceful, icy rituals.

"It caused a dispute," she continued, her tone calm but firm. "We have pride, Stark. Pride in what we've built, in what we've endured, in what we've become."

Her hand gestured toward a series of sculptures etched into the icy walls of the balcony. They were intricate and haunting, depicting figures frozen in moments of both triumph and despair.

"This is our history," she said. "Our story. We have suffered more than you could ever comprehend. But we fought to rise above it."

Benjen's voice, hollow but bitter, cut through her explanation. "And hate. You've learned to hate as well."

The daughter's head tilted slightly, her icy gaze locking onto his. Her stillness was unnerving, the alien nature of her beauty stark and terrifying. "Yes," she said simply. "Because of my father. We have learned to hate. To hate the fire in your blood. The fire has taken much from him."

Benjen scoffed, his voice hard and sharp. "Is that why you seek to kill and enslave the world? To spread your hate?"

The air shimmered with a sudden, biting cold, her anger palpable though her expression remained composed. "Our powers were never meant for conquest," she replied, her voice steady but edged with ice. "They were meant to ensure our oppressors could never rise again. To protect us."

"Oppressors?" Benjen sneered, his bitterness spilling over.

"What oppressors? Don't speak of something you don't know."

How many countless nights have I spent looking over my shoulders for blue eyes? Me and Qhorin...until you monsters killed us.

Her icy demeanor shifted, her gaze narrowing. The cold around them deepened, frost creeping along the edge of the balcony. "Do not presume to understand what you cannot fathom," she said, her voice sharp as breaking ice. "Do not speak of our pain as if it is yours, Stark."

Benjen stiffened at the venom in her tone. "Why do you say Stark with such hatred?"

The faintest hint of a smile touched her lips, cold and sharp. "Because Starks are traitors."

"Traitors?" Benjen repeated, his voice firm with disbelief. "To be a traitor, one must first be an ally. We never allied with the Others."

Her expression softened into something darker, more amused, as though she found his ignorance quaint. "Oh, but you did," she said, her voice laced with a quiet, cutting certainty. "You were our blood."

Myrcella

The body in her arms was still and silent, as lifeless as stone, unyielding to her tears. Chaos raged around her, but Jon did not move.

Jon was gone.

Jon was dead.

A wrenching sob tore through her chest as Myrcella cradled his face, her hands trembling as his warmth slipped away, leaving only cold behind.

"Jon, why?" she cried, her voice cracked and raw. "It didn't have to be this way. Why didn't you listen to me?" Her tears fell freely now, grief mingling with fury at the cruel hand fate had dealt her. Revenge had been within reach, and her lover had been her strength—but both were ripped from her grasp in an instant.

"Princess!"

She barely heard the distant cry, her world narrowed to the still figure before her. "Mother is gone... Tommen is gone... and now you?" Myrcella whispered, her voice breaking as she gently closed Jon's lifeless eyes. She had known the White Wolf only briefly, but in that fleeting time, he had shattered her world and pieced it together anew with his rare smiles and quiet reassurances. He had become her anchor, her moon in the dark.

"Why do I always have to be alone?"

"MYRCELLA!"

"DRAGON!"

Jaime's hand gripped her arm, tugging her back. She resisted, clinging to Jon as if sheer willpower could bring him back. But then her tear-blurred gaze caught sight of Frey and Bolton men scattering in terror, engulfed by billowing green flames.

The Frey and Bolton men scrambled, their terror palpable as the massive black dragon crawled forward, each movement laborious and pained. Cannibal's breath came in ragged bursts, the flames he exhaled weaker than before, flickering like dying embers. His once-unyielding body was marred by deep wounds, yet his eyes burned with unrelenting fury.

The soldiers faltered, their courage shattered as Cannibal's obsidian form loomed over them, his maw glowing faintly with dying fire. They fled in disarray, tripping over themselves in their frantic bid for safety. The stench of charred flesh hung heavy in the air as the dragon turned his gaze toward the Lannisters clustered around Jon's lifeless form.

Myrcella felt the earth tremble faintly beneath her as Cannibal advanced, his gaze fixed solely on Jon. Jaime's grip tightened on her arm, pulling her back.

"We have to go!" Jaime barked, urgency laced in his tone.

Reluctantly, Myrcella allowed herself to be led away, her heart breaking with each step. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Cannibal crawl to Jon's side, lowering his massive head as though willing his rider to rise. The dragon nudged Jon's body gently with his nose, a sound rumbling deep within him—a low, mournful whine.

"Jon…" Myrcella whispered, tears streaking her face.

Cannibal nudged him again, more urgently this time, but Jon remained still. A weak roar escaped the dragon's throat, a sound that once echoed with unchallenged dominance but now carried only despair. It was not enough. Nothing was enough.

Where were you when he needed you, Myrcella thought spitefully.

...Then Cannibal began to sing.

The sound was low and guttural at first, rising into a haunting melody that seemed to split the air itself. The earth trembled in rhythm with his cries, cracks spidering across the blood-soaked ground. The wind howled as if mourning alongside him, whipping around Myrcella and the others as they watched in awe and terror.

The dragon's song grew louder, mournful and enraged, echoing across the battlefield. The trembling earth began to shift beneath Jon's body, as though answering the dragon's call. Rocks and soil surged upward, encasing Jon in a protective cocoon. Slowly, the ground swirled around him, forming an earthen fortress—a final sanctuary.

Myrcella gasped, her heart pounding as she watched the dragon's grief manifest into something otherworldly. Cannibal's song grew softer, his massive form slumping with exhaustion. The winds died down, the trembling ceased, and all that remained was silence—broken only by the dragon's labored breathing and the whispers of the winds through the makeshift tomb of earth and stone.

Rhaenys

Hours had passed since the trial by combat ended. The corpses had been removed, yet blood still marred the ground, a dark, indelible stain against the sacred earth. Some of it had splattered against the Heart Tree, an ominous mark beneath its ancient face.

Rhaenys stood in the center of it all.

The air felt charged, heavy with anger. She could almost feel it pressing against her skin, seeping into her lungs with each breath.

Then, a laugh escaped her—soft, bitter. "Of course, you stupid girl," she whispered to herself, her voice trembling. "The Old Gods are angry..."

Her throat tightened.

"...because of me."

A flash of memory struck her, vivid and cruel—a tourney in its early moments, the Lords of the realm being announced, a new set of purple eyes catching her own.

Rhaenys inhaled sharply, clutching her sides as if trying to keep herself together.

"I'm a bastard... It would be rude if I was caught staring."

She moved through the Godswood, her steps slow, burdened by the weight of recollection. A fragment of another moment came to her: the great hall, her feet light as she danced. Careful hands wrapped around her waist, guarded eyes meeting hers.

"If you want me to call you by your name, Rhaenys... then you'll have to call me by mine as well."

Her lips quirked in a fleeting, broken smile, one that vanished as swiftly as it came. She remembered a night by the water, the moonlight casting its glow upon the object of her obsession, illuminating him in a way that seemed otherworldly. He had taken her breath away, the mystery of him an ache she could never quite shake.

Now she stared at the blood-streaked ground, wondering if this was the spot where the massive direwolves had been slaughtered.

"His name is Ghost, Your Highness."

Her upper lip trembled. Rhaenys turned her gaze to another stained patch, imagining Catelyn Stark there, crossbow bolts piercing her as her anguished cries died with her.

"I swear, I didn't know princesses acted like this... stalking me in the woods."

"He thinks you'll bring me harm... He's the mother I never had."

Her eyes fell upon the place where Robb Stark had stood, roaring in rage as Boltons and Freys swarmed his siblings, only to collapse in agony when the dagger plunged into him.

"Was there ever a doubt? A damsel in distress, after all."

"You think so little of me?"

Her steps faltered as she approached the space where it had all begun. The roots of her betrayal lay deepest here, in the cold, unyielding soil. She could still hear the gasps of shock when Jon went down, Blackfyre spinning from his grasp. No one had believed it possible—Jon, undefeated except by Arthur Dayne, brought low. And yet, Aegon had stood victorious, Blackfyre poised at Jon's throat.

"I did not lie, my princess. I simply did not tell you the truth."

Her gaze fell to a small object lying discarded in the dirt. Her breath hitched. Tears welled in her eyes as she stooped to pick it up.

It was a pendant, smeared with blood. Her hands trembled as she tried to wipe it clean.

"Come off, damn it!" she hissed, scrubbing at it with desperate, frantic movements. Her breathing grew ragged, each inhale cutting deeper than the last.

"I need you to choose, Rhaenys. Him or me."

A sob tore from her throat, raw and strangled. She collapsed to her knees, clutching the pendant to her chest as tears spilled freely down her cheeks.

"Damn you..." she choked. "Damn you for doing this to me."

Her voice broke into a whisper, heavy with longing and despair.

"Why did it have to be this way? We could've run away... far beyond Essos. Aegon could've kept his Throne. You and I could've had something far more precious—our family. You... I... our child."

Rhaenys vividly recalled the moment the maester revealed she was with child. Joy had flooded her, her heart soaring as if lifted by dragon wings. She and Jon, her lover, were to have a child—a piece of him that would be hers forever. Excitement burned within her, a desperate eagerness to share the news with Jon.

But her joy had soured into anger when Jon began to avoid her, treating her presence like a curse. The cause of his coldness was clear—Myrcella. The envious little cub, always lurking, her green eyes gleaming with barely concealed desire whenever she looked at Jon. It had been obvious Myrcella wanted him, the father of Rhaenys's child, for herself.

Rhaenys had acted swiftly, ensuring the threat was removed before it could fester further. She had no regrets.

Jon was hers. Their child was theirs. And Rhaenys would ensure they stayed that way, even if it meant crossing the Narrow Sea and fleeing east to make it happen. Together, they would carve out a life—no matter the cost.

But that dream had crumbled, as fragile as the first frost beneath a dragon's flame.

Jon had refused. He had wanted Aegon's head, and nothing could stop him—not even her. Jon's skill with a blade, his reputation, and his fiery determination had made it a certainty. Everyone had known it, whispered it, feared it. Aegon was a lost cause against the greatest swordsman Essos had ever seen. Even her uncle Oberyn had thought so.

It was Oberyn who had struck first, slipping away to unravel Jon's plans piece by piece. He had courted the loyalty of Lady Whent's guards—those bitter, disgruntled men who had not yet been replaced by Jon's own Household guard. They had allowed Oberyn to enter, to silence Jon Connington before the man could testify.

It was Oberyn who poisoned Cannibal's meals, weakening the beast. It was Domeric Bolton who delivered the fatal dose, aided by Tyene and Nymeria Sand, their charms and cunning diverting the attention of Jon's Dragonguard, like the man Rast.

The ultimate betrayal had been hers.

The vial Domeric handed her in her chambers still lingered in her memory. "From your uncle," he had said, his pale eyes as cold and unblinking as the moonlight that spilled through the windows. His voice was soft, almost soothing, as if his words weren't laden with poison.

"He says your kisses are a gift," Domeric had murmured. "The ones you gave him as a child chased away his vengeful thoughts. And now, it is time for you to blessMaegorwith that same gift and save the family."

The weight of his words had been suffocating, yet her trembling fingers had taken the vial all the same, sealing her fate—and Jon's.

Rhaenys clutched the bloodstained pendant tighter, her heart breaking under the weight of what she had done.

"Jon..." she whispered, her voice cracking.

"My love..."

Rhaenys remembered the moment she told him she loved him—how his guarded eyes had softened, brightened, as if those words had lifted a burden he carried alone. She remembered the way he looked at her, the fleeting hope in his gaze, and how she betrayed it when their lips met for the last time.

It was a kiss filled with love and grief.

A kiss that severed their bond.
A kiss that condemned the father of her child.

Never again would the moonlight caress his features.
Never again would he call her his princess.
Never again would he grace her with his twisted, dark humor.
Never again would he gift her his rare, precious smiles.
Never again would he hold her against the world.
Never again would he kiss her.

He was gone, along with the family he held so dear.

And it was her doing.

Her chest felt hollow, her heart shattered into irreparable shards. A sob ripped from her, raw and unrelenting, her body trembling under the weight of her grief.

"Jon..." she choked, the name barely escaping her lips.

Her voice broke into a scream, piercing the stillness of the Godswood.

"Please forgive me! Come BACK!"

The anguished cry echoed into the void, desperate and unanswered, as if the very world was punishing her for daring to hope he might return. But the silence only confirmed the truth—Jon was gone, and all she had left was the crushing agony of what could have been.

The Godswood held its silence, and the Heart Tree seemed to stare at her in judgment. But all she could feel was the echo of her guilt and the emptiness where Jon had once been.

The godswood was eerily silent, the only sound the rustling of leaves in the cold wind. Rhaenys knelt, her body wracked with sobs that she tried—and failed—to suppress. Her knees pressed into the frozen ground, her fingers clutching a silver pendant that felt heavier than the world.Jon's pendant.She pressed it to her chest as if the faint warmth of it could undo her betrayal, as if it could offer her absolution. But nothing came. Only the suffocating weight of grief.

The sound of her name broke through the haze.

"Rhaenys."

The voice was soft yet firm, familiar in a way that sent a chill down her spine. She turned her tear-streaked face, her vision blurred, and saw her grandmother,Rhaella Targaryen, standing just behind her. Rhaella's eyes were red and sad.

"No," Rhaenys whispered, shaking her head. Her voice was barely audible. "No, don't look at me like this. I—" She choked on her words, her sobs returning with force.

Rhaella knelt beside her, her movements as fluid as water. With a gentleness that belied her strength, she placed her hands on Rhaenys's shoulders and lifted her to her feet. Rhaenys resisted at first, clutching the pendant tighter as though it were her lifeline.

"I—he trusted me," Rhaenys managed to say between broken breaths, anger bubbling in her chest—not at her grandmother, but at herself. "I betrayed him."

Her voice cracked, and tears poured anew, hot and unrelenting. She hated herself for showing this vulnerability, hated that she couldn't stop sobbing, but the pain was too 's face, his trust, the way he looked at her before it all fell apart—it replayed endlessly in her mind.

Rhaella said nothing, only guided her forward, her hand firm on Rhaenys's arm. She led her silently through the godswood, taking small side paths that avoided prying eyes. They passed through hidden doors, and the air turned heavier as they neared the keep.

"Don't linger," Rhaella said softly, pulling her forward.

They entered her chambers through another hidden door. The warmth of the room was a stark contrast to the chill that clung to Rhaenys's skin. Rhaella guided her to a plush couch and gently pressed her down onto it. For a moment, the weight of the silence bore down on Rhaenys again, her sobs reduced to shaky breaths.

Rhaella poured water from a pitcher, her movements slow and deliberate, as though giving Rhaenys time to collect herself. She handed her the cup and sat beside her, saying nothing.

Rhaenys took the cup, her trembling hands causing the water to ripple. She stared into the liquid, her reflection distorted and face of a traitor, the face of someone who had turned on the one person who believed in her.

"Robb Stark is dead," Rhaella said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Domeric Bolton, his father's own bannerman, plunged a dagger into his heart. They stitched his direwolf's head onto his body."

Rhaenys remained silent, her mind flashing to memories of Robb and Jon, inseparable as brothers, their bond unshakable—until now.

"It is said Catelyn Stark tried to shield Rickon and Arya from the crossbows," Rhaella continued, her voice heavy with disdain, "before one struck her down. One of the Freys slit her throat, then the boy's. Arya's body couldn't be identified." She paused, the weight of her words lingering in the air. "Sansa Stark is in our custody. No one has seen Brandon Stark."

Rhaenys swallowed hard, her chest tightening with every name spoken, every tragedy recounted.

"Edmure Tully and his supporters are imprisoned, and it is said the Tully got a child on one of the Freys. The Blackfish has vanished."

Her words turned colder, more damning. "Alys Karstark was carrying Robb Stark's child. That didn't stop them from stabbing her to death."

Rhaenys's breath hitched. Her hand instinctively moved to her stomach, a futile gesture of comfort. Rhaella's eyes followed the motion, narrowing.

"Lord Umber and the remaining Northerners rot in cells—second sons and brothers meant to keep the North in line should Ned Stark and his bannermen return from that cursed Wall. The Vale Lords have bent the knee to Aegon and left for the Vale, abandoning their heirs and cousins here as tokens of loyalty. Aegon presses Lysa Arryn to consider Lyn Corbray for her next husband."

Rhaella's voice hardened, her bitterness palpable. "Arthur Dayne stood between Jon and death when he fell, cutting down all who dared approach. But it was Lyn Corbray's blade that found its mark, pausing Arthur just long enough for him to be subdued. Corbray, his brother dead, returns to the Vale with the King's favor as a new lord. While Ashara Dayne is in the process of being sent to the Silent Sisters."

Rhaenys's grip on her pendant tightened, the edges biting into her palm.

"Myrcella and the Lannisters escaped. The Tyrells hunt the Kingslayer like a dog, enraged over the knights he killed when he carved a bloody path through the Tyrell force—ten of them, some heirs to noble houses. He disarmed Garlan Tyrell to seize Margaery when Jon won the battle."

Her grandmother's voice turned sharp, each word an accusation. "Aegon has always been skilled with a blade, but he has never come close to defeating Arthur Dayne in a spar – nor Jaime Lannister for that matter. And yet Jon, the only man to ever hold his ground against Arthur, was destroyed in the trial by combat. How convenient."

The weight of her suspicion hung in the air.

"Whatever you think I did," Rhaenys said, her voice barely above a whisper, "I did it."

The silence was deafening. And then came the slap.

Rhaenys's head snapped sideways, her cheek stinging. She raised a trembling hand to her face, tears threatening to spill as Rhaella stood over her, hand poised as if ready to strike again.

Her grandmother's voice quaked with fury. "Do you know what you have done, child? You've not only betrayed Jon—you've condemned this realm to blood and fire. Do you believe the North will ever forget Robb Stark, the Young Wolf—the one who stood shoulder to shoulder with Jon in defiance, striking blow after blow against Aegon's forces with his giant wolf? Do you think the Riverlands will forgive? Aegon's reign will be ashes, and the ghosts of those you've damned will rise to haunt you."

Rhaenys's hands shook, her nails digging into her palms as Rhaella's words pierced through her. She wanted to scream, to shout that she already knew, that the moment Jon fell she had felt the weight of her betrayal crush her soul. She had seen the light leave his eyes, the bond they shared shatter like fragile glass.

But no words came. Only the silence of her grief.

No fire could burn this stain away. No words could ever bring forgiveness.

"Even now, there are many who openly defy Aegon," Rhaella said, her voice trembling. "Cannibal... the reports are conflicting, but they say the dragon used earth and stone to create a fortress to shield himself and Jon's body."

Rhaella's hands clenched at her sides as she continued. "They say ravens are descending from the skies to claw out the eyes of Freys. Wolves prowl the lands, tearing out the throats of Boltons. And those who stood their ground against Aegon's assault—the dragonguard, Edric Dayne, Jon's household guards, his friends, the Red Woman and her followers, Daenerys—remain unbroken. They are calling themselves The Silent Flames."

Her voice rose, fierce and raw, as she spat, "Do you know what they are saying of my daughter, my sweet Dany? That she is burning Freys and Darry men on stakes, clinging to the hope that the Red Woman can whisper Jon back to life!"

The fury in Rhaella's words made Rhaenys hesitate, but a small, foolish spark of hope kindled within her. "And did they...?"

"No," Rhaella snapped, cutting her off. Her voice cracked as her trembling grew. "Cannibal recovered from his injuries, took Jon's body in his teeth, and flew to gods know where. You... your family... you stole my grandson from me before I could ever show him how much his grandmother loved him."

Her voice broke, and she looked at Rhaenys with a searing gaze. "Did you take my son, too?"

"No!" Rhaenys cried, her voice rising in desperation. "I would never kill my father!"

"And yet you killed his son," Rhaella said coldly. "The son he held so dear to his heart. And all because your spiteful, venomous mother couldn't love a motherless boy."

Rhaenys crumbled, tears spilling down her face as she sobbed. "Please... forgive me..." she whispered. She didn't even know who she was begging forgiveness from—Jon? Rhaella? Herself?

Rhaella's expression hardened, and she shook her head firmly. "I will not. You are my granddaughter, and I love you dearly, but what you have done is an atrocity. Unforgivable." Her voice wavered, the sorrow beneath her anger surfacing. "Rhaegar is gone. Jon is gone. There is nothing left of them."

"No," Rhaenys whispered, her voice cracking. "That's not true. Thereissomething left." Slowly, her trembling hands traveled to her stomach.

Rhaella's gaze followed the motion, her expression unreadable as she stared. Finally, she spoke, her voice cold as frost. "Aegon will kill it."

"He wouldn't!" Rhaenys shot back, her desperation sharpening into anger. "My brother would never harm my child!"

"It's not just your child, Rhaenys," Rhaella said, her voice low and cutting. "It's Jon's. Look at what Aegon has done to the Starks. Do you truly believe he'll let Jon's child live? Do you think the lords who follow him will allow it?"

Rhaella's hand hovered briefly over Rhaenys's stomach, her fingers trembling as if reaching for a piece of Jon still within reach. But then, abruptly, she withdrew, her shoulders sagging under the weight of her grief.

"Who knows?"

"A maester," Rhaenys whispered. "He's dead." A maester's death in the middle of battle was often overlooked. Rhaella nodded slowly.

Her violet eyes bore into Rhaenys, judgment clear and unrelenting. "Whatever anger I hold against you will not extend to your child. I will do what I must to protect what remains of Jon's memory—my beloved grandson, stolen from me too soon."

"...Will you?"

The halls of Harrenhal seemed colder than they had any right to be. Rhaenys walked with deliberate steps, her gown whispering against the stone floors, her head held high despite the weight pressing on her shoulders. Her mind reeled with Rhaella's biting words, but she could not let them show—not now, not with so many eyes upon her.

She rounded a corner and caught sight of a small procession. Margaery Tyrell walked at the center, her arm looped through her grandmother Olenna's, her cousins trailing behind her with their retinue of knights and retainers, noticeably thinner courtesy of the Kingslayer. The Tyrell rose gleamed on their garments, bright and golden.

Rhaenys' sharp eyes did not miss the slight smirks tugging at the corners of Margaery's and Olenna's lips. There was a sense of quiet satisfaction in their manner, even as they strode toward the infirmary. A moment later, she understood why. The whispers she overheard from nearby lords confirmed it. Willas Tyrell was being tended to, his injuries not as severe as they had seemed. But there was a saying the infirmary was overflowing with men, torn apart by wolves' desperate savagery.

The lords standing aside in muted clusters wore expressions of quiet disapproval, their murmurs carrying a note of unease. "This will not bode well," she heard one say. Another shook his head, his face downcast.

Further along the corridor, a cluster of Freys laughed raucously. Their joy was loud and unseemly, as though the halls themselves mocked the grieving. Rhaenys' gaze narrowed as she spotted the cause of their mirth. One of them—a thickset man she couldn't name—strutted with a wolf pelt draped over his shoulders, its fur grey and coarse.

But it was Black Walder who made her steps falter. He leaned against the wall, smug as ever, with a pelt so dark it seemed to drink the light around it. The black fur was unmistakable.

"Indeed. Fierce and strong."

Her throat tightened, but she pressed onward, ignoring the burning in her chest. She would not let them see her falter.

Once inside her chambers, Rhaenys shut the heavy door behind her and leaned against it. For a moment, she stood there, eyes closed, the silence of the room pressing in around her. Slowly, she moved to the bed and sank onto it, her hands gripping the edge of the mattress as though it were the only thing keeping her upright.

Rhaella's words echoed in her mind.

"...will you?"

She exhaled shakily, willing the tears to stay where they were. Crying would achieve nothing. Instead, she reached for a revealing shift of thin fabric and pulled it over her head. The silk clung to her body, its intent plain. She let her hair fall loose, the black waves cascading over her shoulders. Sitting back on the bed, she stared at the table across the room, where a simple pendant lay. It seemed to gleam mockingly, a silent witness to all that had happened.

Rhaenys resisted the urge to scream, her nails digging into her palms as she fought to steady herself.

The door opened without warning, and Aegon stepped in. He closed it behind him with a quiet click and stood there for a moment, his violet eyes contemplative, a faint triumph lingering on his face.

"You wanted to speak to me, beloved sister of mine?" he asked, his voice warm, tender.

Rhaenys was silent, her gaze fixed on the table where the pendant lay. She thought of Jon. His body, wherever Cannibal had taken it, growing colder by the second.

Finally, she looked at Aegon and answered in a low, suggestive tone. "Yes. I wanted to speak."

She shifted her posture, reclining slightly, her movements deliberate. Her body curved in ways she knew would catch his eye, and sure enough, his gaze traveled over her form, lingering on the silk that clung to her. Understanding dawned in his expression.

Aegon crossed the room to her, his hands finding her shoulders, his touch firm and wanting. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her neck, soft and deliberate, never hesitating.

"I could never repay you for what you have done," he murmured against her skin, his voice laced with gratitude. "Daenerys betrayed me. But not you, never you."

Rhaenys felt his hands wander lower, felt his lips press against hers. She closed her eyes. There was no fire, no meaning.

Her gaze drifted to the pendant on the table. It gleamed faintly in the dim light, a small but unmistakable reminder of all she had betrayed.

And as Aegon's lips moved against hers, she felt nothing but the weight of her own silence...and of Jon's.

---

Arthur: ...Do you feel it? The reckoning that is going to come? Whatever you think is going to happen - its NOT going to be what you expect.