Jon VII

Lady Melisandre could see much in her flames: things that were, things that are, and things that yet might be. She told him the songs his father, his true father, liked to sing, and how his mother loved him more than life.

She led them to the Dragon Queen's treasures. There was enough metal in Euron Greyjoy's Valyrian steel cutlass for two long, thin bravo's blades, one for Arya Stark, and another for her master, Syrio Forel. She named hers Dark Sister, after the blade of old, and his Little Titan.

The name Arya chose would prove queerly fitting, for the red woman led their party to Blackfyre itself, the greatsword of his father's house. Not Jon's, though. If Jon should live through this last war, he would wed the lady Shireen, and his sons would be Baratheons, same as the king's own. Joffrey had decreed it thus. It made Jon want to weep.

It was the fifth year of winter, and King's Landing had stores for seven. Other towns and castles might have less. They would have to move, and soon. Even so, there was much to do. Jon melted the ice in Blackwater Bay with Rhaegal's fire, allowing the Velaryon fleet to dock. The only possible route was sailing to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Even the swords of the North they could not count on, for the snow would be so high that the people were trapped in their own halls.

King Joffrey declared that only volunteers would join them. Jon wished to weep again when they had to turn men away. Their limit was five thousand with ninety days of provisions, knights, men-at-arms, real soldiers only. They would carry axe, mace, and hammer, all the better to smash the army of the dead. Aye, and iron torches the smiths of the Street of Steel made night and day, designed to burn a long while with a little bit of wildfire. Lady Melisandre warned them that nothing else might burn so far north, not even the Haunted Forest. For the Others, there was his dragon, and every man who could bear Valyrian steel, plus Arya. Lord Stark had Ice, King Joffrey his black axe, Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard Red Rain, Jon Blackfyre, Arya and Syrio with their bravo's blades.

The pyromancers labored to produce new wildfire, for they would risk nothing that had been in storage. Melisandre had a spell to stabilize it, or so she claimed. They packed the evil jars snugly on fat-bellied cogs which would follow their fleet at a safe distance. Still, Jon worried.

During the preparations, Jon practiced his hunting. He flew high in the cold, biting wind and learned to listen to the wolves. It was the queerest thing, but he could almost see with their eyes, smell what they smelled, and more. Not just Ghost, but all four who tasted dragonflesh. Lady, Nymeria, Ghost, and Rickon's shaggy, these four would they take.

When the pack spotted something, Jon would zoom down and strike like a great green falcon. He flew night and day. He flew so much he grew as confident on Rhaegal's back as he was ahorse. Jon felt he might dare anything as long as his dragon was with him.

King Joffrey absolutely refused to allow Sansa to join this quest, pregnant as she was. It was the first time he'd ever known them to argue. But, thank the gods, she eventually saw sense.

"Lady will be with you," she said, "and that will be enough."

Arya managed to convince Father when she faced him in the yard, moving like no woman had any right to. Syrio Forel proclaimed her a water dancer at last, as good a blade as any in Braavos.

Of their voyage north, little need be said. They stopped at Duskendale, Gulltown, and White Harbor, buying what supplies they could, though that was little enough. Few of them had food to spare. They kept their distance from the wildfire ships in their wake, and dreaded rough seas, expecting the cogs and carracks to go up in great gouts of green flame any time a wave rocked them. Only the boldest sailors dared crew those hellfire hulks, but Lord Velaryon had many bold sailors. Oft as not, Jon flew overhead, landing at their destination and taking off again to lead the ships to what he found.

They found Eastwatch dead. Not empty, dead. The men were frozen in their beds, or frozen where they stood. The cold bit harder than he was ready for after spending so long in the south. No demons of ice made it past the wall, but there was no living man to hinder them had the Others crossed, if they could cross.

When the king's host paused to take stock, the dead rose. They had been ready, for Lady Melisandre warned them. Still, it was a frightful thing to see the dead walk. The soldiers smashed their bodies with axe and hammer, and the red woman helped them light wildfire torches that kept them at bay. From then on, they would burn the dead, always.

In all the excitement, Ghost and the rest learned what the dead smelt like. He could hunt them.

That night, as they camped outside Eastwatch, he spoke with the king. The red priestess had charge of the green torches that defended the perimeter, so they need not fear being overheard. "She hasn't played us false so far," Jon pointed out.

"So far. The dead rose, as she said they would. Defending the wall itself is a fool's errand. No man can live out here for long. When our wildfire runs out, we shall surely freeze to death. We'll have to get to grips with these Others, beyond the wall."

The next day, they were considering how that might be done. Scouting ships had been sent ahead to survey the coastline, but no good anchorage presented itself. Every day their packs grew lighter, bringing them closer to disaster. They could not bring horses here, nor carts. They kept most of their supplies on the ships and dragged what they needed ashore on sleds.

Then, there was a miracle! They had five wolves instead of four.

"Charger, it has to be!" Arya shouted. Bran's wolf had joined them. The big grey beast was rougher and more wild-looking than the well-brushed animals who spent their days at court. He led his brothers and sisters through a secret path under the Wall and brought them to a strip of land with a little harbor choked by ice. It was a high place, with a good view of the country about, a perfect base camp for their ranging beyond the wall.

Jon took Rhaegal up and felt the dragon's hesitation when he passed over the Wall. It took a bit of will, but Jon mastered his mount, and they flew into the unknown white land together. Everything was louder, more colorful beyond the wall, like he had new senses he'd never used before. He sensed danger as well, real danger. They would not be safe here, even for a night. Yet there was exhilaration in the danger. His bond with dragon and wolf felt stronger, almost as if they were one.

With a good blast of dragonfire, Jon cleared the little harbor and led their ships by air to the place where they would make their stand.

Setting up their base camp took most of the day. First, they drove the iron torches into the ground, forming a ring. Lady Melisandre lit each one with a few splashes of wildfire, carefully poured, and a blessing from her red god. Next, men dug a pit in the deep snow at the very center of their camp. There, green fire would blaze day and night, warming their tents and driving off the dark.

That first night, Jon dreamt not as Ghost or Rhaegal, but of blue swordsmen, beautiful and fey, with crystal armor that reflected light like mirrors.

The Others, he knew at once. No attack came on the first night. In the morning, it hadn't warmed up at all. They shivered by the great green fire, their only toehold in this land that hated life.

"All right, Jon," Joffrey told him over a meal of hard bread that tasted queer after being thawed by wildfire, "you're our eyes and ears. Follow the wolves, and strike a blow if you can."

Ghost and the rest followed Charger, who knew this land best. It was Charger who revealed the truth. They hid from the sun, these Others, and spent the day in burrows of snow. He found them!

Hastily, he mounted Rhaegal and took off. There was a mound, not far, that smelt of the dead, and he dived at a steep angle. "Dracarys!"

Rhaegal's green breath was somehow greener than the wildfire and blew stronger beyond the wall. For a moment, Jon was blinded by steam, and as his dragon pulled up, he could swear he heard the sound of ice cracking underfoot, not snow, but ice.

The wolves found three more mounds of snow, and he melted them like the first. Would it be so easy? When he returned to camp come evenfall, the air seemed warmer than he remembered.

"Any luck?" the king asked when he dismounted.

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"I think so," Jon answered. While they spoke, Melisandre was feeding the great central fire. She looked deeply into it, a stricken expression on her face.

"They know we're here," she said. "Their revenge will be speedy. Prepare yourselves."

So it proved. Packs of skeletons, rattling like cold iron chains, assailed their ring of torches. Not a one had a weapon in his hand, but they were strong. The first to make it through ripped a man apart with its bony fingers. They ran forward with no fear, pulling down torches even as they burned to nothing. The king and everyone fought fiercely, but it would not be enough. Jon took flight, but he could see nothing in the mist. The wolves could smell, but the smell of the dead was everywhere. He flew in a panic, burning what land he could outside the ring of torches, hoping to stem the tide.

They only held on by dragging their dead and grievously wounded to the central fire and piling them up like kindling. With their light and life, Melisandre urged the flames higher and projected a wave of flame that stopped up the breach, burning all who got through.

Still, it did not end until Arya stuck the Other leading this attack with her bravo's blade. She, too, reported the ice-cracking sound as it melted into wisps of steam that blew away on the wind. This, Jon did not hear until he landed. Everyone was slapping her on the back and naming her Slayer. Her master, Syrio, looked proud.

That was the first day and the second night. There was but little light after that. Grey clouds shadowed them all the time, and any man who strayed too far from the wildfire torches could see nothing at all come evening.

Jon's dreams of the Others continued when he could sleep, which was not often. He hunted by day, melting the burrows the Others hid in, only daring to land in their ring of torches. Twice more, terrible hosts assailed them, and many fell. Ser Jaime took a wound from a dead snow bear, protecting the king. Many of them took wounds. The Lord Commander lasted another night and day before he turned, and they had to burn him with the rest.

Even so, they got better at fighting. The dead were mindless and could be lured into ditches and channels where wildfire waited for Melisandre's igniting spell. The wolves got better at telling the Others from their servants and led Arya to slay another. The mist the Others hid in grew thin when Rhaegal breathed into the air, and Jon finally got a look at one up close.

They looked like men, to tell it true, but their faces were cold and cruel. They laughed when they killed: a harsh, hacking sound, not unlike their death rattle. Their armor took in light and bent it, but the light of wildfire and dragonflame made them shine like torches. Every man of theirs who bore Valyrian steel would mark that shine.

Syrio Forel slew one, and another cut him down. This sent Arya Stark into a red rage. She danced and dodged skeletons and shadow cats raised by necromancy and slid through the snow until she put her point right through the demon's crystal armor. When the Other fell, its servants died their final death, sinking limply into the snow.

The next day, the king rounded on Lady Melisandre. "You said one hundred. How many have we slain now? Jon burns them in their burrows by day, and we've cut down at least ten in their night attacks. How many more? Will this end when the last falls?"

The red woman looked pale and wan, Jon noticed. He'd never seen her sleep, he realized. It was her magic that let them control the wildfire that kept them alive. What did it cost her?

"The matter will be decided soon, Your Grace," she replied, not nearly as confidently as she used to.

On his next hunt, Jon pushed Rhaegal especially hard, flying long leagues from their camp, until he came to a mound with a ring of stones.

Men have been here before.

Charger was there, having run further and faster than the other wolves, with no fear of what he might run into. The beast dug at a certain point, but Jon could not sense a single burrow of the Others.

Come down, was the message on the wind. At first, he thought it a trick, but no wolf smelled death. They were alone.

When Jon landed, he saw that Charger had unearthed a horn. It was black, banded in gold, with runes of the first men carved into the metal.

"An old thing," he said aloud. Jon got the sense that Charger wanted him to have it. With this trinket strapped to his saddle, he took off again and started the journey back to their camp, dreading what he might find.

That night, the Others attacked again.

Their wildfire burned low, and a few of the torches guttered out. It was worse than ever it was. When Jon took to the air, he could just barely make out movement in the valleys leading up to their last redoubt. Waves of dead things, men and worse, sprouted up from nothing and fell on them. Their knights shouted and furiously tried to unstopper jars of wildfire, but the substance was thick and congealed, not flowing well at all.

Lord Eddard Stark was ripped apart by shadow cats with half their skins missing.

Jon tried to come to their aid, urging Rhaegal to blanket the land in his breath of death, but the fire caught in his mount's throat. Whatever evil sorcery the Others came with dampened even dragonflame. Jon was forced to land and draw Blackfyre.

Even as he joined the fray, the last torches on the perimeter fell, and all their host fell back to the great central flame. Men flung their friends, dead or dying, into the blaze, praying for some warmth, or a little light to die by.

The Others, more than a dozen of them, parted the sea of beasts and dead men, eager to finish the living men themselves. Jon crossed blades with one, and it was sweet when he heard the cracking-ice sound yet again.

"Do something, woman!" the king roared over the tumult. His axe found an Other too, but there were too many. As men fell, they rose in service of the Others. With no fire to retreat behind, they would soon be overrun.

Lady Melisandre sang a song of woe in a language Jon didn't know and flung herself on the bonfire. Even as she burned, she still sang. The embers flared to life, and a great pillar of green sprouted like a mushroom of heat at their backs. It sent out tongues and fingers that lit the torches again, and Rhaegal, who had skeletons crawling over him like ants, found his breath.

Jon's weary, frozen bones felt new life bloom within, and he cut down two of the icy swordsmen with smooth strokes of Blackfyre. Arya fought three at once. Even their blades of ice could not touch her, so fast and agile she was. She stuck two, and the king felled a third that tried to take her in the back.

The wolves led Jon to the last, crystal armor glowing like a beacon. It perished in Rhaegal's flames before he could heft his greatsword.

Then all was silent.

For the first time in a long while, Jon felt warm, truly warm. He slept and dreamed not.

When they rose, they saw the sun. Not a cloud could be seen, and the ice was sloshing beneath their boots.

"Is it over?" Joffrey asked roughly. The king had been wounded in several places, but he could still walk under his own power.

"It's over, Your Grace," said a young lad. He had red hair and pale skin that looked almost green. Where had he come from? They took no squires on this quest. Arya was the first to see.

"Bran, you're alive!" she shouted with joy. She ran to him, and all five wolves ran and played and chased one another. Jon strode forward, leaning heavily on Blackfyre. The boy was now a youth and looked quite a bit like a skinnier Robb.

This one, who could only be his brother, looked directly at Jon. "It is time to blow the horn and break the cycle, Ser."

Somehow, Jon knew precisely which horn was meant. He made his way to Rhaegal, who was still saddled. His dragon had several wounds that wept steaming blood, but he was a tough beast. It would take more than an army of the dead to overcome that dragon. The black horn with gold bands was there, exactly where he left it.

The first blow was a low, dull rumble that built into a high keening wail, a cry of victory that vibrated through his bones and ran through him from his toes to his teeth. As he fed the thing more breath, he realized it was not his body that was shaking, but the ground itself. The wall, still visible in the southern distance, was shaking itself to pieces. Chunks of ice tumbled down and piled together like uncut stone. The realms of men would have no more need of them.