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(Winterfell in the reign of the dragon)
The night was bitterly cold, a proper Northern winter that had turned the walls of Winterfell into sheets of ice. The winds howled like wolves, and the snow fell so thickly that no guards had been posted along the ramparts. Even the wildlings in Wintertown, long used to the hardships of the North, whispered of the storm's terrible fury.
Yet none of it mattered to Catelyn as she was roused from sleep by the insistent pounding at her chamber door. Blinking away the fog of slumber, she sat up, her heart tightening with unease.
"Enter," she called.
The door creaked open, revealing a maid, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. She dipped her head in apology.
"My lady, forgive me," the servant said quickly. "Lord Rickon is screaming in his chambers, and his wolf won't let anyone near him."
Catelyn sighed, reaching for the heavy woollen robe folded at the foot of her bed. Even wrapped in the thickest furs, the cold chilled her to the bone.
The halls were nearly deserted as she and the maid hurried toward Rickon's chambers. The castle's great stone corridors held an eerie silence, broken only by the distant sound of the wind battering the keep. But as they approached her son's door, the silence was replaced by the unmistakable sound of his cries. And then, before the door, they stopped.
Shaggydog was there.
Rickon's direwolf lay stretched across the doorway like a great, living shadow. His fur was black as midnight, his bright green eyes glowing in the dim torchlight. At their approach, the beast lifted his massive head, ears twitching, nostrils flaring as he took in their scent.
For a moment, no one moved. The only sound was Rickon's screaming, muffled behind the heavy oaken door. Catelyn and the servants stood frozen, their breaths shallow, as they met the direwolf's gaze—fierce, unblinking, a green as bright and sharp as wildfire. Shaggydog did not snarl, nor bristle, nor pace, but his stillness was warning enough. He lay sprawled across the threshold, his black fur rippling like a shadow in the torchlight, his great paws stretched before him. A beast full grown, larger than any dog, nearer in size to the wolves of old Nan's tales.
Catelyn had never trusted Rickon's wolf. Ghost was silent, Grey Wind obedient, Summer watchful, even Nymeria had possessed a strange grace to her. But this one… this one was different. There was something wild in Shaggydog's eyes, something untamed. She had never forgotten the time he bit one of the stable boys nor the way he prowled the halls at night, his claws clicking softly against the stone. If she had her way, the beast would be in the kennels, but Rickon had clung to him, weeping and wailing, and in the end, the boy's will had won out.
What the lord commands in his own hall is law, she thought bitterly, though the law was fickle in a house where the men had gone to war and only women and children remained.
Shaggydog yawned, jaws splitting wide, his fangs flashing white against the black of his fur. Then, he rolled onto his side, as if to say, Go, if you must.
Catelyn did not hesitate. She strode forward, stepping past the beast, but when the servants moved to follow, the Direwolf was on his feet in an instant, baring his fangs and growling angrily.
The men recoiled. One of the younger serving girls gave a startled gasp, clutching at her skirts, and a sworn sword of Winterfell reached for the hilt of his blade—only to think better of it when Shaggydog took a step toward him as if daring him to draw his blade.
"Wait here…" Catelyn said, watching the direwolf lie back down on the floor as she entered Rickon's room.
Inside, her son thrashed like a wolf caught in a snare, kicking at the heavy furs tangled around him. He was shouting, though his words were slurred, half-swallowed by fever or dream. His hair had grown long and unkempt, dark curls sticking to his brow with sweat. Even in the dim candlelight, she could see the scars on his arms, old wounds from his time on Skagos, where men still followed the old ways, where the strong ruled and the weak were meat for their knives. That was where they had taken him, her youngest boy. That was where he had been raised, where he had learned to bare his teeth before he could even wield a blade.
Rickon had always been a wild thing, but before Skagos, he had been a child still—fierce, yes, but bright-eyed, laughing, full of mischief. She thought some part of that boy might remain when Davos brought him home. He had played at being tame when it pleased him and had even seemed to soften upon his return from King's Landing after swearing fealty to the new king. But war had taken his father and brother, had left Bran changed, Sansa and Arya gone, and whatever peace had taken root in Rickon had withered like autumn leaves beneath winter's frost.
Rickon had come back to them wild—untamed, furious, a boy raised among killers and cannibals. He fought when there was no need but when words would do. When a serving girl had tried to cut his hair, he had flung the knife at her head. When a stablehand had reached for Shaggydog, Rickon had torn at his face with his nails until blood slicked his fingers.
Brynden had tried to make a lord of him. Maester Wolkan had tried to teach him his letters, his sums, the history of the North. It had been a thankless effort. Rickon was a poor student, impatient, quick to scowl, swifter to walk away. He did not sit still long enough for lessons, and when Wolkan pressed him, the boy bared his teeth.
He wished to learn to fight inevitable—for any Stark and more so for a boy who would grow to rule the North. But Rickon was still a child, and Maester Wolkan had counselled patience.
"Three more years, at least", he had urged. "Let him grow first."
Catelyn had agreed. Her son was too young, too small. He had neither the strength to hold a real sword nor the discipline to wield one. He sulked when she denied him, scowled when the older boys trained in the yard, kicked at the stones when Podrick bested him with a stick. He wanted to be a warrior like Robb, like his father. But Catelyn had seen his tantrums, the wildness that still flickered in him. A boy who could not yet temper his own rage had no business with a sword.
Winter had kept him close. The roads were thick with snow, and the winds that howled through the North kept the household within the walls of Winterfell. There had been no need for the little lord to make the customary journeys to the keeps of his bannermen. That suited Catelyn well enough. She had taken the time to refine his manners, to teach him how to carry himself as a Stark of Winterfell should. Rickon chafed under it, but it was necessary. He was more than the wild thing Skagos had made of him. He had to be more.
At least here, in his home, he could be shaped into something better.
His relationship with Bran had been different. Strained, Catelyn thought, though not on Rickon's part. To him, nothing had changed. He still followed Bran where he could, but Bran had changed. Since his return to Winterfell, he had been distant, withdrawn, slipping away to the godswood for hours at a time, his gaze lost in the weirwood's bleeding face. He had been strange before, even as a child, but now… Now, it was as though the boy she raised had been emptied of all emotions, favouring instead to speak in riddles or gaze at the stars.
Rickon, of course, did not understand. He was as restless as ever, eager to run, fight, and chase, but he was alone, and a wolf alone was a terrible thing.
Catelyn sat beside him on the bed, smoothing his tangled hair from his face. He was burning up.
"Rickon," she whispered, her fingers brushing against his brow. "Wake up, sweetling."
His eyes snapped open.
For a moment, she swore they were still blue, then the candlelight shifted, and she saw green—bright, wild, unnatural. And in them, she thought she glimpsed a shadow of his direwolf staring back at her.
Then Rickon thrashed. His body twisted beneath the furs, his limbs jerking as though caught in a snare. His breath came in ragged gasps, his lips moving in some fevered prayer or curse.
"No," he whimpered. "No… No… Help me!"
"Rickon." Catelyn cupped his face in her hands, but he did not wake. His skin burned beneath her palms, fever-hot.
She reached for the pitcher of water by his bedside, her hands trembling. The moment the cold touched his skin, Rickon jolted upright with a strangled gasp, his chest heaving, his eyes darting wildly around the room.
Then his gaze found hers, and though the fever still lingered in his eyes, he knew her.
"Mother," he rasped.
"Shh… hush now, sweetling." Catelyn held him close, running her fingers through his tangled hair. "It was only a dream. A bad dream, nothing more."
Rickon buried his face against her shoulder. "Mother, I'm scared," he whimpered, his voice muffled by her cloak.
Catelyn pressed a kiss to his brow. His skin was damp, his breath ragged. "You are safe. You are home, and no harm will come to you. You are the Lord of Winterfell now, my love, and no one will hurt you."
But Rickon only clung to her tighter. "I saw Jon," he sobbed.
Catelyn stiffened.
For a moment, she thought she had misheard him. But Rickon was still crying, trembling in her arms.
"Jon." The name sent a jolt through her. Why? Why would he say that? He has never even seen the boy.
Her fingers tensed against the small of his back, her mind reeling. That loathsome bastard had been sent away before Rickon was even born, taken south to Highgarden to be raised among the Tyrells. He was nothing, a mere shadow that had haunted these halls, one she had done her best to banish. Sansa had heeded her words, refusing to speak of him, but Robb and Arya had been another matter. They had defied her, writing to him every chance they had gotten, speaking of him as though he were family. Even Bran and Rickon had grown curious, pestering their father, asking questions she would never answer.
"But why now?"
"What are you saying, Rickon?" she asked carefully, looking into his frightened blue eyes.
Rickon hiccupped, his small hands twisting in her cloak. "I saw Jon. He was dressed as a knight, fighting at the entrance of a dark tower. The top was in shadow, but he stood in the light. He had a sword and a shining shield."
He trembled against her. "I saw Arya too. She was with him."
Catelyn's breath caught. "Arya! But how"
Her arms tightened around her son, but her thoughts raced. No, it cannot be. It was only a dream. A child's nightmare.
"Rickon," she said slowly, trying to keep her voice steady, "you have never seen your father's bastard. Neither has Bran. Why do you say you dream of him, my love? That is impossible."
Rickon pulled away just enough to look up at her, his small face flushed and tear-streaked, his eyes burning with something fierce. "It's not! I dreamed of Jon! I know he's my brother! And Arya—she's with him now!"
His voice rang through the chamber, and Catelyn could only stare at her youngest, her confusion mounting.
"Arya?"
It was a dream. It had to be. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how it twisted like a knife in the gut, Catelyn had long since accepted the truth—Arya was dead. Her daughter had escaped King's Landing, that much was certain, but if she had lived beyond that, someone would have seen her. Someone would have spoken of a ragged girl with her wild wolf's heart and her father's stubbornness. But the world had remained silent. The Lannisters needed a Stark girl, so they took Jeyne Poole and dressed her in Arya's clothes, hoping the ruse would convince their bannermen. Catelyn could not bring herself to hope anymore. Arya was gone, buried in some ditch by the road, far from the crypts where her ancestors lay.
And Sansa... sweet Sansa, lost to the Lannisters, dead or worse. Her beautiful boy Robb, her fierce and gallant son, butchered at the Twins alongside his bannermen. Her lord, her love, her Ned... the blade had taken his head, and nothing could bring him back. Even her own death had not been enough to set things right. She had clawed her way back to the living, a thing of vengeance and grief, but the wounds left upon her soul had never healed. Would they ever? Brynden thought so. He told her that, in time, the pain might grow bearable. She did not believe him.
"Rickon," she said, resting her hands on his tiny shoulders. He had stopped thrashing, but his breath still came in quick, shallow gasps. His little fingers clutched at her skirts as if letting go would send him tumbling back into the nightmare. "Tell me. What did you see?"
Rickon swallowed, his throat bobbing, and his voice was a whisper when he spoke. "Strange banners. A battle in a dark place... Jon was there, leading men. Smoke poured from the earth like breath from a dragon's maw. The land was black and dead, and the sky was full of fire. There were monsters, terrible monsters, all around him. And Arya—Arya was there too, fighting. But with Jon, there was a beautiful bird that shone like a star. It stayed beside him, kept him safe from the dark."
His voice hitched. He shut his eyes as if trying to block out the memory. "Then... then from the top of a great tower, taller than any mountain, I saw an eye. A burning eye, full of fire, looking down on all of them. It saw Jon and was filled with malice."
A shiver ran through him. Catelyn swallowed hard, smoothing his tangled hair back from his brow. "It was just a dream, sweetling" she murmured, though her voice felt hollow.
Rickon did not answer.
Just a dream, she told herself. It had to be. There was no place in Westeros like the one Rickon described. It was madness. And yet... none of my children knew the bastard, Catelyn thought. How could Rickon have dreamed of him? He would not even remember Jon; he had barely been more than a babe when they left Winterfell. And yet, he spoke of him with such certitude.
And yet Bran insisted, even now, that the bastard would return one day. He would answer all the questions that had plagued Bran's journey beyond the Wall, all the mysteries Bloodraven had left him with. He spoke of the eye, the great and terrible eye of flame, watching Westeros with dark intent.
It gnawed at her, the mere thought of it. The bastard would be a grown man now, hardened by whatever life he had chosen for himself. A warrior, perhaps. A sellsword. He had always been quick with a blade. The Northern lords might follow such a man, she knew. A seasoned warrior, a Stark in all but name, might call banners that would not rise for her crippled son or the wild boy at her side. The Blackfish had sworn to protect them, but Brynden's name alone would not be enough forever.
If Jon Snow still lived, she would not suffer him to return to Winterfell. He had his place—the Wall. Let him rot there. If he came north, she would bring him to heel; Benjen was there. That would be enough for him.
(Godswood)
The godswood was quiet beneath the pale light of the moon. The air was cool and crisp, and the scent of damp earth and old leaves was heavy. The weirwood's face loomed above her, solemn and bleeding, its carved eyes dark wells of knowing. Brienne and Podrick stood a ways off, their unease palpable.
Bran sat in front of the tree, legs crossed beneath him, his pale, sightless eyes fixed upon the heart tree's crimson leaves. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost reluctant. "Give me your hands, Mother."
Catelyn hesitated. His hands were small, yet the weight of years rested upon them. He turned her hands over, his thumb brushing against the pale scars that marred her skin—marks left by the catspaw.
"Close your eyes," Bran murmured, his voice touched with something like sorrow. "Just this once… you will see what I see."
"My lady," Brienne's voice was tight with worry. "This is—"
"Don't fear for me, Brienne," Catelyn said gently. "Bran will let no harm come to me."
Bran's lips pressed into a thin line, his expression bitter, as if he were sucking on a lemon. He did not answer, only nodded.
Catelyn turned to the weirwood, placed her palm upon the rough bark, and shut her eyes.
"Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, protect me and my children,"
Then the world shattered, and darkness swallowed her, sudden and absolute. A cold void opened beneath her, a chasm vast and lightless, deeper than the sea, deeper than the sky, and she fell, soundless, breathless, weightless.
Then the Eye opened; it held no softness nor mercy. Its gaze was terrible, yellow as a cats, but vast, deep, and old—so terribly old, and cruel.
The flames wreathed it, burning in strange, shifting hues, twisting and coiling like living things. The Eye searched. It was watching.
And then—it turned upon her.
Catelyn could not move. Could not scream. Could not breathe.
A force beyond reckoning pierced through her, stripping her bare, peeling back her skin, her flesh, her very soul. It saw her. It knew her.
Her joys, her griefs, her loves and losses. The days of her girlhood, the birth of her children, the war that had taken her husband, her sons, her own life. It pried through her regrets, her silent shame, her unspoken prayers.
She felt it withdraw from her, and she gasped, shuddering, clutching herself as if to keep from breaking. It had no interest in her.
Relief washed over her—relief and horror.
The Eye searched still. Seeking. Reaching. But not for her. Not for Bran.
A voice filled the abyss, vast and cruel, cold as the biting winds of winter. The words did not come from the Eye. They came from everywhere. They came from inside her mind.
"You are of no matter to me. Neither you, nor your broken son. But you cannot hide from me, no more than the wretched may hide from the storm. You have come from the darkness, from the cold void where there is no life… only death."
The voice wrapped around her like a hand at her throat. It was not rage. It was not madness. It was something far worse—certainty.
"Who are you?" she managed to whisper.
Silence, then—laughter. It was deep and cruel, filled with mockery and scorn, echoing through the abyss like the tolling of some great and terrible bell.
"I have been since before the silence was broken. Since before, the stars first bled their feeble light into the void. And since that hour, I have had many names."
A thousand voices screamed at once. The flames rose, twisting, roaring, devouring. Her heart pounded against her ribs, harder, swift, until she thought it might burst from her chest— And then—She was kneeling in the godswood. The air was cold again. The pond steamed. The leaves rustled overhead. The heart tree wept tears of blood.
Bran watched her. His gaze was solemn. Knowing. "Mother?"
Brienne's hand was on her sword. "What happened to her, my lord?"
Bran did not turn. "He saw you, Mother."
Catelyn closed her eyes. It was real.
"Who?" Brienne demanded. "Who saw her?"
Catelyn held up a hand. "Calm yourself." Her voice was hoarse. "I knew the risks." But her fingers trembled. Her knees felt weak.
She turned to the pond. The black water was rippling now, though no wind stirred. Wisps of steam curled from its surface, ghostly in the moonlight.
"Bran…" Her voice was barely a whisper. "What was that thing?"
Bran did not answer at once. When he did, his voice was quiet.
"Something ancient. And evil."
Her mouth was dry. "What does it want?"
Bran shook his head. "Not us."
That gave her pause. "Then who—?"
A thought crept through her mind, cold as winter's breath. It had lurked there for some time, a whisper, a shadow, a truth she had refused to face. But now Bran waited, watching her with those knowing eyes, and there was no escape.
She already knew the answer.
Jon.
It had been some time since she had that vision—the dreadful sight of the burning eye, its terrible gaze boring into her. Catelyn told herself it no longer mattered. The war was won, the Lannister's dead, and the realm was inching toward peace. That was all she could ask for.
Alas, it could not bring Ned back, nor Robb, nor her sweet girls. But she had her sons. That was enough. It had to be enough. She would love them and remain until she could see them again, even if not in this world.
"Rickon," she said gently, "maybe we should send for the maester to wake your brother. Bran should be here to—"
"Mother," Rickon cut her off, his voice small, trembling. "Jon needs our help. He's fighting an iron tower, and it has a mace. And when I looked at it… I saw an eye, a great eye of fire, and it was looking at me."
Catelyn sucked in a breath, her heart hammering against her ribs. Gods be good.
Rickon was so young, too young to understand what he was saying. But she knew. She had seen the truth in Bran, in the things he dreamed. Now Rickon as well? Was this the will of the gods? Were these dreams the work of the old gods, or the new, or—and this thought sent a chill down her spine—was this the doing of some darker, stranger power?
She had thought the visions were Bran's burden alone, his dreams, his gift—if it could be called that. Yet here was Rickon, not six years old, speaking of the same thing. The gods had touched her children in strange ways, though she knew not whether it was the Old Gods of the North, the Seven she had prayed to all her life, or some darker thing. She did not know whether to weep in gratitude or despair. These dreams had not saved Ned. They had not saved Robb. And now Rickon saw them, too.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to remain calm. "Rickon, be truthful with me. Did the eye come to you? Did it speak? Did it threaten you?"
Her son shook his head, curls bouncing as he wiped his nose with his sleeve. "No, it only looked at me, then turned back to Jon and his lightbird. It didn't do anything, but it was horrible, Mother. I know I have to be strong, like Father, like Robb. I'm the Lord of Winterfell now. But… but it scared me." His voice cracked, his tiny hands balling into fists at his sides.
A tremor of relief ran through her. If the eye had merely looked… perhaps it meant nothing. Perhaps. But Rickon was shaking again, so she gathered him in her arms, holding him close, brushing back his wild hair as he buried his face in her shoulder.
"Oh, my sweetling," she murmured, her voice thick with grief and something else she could not name. Was it relief? Or was it fear?
Rickon pulled back slightly, blinking up at her, eyes wide and wet. "Everything will be all right, won't it, Mother? We won't have to leave again. No one else will die?"
Catelyn held him close, rocking him gently as she stroked his hair. She pressed a kiss to his brow and began to sing, her voice low and soft, barely more than a whisper. It was an old song her mother had sung to her as a girl—a song of river reeds and summer rains. His breath slowed, his tiny fingers curling against her sleeve. Outside, the blizzard howled through the night, rattling the shutters and piling snow against the walls, but here, in her arms, he was safe.
(Imladris)
It was a night of autumn, cool and clear. The stars burned bright, glimmering like jewels. The moon shone brightly, and the waters of the Bruinen shimmered in the darkness like a river of glass flowing through the quiet land. The trees stood in solemn grace, their leaves green and bright for winter's chill held no sway over the valley.
Írimë sat alone upon the terrace, where the glow of many candles danced upon the polished wood of a table before her. In her hands was a tunic, its fabric smooth beneath her fingers, embroidered with soaring eagles.
Yet her heart was troubled, drawn ever back to the darkened east, where war raged unceasing, and her beloved was far from her reach. Seven years, seven long years had passed since she last saw him. In all her years, Írimë had not known loneliness such as this.
She laid the tunic upon her lap, smoothing the fabric with a careful hand, admiring her work. The fire upon the hearth flickered, its light dancing upon the polished floors, and the evening air whispered through the open balcony beyond.
A shadow passed across the threshold, and she turned to see Berendreth standing there, tall and proud, with hair dark as pitch falling past her shoulders. She seemed wearied, yet her countenance softened, and she smiled.
"Fair is the craft of your hands, Lady Írimë," she said kindly. "A raiment fit for a prince of the Eldar."
Írimë turned to her with a weary smile, though her eyes held no mirth. "A prince of the Noldor he is not," she murmured, "but a prince of Men he ever shall be in my eyes."
Berendreth stepped forth, her gaze resting upon the tunic. "Even so, he shall wear it well."
Írimë let her fingers linger over the fabric, but then she shook her head. "I do what little I can," she admitted, "but it is a poor thing to sit idle while others fight. Yet I am bound here, waiting, watching the seasons pass while the fate of the world is decided far from my reach."
Berendreth regarded her solemnly. "It is no easy thing to remain behind while those we love walk in peril. The waiting is its own trial, a torment unseen but no less cruel."
She met her gaze then, her blue eyes glimmering with the fire's light. "But I am not, as the other Ladies of the Eldar, content to keep hearth and hall in order. I would stand beside him, wandering together in long-forgotten lands. I have no taste for this idleness when my place should be at his side."
Berendreth sighed and turned her gaze to the heavens, where the first stars of Varda shone through the veil of dusk. "You are not alone in this longing, yet do not think that your task is without worth. It is sorrowful for a warrior to return home and find no light waiting for him. Would you see him return to a world empty and cold?"
Írimë looked away, clenching her hands in her lap. "No," she whispered. "I would not."
"Then do not dismiss what you give," she said, stepping to the balcony's edge. "He shall return and spend his days with you just as he promised."
For a long while, she said nothing, only listening to the wind. Then, at last, she spoke. "Perhaps you are right, Berendreth," she murmured.
At that moment, soft footfalls sounded beyond the threshold, and Rhaella entered. Her robe, silver and blue, moved like water about her, and her silver hair fell unbound about her shoulders. But there was weariness in her face. In her hands, she bore a delicate carafe filled with a strong sweet, smelling spirit.
Berendreth turned, her brows lifting slightly. "Rhaella?" she asked. "What brings you at this hour?"
"I could not sleep," Rhaella replied. "And I thought—to go for a stroll rather than sweating through my silks."
She moved without haste, setting the carafe upon a small table between them. The scent of aged fruit and honey drifted into the air as she unsealed it. She poured the amber liquid into three slender glasses, handing each one a cup before taking one herself.
Írimë took hers with a soft murmur of thanks.
Then, at last, Rhaella set down her cup and sighed. "The hours grow long when one lies awake with nothing but their thoughts for company," she murmured, tracing the rim of her glass with a slender finger. "I thought the brandy might grant me some ease. And perhaps you as well."
Írimë regarded her solemnly, the firelight casting flickering shadows upon her fair face. "It is not sleep that eludes us, but peace," she said quietly. "Would that a draught of brandy could mend such wounds."
Berendreth sighed softly, glancing at the swirling spirit in her glass. "Peace is not ours to hope," she said. "It comes and goes as it will, heedless of our longing."
Rhaella nodded, though a shadow of wry amusement touched her features. "Then let us drink in defiance of it," she said, refilling their glasses with steady hands. "If sleep will not come, let us at least share the night together rather than squander it in solitude."
For a while, they drank in silence, the fire casting long shadows upon the polished floor and the wind carrying the distant murmur of the falls beyond the vale. Then Rhaella spoke, her voice quiet but filled with love.
"I miss him," she murmured. "The days are long without him, and the nights longer still. After all these years apart, I find myself wondering—what might have been had things been different?"
Írimë turned to her, her keen gaze resting upon Rhaella's troubled face. "What do you mean?" she asked.
Rhaella exhaled softly, her fingers tightening about her cup. "Had Jon been born my brother instead of my grandson," she said at last, "perhaps things would not have been as they were. Perhaps I would not have been given to Aerys." A bitter smile ghosted across her lips. "He would have protected me, I think. He was born for such things, though he does not know it."
Berendreth studied her in silence, then set down her cup. "Did you never wish for the life they set before you?"
Rhaella's smile faded. "Once, perhaps, when I was too young to know what it meant. "I remember the first time I held a sword," she said, her voice softer now yet tinged with something sharper. "It was one of my brother's training blades, left in the armoury after his lesson. I was never meant to touch it, but I did. I remember how heavy it felt in my hands, how foreign and yet… right."
She smiled faintly, though there was no joy in it. "I wanted to be like Visenya. A warrior, I would sneak into the armoury when I knew the boys were finished, taking up the wooden swords and practising on my own," Rhaella continued. "I would mimic what I saw them do, moving as they moved, striking as they struck. I thought myself clever, thought that no one had noticed. But one day, I was wrong."
She sighed, her fingers tightening on the glass. "I had been at it for some time, striking at an old straw dummy, when I heard the footsteps behind me. I turned, and there he was—Ser Gerold, standing in the doorway."
She let out a small, humourless laugh. "I was afraid, of course. I was not supposed to be there; I knew I had been caught. But Ser Gerold did not take the sword from my hands. He did not call for the others. Instead, he reached for his own wooden blade and said, 'Again.'"
Írimë smiled. "He trained you?"
Rhaella nodded. "For a time. I was clumsy at first, of course. My footwork was poor, my grip weak. But Ser Gerold was patient. He corrected me when I faltered and offered help when I asked. And for the first time in my life, I felt free. I felt… powerful." She smiled bitterly. "It did not last, of course."
She took another sip of her brandy, the warmth of it doing little to soften the memory. "Aerys found out." Her grip on the cup tightened. "He stormed into the yard while Ser Gerold was drilling me, his face red with fury. He did not ask for an explanation. He did not care to hear one. He backhanded me across the face and sent me sprawling into the dirt. I remember the taste of blood in my mouth, the sting in my cheek." She swallowed hard. "And I remember his laughter. Gods, he laughed. He stood over me, sneering, and said, "What a waste. Do not ruin her face, Ser Gerold, a whore must look pretty after all."
She took a large gulp of brandy. "He did not see me as a woman or even his sister. I was a thing to him. A prize to be kept unspoiled, a womb to carry his heirs. That was all."
Berendreth's eyes darkened, but she said nothing.
"And then my father." Rhaella let out a slow, shuddering breath. "They dragged me before my father, and I thought surely he would see the sense in my actions, and he—" She shook her head. "He did not strike me. He did not rage. He only looked at me as if I were a foolish child who had scraped her knee." Her voice turned colder. "He told me that I was not born for such things. That my hands were not meant for swords but for crowns, for duty, for Aerys."
Írimë studied her, the flickering light casting long shadows across her face. "And you hated them for it," she said, not as a question but as a knowing truth.
Rhaella frowned. "I tried not to," she admitted. "I tried to be the dutiful daughter, the obedient wife, the queen they wanted me to be. But how could I? How could I, when my husband was a monster, and my father had given me to him without a thought?" Her grip on the cup tightened until her knuckles paled. "For years, I told myself it was my duty." She let out a bitter laugh. "But then I met Jon, and I saw in him everything that Aerys was not. And for the first time in my life, I truly understood how much I had been cheated."
Berendreth glanced at her. "Cheated?"
Rhaella nodded, her eyes dark and distant. "Aerys was my husband, my king, my so-called love. And yet he was none of those things in truth. He was cruel, petty, and weak. He fancied himself a dragon, but he had no fire of his own—only the madness that burned everything he touched." She sighed. "And then there is Jon. Jon carries fire within him yet wields it with wisdom. Who does not need to break those around him to feel strong. Who does not take what is not freely given."
She fell silent for a moment, then laughed, shaking her head. "It is almost laughable, is it not?" she said. "That my grandson is more of a husband than my own ever was?"
Írimë's lips curved faintly, though her eyes remained solemn. "He is no Aerys."
"No," Rhaella agreed. "And thank the gods for that." She lifted her cup to her lips, took a sip, and spoke again, quieter now. "I wonder, sometimes, what my life would have been had I been born a man if I had been a prince instead of a princess. I would have had a sword in my hand instead of a crown on my head. I would have ridden to war, taken what I wanted, chosen my fate." She sighed. "But I was a daughter, and so my life was never my own. My father decided for me, and I paid the price."
Írimë regarded Rhaella for a moment. "At least you have your children," she said softly. "A second chance at life."
Rhaella laughed, a sharp, brittle sound that held no joy. She turned her gaze to Írimë, something weary and almost amused in her expression. "Oh, my dear, what a thing to say." She shook her head, lifting her cup as though to drink, but she only stared into the brandy, watching the ripples settle.
"My children fools the lot", she sighed. "Rhaegar was a coward and a fool, convinced he was the saviour of a world that did not ask to be saved. He abandoned his wife, his children, his duty—all for prophecies and riddles." Her lips curled in something bitter. "And look what came of it. He perished with that foolish dream still in his heart, and his choices cost us dearly."
She set the cup down, fingers pressing into its delicate stem. "Viserys," she said, quieter now, "was every bit as mad as his father. I tried—I tried so hard to love him, but our time apart had turned him cruel; he hated me, and if Jon had not saved me when he did, the wretch might well have killed me. He saw himself as a king without a crown, a dragon without a throne. He was a boy who knew nothing of ruling but believed the world owed him everything. And when the world did not kneel… He shattered."
Rhaella's throat tightened. "Daenerys is more of a dragon than her brothers," she murmured. "And yet she was taken from me by this wretched war just as Rhaenys was. Just as I have been robbed of so much of my life by the whims of wretched fools."
Írimë's gaze was steady as she looked upon Rhaella, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the sharp planes of her face. With quiet certainty, she reached across the table, resting a hand atop Rhaella's own. "They will return to you," she said sweetly. "And when they do, you will have all the time in the world to spend with them."
Rhaella let out a bitter breath, her fingers curling slightly beneath Írimë's touch. "If only I could believe that." Her eyes darkened. "Do you know what it is to carry a child, to feel them stir within you, to love them before they have even drawn breath? And then to have them taken—one by one—until you are left with nothing but the memory of their laughter?"
Írimë's hand did not waver. "I have known loss," she said softly. "But you have not lost everything."
Rhaella exhaled, slow and heavy, and then, with a voice that carried the weight of a lifetime of sorrow, she whispered, "Jon."
Írimë reached across the table, her slender hand resting atop Rhaella's own. Her touch was warm and comforting. "It is no wrong thing to love him," she said. "Not even blood can stand against the will of the heart."
Rhaella sighed. "Perhaps not," she murmured. "And yet so much has been stolen from me, Írimë, damn Sauron to the void for all he's taken from me."
Írimë's grip upon her hand tightened, a silent offering of comfort. "You have lost much, but not all," she said. "Jon remains."
Rhaella closed her eyes, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "Jon, he was the only good thing to come from Rhaegar's folly. He, at least, is his own man, not his father and certainly not an idealistic fool like Lyanna. And though fate saw fit to take him from me, it has returned him at last."
She took a draught of her brandy. "I have spent my life bound by duty, by the whims of men who saw me as little more than a vessel. I was a wife, a queen, a mother—but never a woman in my own right." Her voice wavered, yet her resolve did not. "But Jon—he does not look at me as they did. He sees me. He knows me. And gods help me, Írimë, I love him wholly and truly."
Írimë studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "Love is not madness, Rhaella. It is the only thing that keeps us from it."
Rhaella's lips parted, a thousand unspoken thoughts lingering upon her tongue, but in the end, only one remained.
"When Jon returns from war," she said at last, "I will not hide from this any longer. We have tiptoed around our feelings since the day he rescued Dany and I from Umbar, but no more. I will not deny what the gods have placed before me. He is mine, and I am his, and when he comes back to me, I will have him as a husband in all but name."
She lifted her chin, her gaze fierce now, as though daring the world to deny her this. "I will have him, and I will bear his child, no matter what fate may say of it."
The hours stretched on as the night deepened, the firelight casting shifting shadows upon the walls. Rhaella, Írimë, and Berendreth wiled away the hours, telling tales of their youth, drank, and, in the warmth of the fire, found a rare moment of comfort.
(Arya on the plains of Gorgoroth)
In all her days, she had not seen such a horror. The Dark Lord, the Enemy, the Master of Mordor, loomed before her, and she felt as one cast into shadow, stripped of all warmth and light. She had known terror before, but they were children playing at war, their deeds small and petty beside the horror of Middle earth. Orcs and Goblins, creatures of ruin and slaughter. The Nazgûl she had faced, and still, in her dreams, their shrill cries filled her heart with dread. Yet now she saw the master of them all. He was as a tower wrought of black iron, a being of hatred and malice given form.
And before him stood Jon and Galadriel, the last light against the darkness. Arya had trained long under Glorfindel, yet now fear clutched at her heart but she was no child. She would not cower. She would fight.
She grasped Needle in her hands and took a step forward. But a voice like iron stopped her.
"Stay where you are," said Jon.
"But I would fight!" she said, her voice hot with anger.
"And you shall," Jon answered. "But not yet. Loras and Robar are wounded, and they will not last without aid. I leave them to you, Arya."
She growled and turned away. Her gaze fell upon the wounded knights, and her spirit wavered. Robar lay broken, his armour rent, his shield nothing but shattered splinters. Blood seeped from his arm, darkening the ruined steel. Loras was a little better; his breath was laboured, his face pale as death.
What was she to do? Glorfindel had taught her many things, but she was no healer. They would not live to see the battle's end if they were not tended to soon. And yet, she had nothing—nothing but the small flask given to her by Ashara at their parting. Miruvor, the cordial of the Valar, Ashara had warned her: it was no true cure, nor would it turn aside death if the wounds were too grave.
But she had no other choice.
She knelt and tilted the flask to Loras' lips, filling his mouth with the strong fragrant liquor. For a moment, he lay still. Then he gasped, his body convulsing as though grasping for life.
"You are alive," Arya whispered in wonder and relief.
Loras groaned, shifting where he lay. His eyes flickered open, glazed with confusion. "What happened?" he murmured. "I remember fighting… Robar and I—Sauron."
Arya placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. "Be still, fool," she said, though her voice wavered. "You have not fallen—but it was a near thing."
But Loras did not heed her. As his eyes fell on his brother, Tears welled in his eyes, and he choked upon his words. "Robar…"
"He is dead…" murmured Loras, his voice thick with pain, yet Arya shook her head, her eyes sharp with defiance.
"He is not, though death stands near," she said. "If he does not receive help at once, it will claim him." She stood, her gaze sweeping the field. Orcs milled about them, but none turned their gaze upon her, for their attention was bent wholly on the great battle unfolding—on the grim struggle of Jon and Galadriel against Sauron himself.
Her fingers curled into fists, and her breath quickened with the weight of anger. But her eyes, sharp as a hawk's, missed nothing—a black steed, still as the grave, standing a short distance away. Upon its back sat a man of the south, cruel of bearing, his face marked with the arrogance of one who feared no foe. Yet folly was upon him, for he rode bareheaded into battle, as if his doom had not yet been written.
"What are you plotting, girl?" Loras rasped, struggling to rise, though his wounds still weighed him down.
"Be silent, fool," Arya answered, drawing her dagger. She took aim and let it fly, swift as a darting hawk. The blade bit deep into the neck of the Southron, not a mortal stroke, but enough to topple him from his mount. The horse reared, wild and masterless. Then, as if sensing a strange freedom, it turned toward Arya, trotting near with ears pricked forward, nostrils flaring. With careful hands, she reached for the beast, speaking low and gently until, at last, its trembling stilled, and it bent its head low in respect.
"Well done, girl," Loras said, his eyes clouded with pain.
"Help me with Robar," Arya ordered. "You must take him to a healer. And if fortune is with you, find help."
"Do you think that will work?" Loras asked grimly, though he did not hesitate to lift Robar's limp form.
"I have no other plan," she said. "And our Miruvor is spent. We have no time. If you tarry, the enemy will soon remember our presence."
Loras grimaced but said no more. With great effort, he heaved Robar onto the horse's back, then pulled himself up behind. Blood seeped from his wounds, yet he clung to his comrade, teeth gritted.
"I will try to return—" he began, but his voice was swallowed by a sudden chill that fell upon them, heavy as a shadow before the storm.
Arya's breath caught. Her skin prickled with a dread deeper than fear, colder than steel. It crept into her bones. She turned, her blood turning to ice at the sight of a tall, cloaked figure moving toward her, its sword drawn.
"BACK!" Loras cried in fear.
Arya twisted around, her heart hammering. A wraith, robed in black, advanced upon her, its presence a void that swallowed light and courage alike. Though she did not know its name, she knew in her heart it was the same that had hunted her in Minas Ithil, the one that had pursued her into the shadows. She had studied their kind, Sauron's fell servants, the dread Riders of old, but no tale could match the horror that now walked toward her, blade gleaming with an unholy fire.
The horse beneath Loras shrieked in terror and reared; it bolted, galloping away into the darkness, bearing the wounded knights with it. She was left alone.
The Wraith halted before her. A voice like poisoned steel seeped from beneath its hood. "Foolish girl… you should have fled with them."
Arya set her feet, forcing her hands to remain steady. "We shall see, wretch."
A cold chuckle drifted from the shadows beneath its hood. "Minas Ithil. You remember, do you not? You fled me then, but there are no dragons to save you now."
Arya snarled. "And yet I remember you fleeing, screaming in terror of dragon fire."
The creature's form stiffened, and the darkness around it deepened. Then it shrieked, a sound so vile that it sent her reeling, her ears ringing with pain.
The Nazgûl lunged, like a separate blade glinting evilly.
But Arya did not flee. Her sword was in her grasp, and she sprang forward, meeting the Wraith's blade with her own. Their blades clashed, the sound thin and sharp, and a wave of dread rolled over her. Her limbs trembled, but she fought on, swift and light, darting through the Nazgûl's swings, ever moving, never still.
She was neither Jon, Loras nor any warrior of great strength. But she was small and quick. The Wraith was swift, but she was swifter.
They danced for what felt an age, blade meeting blade in glancing strikes, until at last, she feinted, twisting aside and driving her sword deep into its shoulder. The Nazgûl screamed—a wail of torment, as though all the cries of the doomed were loosed at once. The very air quailed, and the ground shuddered beneath its malice. The force of it struck her, and pain lanced through her arm.
The force of it smote her like a blow. Pain leapt up her arm, cold and cruel, and in that instant, her sword, frail as a withered reed before the storm, shattered in twain. The splintered hilt fell from her numb fingers, and she staggered back, gasping. She gasped, stumbling back, clutching her arm as agony rushed through her veins, sharp as the bite of winter's fang, and she could not master it. A cry broke from her lips, though she clenched her teeth upon it, and she clutched at her arm, which was now but a dead weight at her side, though it burned as though seared with fire. Her breath came hard, and she saw through a haze of anguish the dark figure turning toward her. No face could she see nor eyes, but she felt its gaze, cold and seething, like a serpent's malice coiled around her throat.
"You shall pay dearly," came the voice. "I shall drag you to the dungeons of the Dark Tower, where your will shall be unmade. Then, when nought remains of you but obedience, I shall cast you to the Haradrim, and they shall rape you until your belly swells with their mongrels."
A black doom lay upon those words, and Arya felt its weight, yet she would not bend. Though agony racked her, she lifted her chin and glared at the Wraith. Many words burned in her mind, hot and bitter, yet she held them back, unwilling to give the creature the satisfaction of her fury.
The Nazgûl moved toward her, slow and implacable, yet ere it could lay hand upon her, it wheeled suddenly, raising its blade to meet another that flashed like silver in the dusk. Arya, though her breath was short, knew this was her chance.
She forced herself upright, her body trembling, her fingers slipping to her belt. She drew forth a dagger from its sheath, and it gleamed even in the darkness, the hilt wrought like a coiling serpent in hues of red and gold. The blade, though slender, held a terrible light, for it was not of the works of lesser smiths but of the forges of Gondolin, where once Anghabar had yielded forth the finest steel.
Though her arm throbbed, and her limbs wavered, she did not falter. She took her aim, calling forth what strength yet remained, and with the last of her will, she cast the blade. True, it flew swiftly as a falcon stooping for the kill, and it struck true. A scream rent the air, high and keen, like the wailing of a winter wind. The Wraith staggered, its darkness unravelling, and then it was no more, and its garments fell in ruin upon the ground.
Gasping, Arya lifted her gaze, and there, her master Glorfindel wearied a smile on his face.
"You took your time," Arya called, though her voice was unsteady.
Glorfindel snorted. "You are welcome, Arya. And as for my delay, you may thank your cousin for that. A great host of Black Númenóreans barred our path—remnants of Umbar, who now seek vengeance for the fall of their Lords, Herumor and Fuinur."
Arya stiffened. "What?"
"They sought revenge," Glorfindel said grimly. "But when they beheld Jon and Lady Galadriel in battle with Sauron himself, they turned their course, seeking to cut us off, lest we come to their aid."
"And Loras? Robar?" Arya asked though a dread had begun to creep into her limbs, heavier than pain.
"Still, they live," Glorfindel answered, though his tone was dark. "We caught the horse that bore them away. Their hurts are grievous, and it is a marvel that breath remains in them. Robar took a terrible blow that would have claimed his life if not for his mail. But even that may not be enough."
"What of Loras?" Arya whispered.
"Better than Robar, though still sorely wounded. Lord Elrond did all he could ere they were taken from the field, but he could do no more, for the battle rages still. He sent healers to bear them hence, yet I know not how they fare."
Arya listened, but the words seemed to slip away, and a terrible weariness settled upon her. Her limbs turned leaden, and a great cold coiled within her chest.
"I..." she murmured, "I am so... tired..."
And then the light swelled, bright and pure, bursting forth amidst the shadow and ruin. Orcs shrieked and scattered like dry leaves before a storm. Arya forced her heavy head to turn, and for a moment, all was still within her. That light was the first warmth of dawn after a bitter night.
"What is that?" she asked, though her lips felt numb.
Glorfindel's voice was faraway. "I think it is the Lady Galadriel. But think not on it, Arya. The Black Breath is upon you. You must take Athelas, or you will not wake again."
Arya's vision darkened, but she struggled still. "I... I have some... But... I cannot..."
Glorfindel caught her as she fell; the last thing she heard was his voice.
"You will not fight again this day..."
Then darkness took her, though she fought it with all she had. And in that fading moment, a name whispered through her mind—not her own, nor that of her master, but another, far away yet always near.
"Jon"
(Jon on the plains of Gorgoroth)
The terror of Sauron and his servants lay heavy upon the battlefield, and the air grew thick with dread as the Black Riders came forth. Like hunting hounds, they swept across the field, drawn to their master, but now they numbered but eight, for Khamûl had perished, and his absence was keenly felt among them. Yet even diminished, the sight of the Ringwraiths gathered at their master's side was such that the hearts of many men quailed in terror.
But the wraiths did not remain clustered, save for one. The Witch-King, the mightiest among them, did not ride forth with his brethren. At Sauron's side, he lingered, silent and unmoving, his will bound utterly to his master's, awaiting his command to join the battle.
Yet even in the midst of despair, there was a star that would not be dimmed. Jon, though wearied and wretched with pain, did not stand alone. Beside him, like a light unyielding before the storm, was Galadriel, his beloved, and together they braced against the coming doom. The burn upon Jon's flesh, the mark of Sauron's grasp, was a torment beyond reckoning, and he knew that had he not been of the blood of the dragonlords, he would have perished outright. Yet he did not yield, for there was battle still to be done, and though his body was wearied and wracked with pain, he would bring down this monster.
Then the Enemy moved, and the storm broke upon them.
Sauron swung his mace, a weapon vast as a mountain's root, and with ruinous speed did it fall toward Galadriel. But she was light upon her feet, and with grace, she leapt aside. In that fleeting opening, Jon struck. Ringil flashed silver-bright and bit deep, and for the first time in an age, the Dark Lord was wounded. Yet his armour was as iron, and though wounded, the lord of the dark tower would not be undone.
The voice of Sauron, laden with malice, echoed across the plain. "Each wound you lay upon me, no matter how slight, shall only prolong your torment, insolent wretch."
"You shall not lay a hand upon him!" cried Galadriel, driving her spear into the wound, and Sauron roared in rage as the spear bit keenly into his flesh.
But Sauron was not so easily undone. Raising his mace high, he brought it down upon the ground with a force that pitied the earth, and they were cast from their feet. Before Jon could rise, he cried in despair as Sauron's mace, spiked and cruel, hurtled toward Galadriel, who had not yet regained her footing. Without thought, he leapt in front of her, taking the blow.
Pain, greater than any he had known, erupted through his body as the weapon struck him. Bones shattered, breath fled, and he was hurled back as though he were nought but a child. He struck the ground with terrible force, and for a moment, darkness threatened to claim him.
Sauron stepped forward, looming over him like a mountain wreathed in shadow. His voice, cold as the Void beyond the stars, rang forth. "I am impressed. Twice now have I dealt you a blow that would have slain any man, and yet still you crawl before me like a dog. Do you fear death so greatly?"
Jon sneered and spat blood and met the Dark Lord's gaze with defiance. "It is not that I do not dread the Doomsman, but rather that I will not be sent there by you."
Sauron laughed, a terrible sound. "You are no fool like Ar-Pharazôn, yet neither are you wise. Had you accepted my offer when it was given—when my voice reached you through the dragon's whisper—you might have known greatness. But now—" He took another step, raising his mace anew. "Now, you shall know only ruin."
Jon, battered and broken, struggled to rise.
But then, a light flared bright as the morning star. Galadriel stood, her spear raised, her eyes burning with defiance. "No further," she said, her voice like steel. "You shall not touch him."
Then Jon beheld his Star, and his heart was torn, for she stood bloodstained and weary, the fair light of her face marred by dust and ruin, yet no less radiant in his sight. And though he knew it was folly, he prayed that her wounds would mend, that her strength would not fail, though the hour was dark.
But laughter fell and cruel, rang through the battle-strewn plain like the clash of iron upon bone. And the Lord of Gifts, clad in malice and shadow, stood before them, his cruel eyes burning like fires of the mountain.
"Look at you, Daughter of Finarfin," said Sauron, his voice cruel. "The wisest of your people reduced to a trembling wretch who clings to so lowly a creature. What would your kin say? What would Celeborn think to see his wife cast aside honour for folly? To take a second consort in shame?"
Galadriel raised her spear, and her eyes, bright as the stars above, were filled with a terrible light.
"Silence, thrall of Morgoth!" she cried. "You took my brother from me! You stole Finrod's life in the dark, you cast Celeborn into shadow, but I swear, you shall not take Jon! I will not suffer you to steal from me the man I love!"
And lo! Even as she spoke, the light about her dimmed, and a deeper shadow fell upon her countenance. Then Jon knew this was her wrathful guise, born of anguish and despair, a thing of dreadful beauty, wherein her power waxed beyond measure, though it burned her strength like a flame consumes the wick. She had sworn never to call upon it, save in direst need, yet now she cast aside her restraint.
Then Sauron raised his mace and smote the air, seeking to crush her as a tempest fells a bough. But she lifted her hand, and a shield of light, woven from the very essence of her being, sprang forth. The weapon of the Enemy struck and was thrown back, and in the clash of might, the earth trembled.
Then Sauron spoke again, and his voice was laden with venom.
"Do you know what I shall do when this is ended, Lady of the Noldor? I shall spare you, alone among your kind, that you may live in torment. And your mortal lover, he shall rot in my dungeons until his spirit is broken. The will of Men is frail, and he will yield in time. He will take up my yoke, forging weapons for my hosts, till he is but a husk, an old man full of regret, dying in the darkness of my will. And you shall watch, knowing you were powerless to save him."
A fury unlike any before was kindled in Galadriel, and the light about her waxed until it was as the noonday sun, yet filled with a dreadful splendour. And her voice rang forth like a song of doom.
"You shall not touch him! Your doom is nigh, servant of the Black Foe! You are nothing—a shade, a whisper, a hollow name clinging to the ruin of a lost age! Depart now into the void and trouble the world no more!"
And behold! She strode forward, wreathed in brilliance, and Sauron, in wrath, let loose his fire, yet his flames found no purchase upon her. They bent away, and his form, terrible and vast, was thrown into shadow.
Then Galadriel raised her spear high, and the air shuddered with her cry, filled with the might of Aman and the sorrow of the Noldor.
"Be cursed and thrown out of this world, abomination!"
The world burned around them.
The blackened sky split with fire, a storm of ruin cast down from the heavens as Sauron's wrath unfurled. The mountains groaned under the weight of his fury, their peaks shuddering as if the very bones of the earth quailed before his rising form. Shadows clawed at the battlefield, sweeping across the broken corpses of elves and men, a tide of death pressing against the last, feeble glow of defiance.
But Galadriel had become a beacon, a terrible and beautiful flame against the darkness. Her radiance flared, so fierce that the orcs fled in mindless terror, their wails drowned beneath the howling wind. Even the Dark Lord himself faltered, reeling as her light seared the air, peeling back the gloom that clung to him like a living thing. Sauron staggered, his voice twisting as he brought to bear all his terrible magics, a cry that made the stones crack and the mountain roar in fury. But still, she stood, her golden hair now white-hot, a nimbus of power wreathing her in brilliance.
Then, at last, the flame guttered.
Galadriel fell.
Jon cast aside his helm and ran to her, his hands trembling as he gathered her into his arms. The heat of her light still clung to her skin, but her strength had fled, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her once-magnificent glow was fading, her form paling, fragile as starlight caught in the dawn.
"Galadriel, you thoughtless fool," he whispered, his voice thick with grief. "You have given too much. You cannot even stand."
Her eyes fluttered open, the light in them dim but undaunted. Her fingers brushed weakly against his face, her touch as soft as falling ash.
"It had to be done," she breathed. "I have bound him, Jon... for now. He cannot flee, cannot take another form... but it will not last." Her fingers tightened around his. "It must be you. You know what must be done."
Jon's breath came shallow, and he despaired.
"I cannot," he said, his voice raw. "You have seen him, my love—he is more than shadow and flame. He is wrath incarnate, a god of war. What can I hope to do against such power?"
A tremor shook the battlefield. Sauron stirred, his charred armour groaning as his form reconstituted, his great mace dragging through the ruined earth. The remnants of his cloak curled like black smoke, his helm turning toward them—toward him.
But Galadriel's hand found his cheek, pulling him back to her. There was no fear in her eyes, only love, fierce and unyielding.
"Listen to me, my wolf," she whispered. "You have always feared your strength. You have held yourself back, denying what you are, what you could be." Her fingers curled against his skin, desperate now. "But I have seen the truth, beloved husband. You are more than what you believe. You were touched by Ilúvatar himself, returned to us when all hope was lost."
Jon clenched his jaw. "I am just a man, Galadriel."
"No," she said, her voice fierce even in weakness. "You are more. And you must believe it now, for all our sakes."
Jon's breath caught. He knew of whom she spoke. He closed his eyes, and for the briefest moment, he saw golden hair, a soft smile, her voice sweet as summer wine.
Galadriel's strength gave out, her body going limp in his arms.
And Sauron rose, the ground cracked beneath his feet, fire billowing around him as he lifted his great mace. His helm gleamed, his form a tower of blackened steel, a titan of ruin standing over the shattered world.
"Fool," Sauron said, his voice like the grinding of stones. "Had wisdom been yours, you would have fled."
Jon didn't answer; the air was thick with the stink of sorcery and burning flesh, and the black hosts surged about him, a tide of ruinous will. Orcs, clad in iron and bearing cruel blades, pressed in, snarling like beasts.
Jon stood defiant, Ringil in hand, its cold fire flickering against the gloom. He struck left and right, carving through the wretches, his wrath terrible to behold. Yet they came on, a writhing mass of blades and hunger, and even the mightiest warrior may be borne down by the weight of numbers. A jagged sword caught his gauntlet, another struck his helm, and then many hands seized him, dragging at his arms, forcing him to the earth.
A mailed fist crashed against his ribs, another struck his wrist, and with a cry of rage, he felt Ringil torn from his grasp. It was flung into the press, vanishing beneath trampling feet and blackened shields. Orcs shrieked and jeered, their breath foul upon the air, their triumph a discordant din in his ears.
Yet Jon did not yield. With a roar, he broke free of their grasp, hurling them aside. Blood ran from his brow, his breath came in ragged gasps, but he stood once more, unarmed yet unbroken. The orcs shrank back for a moment as if sensing the wrath that burned within him.
Sauron loomed above, vast and pitiless, his mace a mountain of iron raised high. The earth trembled beneath him, and the weight of his malice darkened the sky. But Jon did not bow.
He loomed over him, and Sauron struck first. His gauntleted fist swung like a battering ram, and Jon caught the blow upon his forearm. The force of it was as if a mountain had collapsed upon him, driving him to one knee, his bones shuddering from the impact. Smoke curled from where the Dark Lord's touch seared his flesh, and agony lanced up his arm.
But Jon did not yield. With a roar of fury, he surged upward, slamming his fist into Sauron's helm. The impact rang like a thunderclap, denting the blackened steel. Again, he struck, a hammer-blow to the Dark Lord's breastplate, and another to his jaw. The force of his blows would have sundered stone, but Sauron did not fall. He reeled, and his wrath flared anew.
The Dark Lord's hands came upon him, cruel and burning, and pain shot through Jon like fire coursing in his veins. His skin blackened where Sauron's grasp found purchase, smoke rising from the charred flesh. But even as his body burned, his rage did not dim. With a bellow, he tore free, lashing out with all his strength, driving his knee into the Dark Lord's gut.
Sauron staggered, and for the first time, the orcs saw their master falter.
Then a scream split the air—a cry fierce and untamed. Deathclaw descended like a golden comet, his talons gleaming like razors. The great gryphon struck with the fury of the wind itself, his wings sending up a whirlwind of dust and broken bodies. His beak snapped forward, raking across Sauron's breastplate, sending the Dark Lord staggering back.
For the span of a breath, Sauron wavered, and that was enough. Deathclaw wheeled about, and as he passed, he loosed his burden. The hammer fell, spinning end over end, and Jon caught it in his outstretched hand. The weight of it was as a mountain, yet he lifted it as if it were an extension of his wrath.
Deathclaw did not linger, gathering Galadriel in his talons; his part was done, and with a final, piercing cry, he rose again, vanishing into the storm-laden sky.
Ghal-Maraz, the hammer of the dwarves, wrought in the deep places of the world when the mountains were young. Jon stood before the Lord of Mordor, and his voice was as the echo of thunder upon the peaks.
"Sauron!" he cried, and his words rang like steel against stone. "You have spilt the blood of kings and laid waste to the works of the world, but your time is ended! The hammer of Aulë's children shall break your pride, and your name shall be spoken no more!"
The Dark Lord laughed, and his voice was like the grinding of millstones, cruel and unyielding. "Fool of men," he said, "you think to stand against me with the trinkets of lesser hands? I have seen the fall of Númenor, the breaking of the world, the ruin of all who defied me. I am the shadow upon the world, and you are but a fleeting breath."
And with that, Sauron raised his mace, great and black, wreathed in flame, and he struck with all the power of his malice. The ground shuddered beneath the blow, and stone was rent asunder, but Jon did not yield. With both hands, he lifted the hammer, and as the wrath of the Dark Lord descended upon him, he met it in kind.
Flames, black and green, roared from the wound, an unholy conflagration, and the iron sinews of the Dark Lord cracked like ice upon a frozen lake. A scream of agony tore from Sauron's throat, a sound that split the heavens and sent his beasts fleeing in terror.
Jon did not falter. He did not yield. He howled his fury, his hatred, his defiance, and with both hands, he drove the hammer home. The runes upon Ghal-Maraz blazed with light, ancient words of power wrought before the rising of the sun. They seared into Sauron's flesh, branding his spirit, cutting through the dark sorcery that bound his form together.
The air itself howled as his power lashed out in vain. The shadow warred with the fire, titanic forces clashing within his broken shell, threatening to tear apart the land beneath them.
Still, Jon did not let go. The haft burned against his palms, the fire of its forging awakening as if the stars themselves had set it alight.
The blow smote Jon like a thunderbolt, and the ground beneath him shattered. He was hurled backwards, his body flung like a fallen star, a trail of dust and fire marking his path.
He struck the ground with a force that split the battlefield, the land rent asunder in a great smoking crater. Stone cracked and heaved around him, and the darkness of the deep threatened to close upon him. For a moment, all sound faded, save for the ringing in his ears and the rasp of his breath.
Pain flashed in every limb, his ribs groaned as if they had been turned to kindling, and his vision swam. Blood ran from his brow, hot against the chill of the broken earth, and his fingers twitched against the haft of the hammer, unwilling to let go even as his strength bled from him.
A sudden, blinding pain lanced through his arm. A long, thin blade, gleaming with pale, deathly light, had slipped through the gaps in his armour. It bit deep into his right arm, the chill of sorcery creeping through his veins like frost crawling over stone. Yet his neck still burned the mark of Sauron's black hand searing his flesh like a brand. Jon's breath came sharp as he turned, searching for the coward who had struck him so.
A figure stood apart from the ruin, tall and cloaked in shadow. A crown of iron sat upon its hooded head.
The Witch-king.
Jon cursed himself, fury flaring hot within him. He had been so fixed upon Sauron, upon the hammer in his grasp, that he had let himself forget the Dark Lord's deadliest servant. A mistake—one that might well be his last. Anger surged through him, wild as storm winds, and in that moment, something shifted.
His sight wavered. The darkness that enshrouded the Nazgûl flickered, twisted—and then it was gone.
Before him stood not the wraith king but something else. A man—if such he had ever been. Tall, his face gaunt and white as old bone, his hair long and pale as winter's breath. And his eyes—merciless, burning cold, piercing into Jon like twin shards of ice. The black robes had faded, revealing flowing garments of grey, silver-threaded, and upon his head gleamed a helm of steel, crowned in cruel points of blackened iron. A sword of cold steel rested in his skeletal hands, the edges keen as death's whisper.
Jon reeled, breath shallow, the vision shaking him to the core. The moment passed, like mist burned away by the rising sun. The black cloaks veiled the figure once more, shrouding him in terror. The Wraith stood before him once again.
Jon exhaled sharply, shaking his head to clear the remnants of the sight from his mind. His hand, slick with sweat and blood, wrapped around the hilt of the cursed blade still lodged in his arm. He tore it free with a grunt, the motion setting his nerves aflame. The weapon snapped in his grasp, the steel corroded and brittle, as if the very act of wounding him had drained its strength.
His legs buckled, the world tilting as he fell to his knees, the hammer slipping from his grasp. The cold was in him now, spreading like sickness, sapping his limbs of their vigour. He knew he could not stand against both the Dark Lord and his captain, not now, not like this. But still, he would fight.
"This isn't over," he growled, his breath ragged, his fingers clawing into the dust.
A voice answered.
"No, it is not over. But the end is near."
Jon's gaze flickered, drawn to the battle beyond. The Witch-king stirred, his spectral form shifting as if some deeper fear had taken root in his dark heart.
Then they came.
Elendil. Gil-galad.
Like figures carved from starlight and steel, their presence burned against the gloom. The light of their blades, of Aeglos and Narsil, shone with terrible radiance, a flame that no shadow could quench. The Witch-king hesitated. Then, with a shriek like the breaking of iron, he fled, vanishing into the swirling blackness beyond.
Jon's limbs trembled as he watched the Wraith disappear, his body wracked with pain. He tried to rise—but the strength had left him. He fell forward, coughing, the taste of blood sharp in his mouth.
The earth was cold beneath him. Dust and ash clung to his lips as he pulled himself forward, each breath a struggle. His fingers clawed at the ground, dragging himself from the crater where he had fallen.
"My King…" he murmured, his voice hoarse with grief.
Elendil regarded him solemnly. "Hold, Jon," he said. "The hour is dark, and I am grieved to find thee thus. Yet fate was cruel, for a host of Black Númenóreans barred our way."
It was for nought," he whispered, and tears ran down his bloodstained cheek. "Even with Galadriel at my side, I could not slay that wretch."
"What you and the Lady of Belfalas have done shall be spoken of in years beyond count, Jon, for all beheld your stand against the Dark Lord and the might you wielded," said Gil-galad. "The deeds of Lady Galadriel and yourself shall not be in vain.
He made to speak, but the High King lifted his hand.
"Peace," said Gil-galad. "We shall speak when all is done. But now seek Elrond and Círdan; they are tending to the wounded as best they may."
Jon wavered, his breath unsteady, for he wished to tell Gil-galad the truth, to tell him of Galadriel—but this was not the time.
"Where are Galadriel, Arya, and my companions?" he asked instead.
"They are safe," Elrond answered, stepping forth. "Lady Galadriel has spent her strength and lies now in rest, but she is being borne to the camp." He reached out, steadying Jon as he swayed.
"Lord Elrond..." Jon murmured, gladdened to see him, and his gaze fell upon Círdan, who stood silent beside him.
"Peace, Jon," said Círdan kindly. "You have done enough."
"No… I still have something to do… The fight against the Dark Lord is no longer in my hands but in the hands of our Kings, but something must be done against that High Nazgûl because he must not interfere any more," Jon said, looking at the Witch King with resentment.
"Enough, Jon," said Isildur, stepping forth. "Do not rush headlong into the embrace of death by the Valar. Tend to your wounds, or I fear you shall greet the Doomsman ere the battle ends."
Then Jon turned, and his face was grim. "Glory?" he said, and there was fire behind his words. "Nay, For we are not the first to stand against the Shadow. We are the sons of the West, heirs of the great ones who defied the darkness in ages past! Do you not remember?
"Húrin stood alone upon the slopes of the Haudh-en-Ndengin, and he slew a hundred foes before Morgoth's wrath took him. His son, Túrin, strode forth against Glaurung the fell, and though doom hounded his steps, he did not quail! And Tuor, who led the remnant of Gondolin through flame and ruin, and by his deeds was hope preserved!"
"Shall we prove craven where they stood unbowed? Shall we let fear quench the fire in our spirits? Nay! Let it not be said in the ages to come that the sons of Hador, the children of Bëor, and the folk of the Eldar faltered when the hour of great need was upon them!"
"Now is the hour, my kinsmen, my brothers in arms! If we perish, let it be with swords red in our hands and the banners of our houses lifted high! And if we triumph, then let the days ahead be free of Shadow, and let the dark things slink back into the void that spawned them!
"Forward! For the deeds of the mighty, for the days yet to come, for the hope that is not yet lost! Let our foes feel the wrath of those who will not bow! Aurë entuluva!"
His voice carried over the field, and those who heard it felt their spirits rise, for it was as though the ghosts of the First Age walked among them once more. And with that cry upon his lips, Jon lifted Ghal-maraz aloft and charged, and the host of the West rose after him.