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101: The Son of Ice and Fire, An Adventure Beyond the Wall pt.3
🕑 Added 2025-01-13 18:44:08 +0000 UTCRedoing my Life next.
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Maekar’s thoughts churned with unease as they trekked across the snowy expanse toward the Wall. The bitter cold bit at his exposed face, and the desolation stretched endlessly before him, broken only by the crunch of boots and the low murmur of voices.
“Has he…?” Maekar asked, breaking the silence. His gaze was on the horizon, though his words were directed at Leaf, who walked beside him.
“Yes,” Leaf replied softly, her voice carrying a note of reverence. “He has passed into the roots. He is one with the world now.”
Maekar’s expression hardened, though he felt a pang of loss. “He guided me well,” he said quietly.
“He did more than guide,” Leaf replied. “Thanks to Brynden, we have a chance to defeat the enemy. Without him, the darkness would already be upon us.”
Ahead, Lyonel marched with the Varangians. There was a bit of tension between them now. Maekar knew the source of that tension: Leaf’s cryptic words about Lyonel being a “child of the storm.” He knew Lyonel would figure it out soon enough; he needed to speak with his friend about it.
“They’ve left their encampment,” Leaf said suddenly, her voice breaking his thoughts.
“The wildlings?” Maekar asked, turning to her.
“Yes,” Leaf said, her eyes scanning the snowy expanse. “They are being hunted. Urganash has sent a small force to claim them and swell the size of his army.”
Maekar clenched his fists. “Tell me about this Urganash. Brynden called him the last of the old kings.”
Leaf’s expression darkened. “Urganash was the most cunning among them. He was the one who convinced the other old kings to turn to the Great Other.”
“Fantastic,” Maekar muttered. “Exactly what we need.”
Leaf ignored his sarcasm. “Urganash rode a great ice dragon,” she said, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “Though I cannot say if it survived.”
Maekar exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the freezing air. “Knowing my luck, he probably has more than one.”
“Let us hope not,” Leaf said gravely. “The enemy is at its weakest now. Your ancestors and mine faced them at their full strength.”
“This isn’t the Age of Heroes,” Maekar said grimly.
Leaf looked at him. “But we have a dragon, will soon have more, and we have you—the son of ice and fire. That will be enough.”
Maekar didn’t reply, his mind focused on the looming Wall in the distance. The great structure rose higher with each step.
Lyonel fell back from the group ahead and drew closer to Maekar. “Shouldn’t we have spotted the great ranging by now?”
“We should have,” Maekar admitted, a thread of worry lacing his voice. “Perhaps they’ve moved further east.”
Lyonel’s brow furrowed. “What does the child say?” he asked, glancing at Leaf.
“She last spotted them near Craster’s Keep,” Maekar said, his voice low. “But that was weeks ago.”
Lyonel’s face paled. “You don’t think—”
“Let’s hope not,” Maekar interrupted. His eyes fixed on the Wall ahead, his heart heavy with unease.
As the group approached the Wall, the sun was beginning its descent, painting the icy expanse in hues of deep orange and violet. By the time they reached the gates of Castle Black, night had nearly fallen, and the first stars were beginning to pierce the twilight sky.
Entering the castle, Maekar immediately noticed the disarray. The courtyard was a scene of chaos: black brothers milled about, many of them injured, their ragged cloaks stained with blood. Some huddled in groups, their faces pale and stricken with fear, while others moved frantically to tend to the wounded. The smell of blood and smoke lingered in the cold air.
Lyonel surveyed the scene grimly. “I believe I know what happened to the great ranging,” he murmured to Maekar.
Maekar’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the crowd. “So do I,” he said, his voice heavy with unease.
The brothers’ attention turned to the newcomers as Maekar and his group entered the courtyard. When their eyes fell upon the Earthsingers, a wave of reactions rippled through the crowd. Some of the injured men recoiled in terror, scrambling away with panicked cries. Others stared in awe, their gazes fixed on the strange, diminutive beings.
“W-what are they?” one man whispered, clutching a makeshift bandage on his arm.
“What happened?” Maekar asked. There was no answer.
“The king asked you a question,” Lyonel echoed.
“Your Grace!” a voice called out, and a black brother approached, his gait unsteady. He bowed, his face pale and drawn. “Some men returned from the ranging. They claim… they claim to have been attacked.”
“Attacked by what?” Maekar asked sharply, stepping closer. He already knew the answer.
“The dead!” another brother shouted from nearby, clutching his arm in a sling. His voice cracked with panic. “The dead! They were dead! They came for us!” His voice rose to a frantic pitch, and his eyes darted around wildly.
Maekar’s stomach tightened. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “Lyonel,” he barked, “get the Varangians to assist the wounded. Guard the Earthsingers. I’ll handle the rest.”
Lyonel nodded, moving quickly to carry out his king’s orders. The Varangians began directing the chaos, helping the injured into the keep. Meanwhile, Maekar took command of the situation in the absence of the Lord Commander.
“You!” Maekar pointed to a nearby black brother. “Fetch water and supplies for the wounded. And you—get the injured into the infirmary….”
Slowly, order began to take shape. The wounded were carried inside, and the courtyard was cleared. As the last traces of twilight faded, torches were lit. The castle grew quieter, though the tension in the air remained. Maekar ordered everyone to assemble in the mess hall so he could address the situation.
Arriving in the room, he found himself standing on the raised dais.
He looked out over the gathered men of the Night’s Watch. Their faces were pale with fear, their eyes wide with uncertainty.
“There is a curse in the far eastern lands that says, ‘May you live in interesting times.’ Interesting times are meant as an era of turmoil, tumult, upheaval, and strife,” Maekar began. “We are living in interesting times,” he continued, his voice steady and resonant, carrying to every corner of the mess hall. “The world changes around us. Dragons have returned, lighting the skies with their fire. The Citadel warns that the next winter will be one of the longest and harshest in a thousand years.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle on them.
“And now, it seems the dead are rising beyond the Wall.”
A murmur rippled through the hall, fear and denial on every face. One of the brothers, his voice trembling, called out, “Your Grace, you can’t mean—”
Maekar raised a hand, silencing him. “I do mean it. The Age of Heroes has come again. Magic stirs in the world—both good and evil. Your oath binds you to guard the realms of men. Pay attention to the wording: men. Men. All men. The Wall was never built to keep out the savage wildlings; it was built to stand against the true enemy.”
He leaned forward slightly, his voice deepening. “The Others have returned. The Long Night comes again.”
The hall erupted into protests and cries of disbelief. Men shook their heads, some whispering prayers, others openly questioning the king’s sanity. Maekar let the chaos go for a moment before slamming his fist on the table in front of him. The room fell silent.
“When the Long Night fell upon the world thousands of years ago, our ancestors didn’t flee,” he said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “They didn’t cower in fear or deny the truth before them. They stood. They fought. They drove back the darkness and brought the dawn.”
His gaze swept over the room, meeting the eyes of as many men as he could. “And now, it is our turn. We stand on the precipice of history. The Wall still stands. You still stand. And this time, we have a dragon on our side. We have allies in the ancient—children of the forest who have lived through the first Long Night and have come to aid us once more. We are not alone in this fight.”
The men began to shift uneasily, their fear giving way to something else—hope, perhaps, or at least determination.
“You swore an oath,” Maekar continued, his voice rising. “To be the watchers on the Wall. To be the shield that guards the realms of men. That is your sacred duty. You carry the legacy of heroes—men who stood where you now stand, who faced down this darkness and won. Will you sully their names? Will you cower when the realms of men look to you for protection?”
He slammed his fist on the table again, his voice thunderous. “No! You will not. You will fight. You will stand tall and strong, and you will be the realm’s greatest heroes.”
The silence held for a moment, thick with emotion. Then, one voice called out, strong and resolute: “Hail King Maekar!”
Another joined in. And another. Soon, the hall erupted into a thunderous cheer, the men raising their fists in unison. “Hail King Maekar! Hail King Maekar!”
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Neferion paced in the clearing near Castle Black, his massive black wings twitching with unease. His emerald-green eyes darted toward the surrounding forest, and every growl that rumbled from his throat carried a note of discomfort. Maekar could feel it all—the anxiety, the unease, the primal instinct to flee—through the connection they shared.
Leaf, walking beside Maekar, seemed unaffected by the dragon’s display. “The Wall’s magic is failing,” she said, her voice calm yet tinged with urgency. “Urganash will exploit that weakness.”
Maekar frowned. “Can’t you do something about it? Restore the magic?”
Leaf’s serene expression darkened slightly. “No.”
Maekar sighed, frustration clear in his voice. “You never have anything good to say, do you?”
Leaf gave a faint smile but said nothing as they continued toward Neferion. The other Earthsingers followed closely, their presence drawing the dragon’s wary gaze. Neferion let out a deep, guttural roar, lowering his head as if ready to strike.
“Easy,” Maekar said, his voice steady and reassuring. Through their bond, he sent calming waves of thought. They’re with me. Trust me.
The dragon’s breathing slowed, his wings relaxing slightly as he allowed the Earthsingers to approach.
Lyonel came to stand beside Maekar. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “What are your orders for us?”
Maekar turned to him. “Send ravens to the commanders of the other castles. Bring them here. Tell them everything that’s happened.”
Lyonel hesitated, his expression skeptical. “They’ll think us mad, Your Grace.”
“They’ll think us mad until they see proof,” Maekar replied.
Lyonel’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean—”
“I do.” Maekar’s expression was grim. “I’ll capture some wights and bring them south to show the lords of Westeros the danger we face.”
Lyonel nodded reluctantly. “As you command. But... be careful, Your Grace.”
“I will,” Maekar said, clasping his shoulder briefly before turning his attention back to Neferion and the Earthsingers.
The Earthsingers had begun their work, encircling the dragon in a strange ritual. They moved rhythmically, their soft chanting resonating in the cold air. One by one, they approached Neferion, applying a paste of glowing green substance onto his scales and face. Maekar could feel the dragon’s resistance fading with each touch, replaced by a growing sense of comfort. It was as though the dissonance Neferion had felt near the Wall was being lifted.
Leaf stepped back and nodded. “It is done. He will no longer fear the Wall.”
“Good,” Maekar said, his impatience creeping into his tone.
“You must hurry, Son of Ice and Fire,” Leaf said, her golden-green eyes locking with his. “The humans will soon be attacked. They will not hold long without you.”
Maekar nodded. He turned to Lyonel one last time. “I’ll be back soon.”
Lyonel bowed deeply. “Be careful, Your Grace.”
Maekar sprinted toward Neferion. He climbed up the dragon’s side with practiced ease, securing himself in the saddle. Neferion let out a powerful roar, his wings unfurling as the icy winds whipped around them.
With a single mental command, Neferion launched into the air, his massive wings propelling them upward with immense force. The Wall and Castle Black shrank below them as they climbed higher and higher. The freezing wind bit at Maekar’s face, cutting through his cloak and armor, but he leaned forward, urging Neferion onward beyond the Wall, becoming the first dragonrider to cross it.
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“We are fucked,” Tormund growled, his voice carrying over the biting wind as he paced beside Mance. His broad figure loomed against the endless white, his frustration and fear evident.
Mance, clutching his patched cloak tighter against the chill, glanced at the red-headed giant of a man. “We just need to keep moving,” he said firmly, though doubt gnawed at him. Behind them, the unnatural white storm churned, growing closer with each passing moment.
“We need to fight!” Tormund bellowed, his voice a storm of its own. “Turn and face them before they pick us off like rabbits in the snow.”
Mance shook his head. “And let our best warriors die?”
Val, standing at Mance’s side, added sharply, “We cannot argue now. They’re closing in!” She pointed toward the west, where another wall of snow was rising like a second, icy doom.
Orm, the Magnar of the Thenns, stepped forward. “They’re surrounding us,” he said grimly, gesturing to the ominous swirl of snow. “If we don’t act now, we’ll all be trapped.”
Mance’s heart sank as he scanned the sea of humanity before him—more than seventy thousand men, women, and children trudging through the snow. These were not warriors. He could see mothers carrying infants, fathers supporting the elderly, children too young to understand the peril they were in.
The weight of his responsibility crushed him.
“We should fight!” Tormund shouted again, slamming a fist into his palm. “If we’re going to die, let it be with axes in hand.”
“And die?” Val snapped, rounding on him. “We cannot fight them, Tormund.”
Orm spoke again, his voice low but firm. “Perhaps Tormund is right. What choice do we have?”
Mance turned to the western storm, his gaze distant as he felt the enormity of the decision before him. His mind raced. The unnatural weather behind them marked the presence of their enemy— the Others. There would be no reasoning, no quarter. They would join the very army they were fleeing.
A cold pit formed in his stomach. There was no escape.
“We fight,” Mance said at last, his voice quiet.
“No!” Val shouted, stepping forward. “Mance, no!”
He turned to her, his expression one of resignation. “Damned if we do, damned if we don’t,” he said simply. “But I’ll not see these people hunted like animals. If we can buy them time, then maybe—just maybe—some will survive.”
Val’s protests died on her lips. The hard truth of his words silenced her.
The camp sprang into frantic motion. Women, children, and the elderly were moved to the front of the column, urged to keep moving at all costs. Fighters—men and women alike—prepared to make their stand.
Mothers handed off their children to younger, unburdened women. Fathers kissed their families goodbye. A grim silence hung in the air as makeshift weapons were drawn: axes, spears, and crude swords.
Mance spotted the only surviving crow, the Tully lord. The man trudged toward him through the snow, his face pale and grim.
“Most of them don’t have dragonglass weapons,” Edmure said, his voice raw with exhaustion and fear.
Mance let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Do you think we have them in abundance, Tully? We make do with what we have.”
Edmure glanced at the horizon, where the storm churned and shadows loomed. “We’re all going to die.”
“That’s the point,” Mance replied, gripping his sword tighter as he scanned the darkened sky, the unnatural storm swirling closer.
Beyond the snowstorm, shapes began to emerge. Hundreds—thousands—of the dead advanced slowly, a tide of twisted, unnatural forms. Some were fresh, still resembling the people they had once been. Others were skeletal, nothing but bones barely held together by the magic animating them. Behind the horde were four figures: the Others. Their pale, icy visages were cruel and inhuman, their movements strange and otherworldly as they led their army.
Mance’s lips curled into a grim smile. “I’m going to kill those icy fucks before I breathe my last.”
The dead continued their slow advance, their motions deliberate, as if savoring their inevitable victory. The Others moved behind them, their ice-blue eyes scanning the lines of wildlings preparing to fight. One of them raised an icy spear, the motion a silent command.
“Fight to your bitter end!” Mance roared, raising his sword high. “We need to buy the others as much time as possible!”
The freefolk let out a defiant cry, their voices rising above the howl of the wind.
Then, just as the dead surged forward, a deafening roar echoed across the sky.
Mance froze, his sword half-lowered as the sound thundered through the air. He glanced upward, his heart pounding. Around him, the freefolk turned their gazes skyward.
Edmure let out a yell, his voice cracking with hope. “We’re saved! We’re fucking saved!”
Above them, descending from the storm-clouded heavens through the first light of dawn, was a massive black shadow with wings that blotted out the faint light of the rising sun. The air itself seemed to ripple with heat as it approached, the snow melting beneath it. Its roar was deafening—a challenge to the darkness below.
“Is that…?” Val whispered, her golden hair whipping around her face.
“Burn them all, usurper!” Edmure screamed, raising Heartsbane high. “Burn them all!”
Mance’s breath caught in his throat as the dragon came into view. The sheer size of the creature left him awestruck, its wings cutting through the air with enough force to knock men to their knees.
“A dragon,” Mance breathed, his voice barely a whisper.
The dragon circled above them once before diving, its massive form casting a shadow over the battlefield. The wind from its wings sent freefolk and wights tumbling to the ground as it unleashed a torrent of dragonfire directly at two of the Others.
The fire hit its mark, a swirling storm of orange and red engulfing the icy figures. They screeched in a high-pitched, inhuman wail as their forms shattered into icy shards. The dead surrounding them also caught fire, their decaying bodies burning like dry kindling. The flames spread rapidly, a purging blaze that consumed the enemy ranks.
The freefolk erupted into cheers, their cries of triumph ringing out above the crackling of flames.
“Burn them again!” Tormund shouted, his axe raised high as the dragon roared once more, preparing another fiery assault.
The battlefield soon became a churning sea of fire, ice, and death. The dragon swooped low with a roar that shook the earth, unleashing another torrent of dragonfire. The flames cascaded in waves across the ranks of the dead. The heat was overwhelming, melting snow into steam and turning the frozen ground into mud.
The flames consumed everything in their path. Mance saw the third Other caught in the searing heat of dragonfire. But one of the Others was not so easily undone. The last of the four stepped through the flames and advanced toward them. Mance watched as the creature moved with otherworldly grace, its gaze locked on him.
“Hold the line!” Mance bellowed, rallying the freefolk as he raised his sword.
The freefolk, emboldened by the dragon, surged forward. Tormund swung his axe with a roar, cleaving through the shambling dead, while Orm led a group of Thenns in a brutal charge. Val fought alongside them, her daggers flashing as she brought down several wights.
The Other raised its icy blade and struck at Mance, the force of the blow sending him stumbling back. Its cold, soulless gaze pierced him, and for a moment, fear threatened to take hold. But Mance gritted his teeth and lunged forward, parrying another strike.
Tully fought nearby, Heartsbane cutting through the dead like a knife through butter. Mance heard the Tully lord yell, “Catch!” and saw him hurl the great Valyrian steel sword toward him.
Mance caught Heartsbane mid-air. He turned just in time to meet the Other’s blade, the clash sending a sharp chill through the air. With a roar, Mance swung the Valyrian steel sword in a wide arc, the blade biting deep into the Other’s torso.
The creature let out a scream—a sound that reverberated across the battlefield—before shattering into a thousand icy shards. A hush fell over the freefolk as the last of the dead crumbled to the ground, lifeless once more.
Cheers erupted from the freefolk, a cacophony of relief and triumph. The men and women who had survived raised their weapons high, their cries echoing across the frozen expanse.
Mance stood amid the carnage, Heartsbane still in his grip. His gaze shifted to the horizon, where the massive black dragon landed atop a raised hill. Its dark form was illuminated by the smoldering remains of the battlefield.
Edmure walked over. “That was a close one.”
Mance handed over Heartsbane, his gaze fixed on the dragon perched on the hill. Val, Tormund, Orm, and several other leaders approached.
“You’re not thinking of going up there alone, are you?” Val asked, gesturing toward the dragon.
“I am,” Mance said firmly.
“You’re mad!” Tormund bellowed.
Mance turned to face them. “You chose me as your king. Let me do what kings do.”
The leaders hesitated, their protests dying on their lips.
“Tend to the wounded,” Mance ordered, “and pray to the gods that the dragon king is merciful.”
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Mance made his way up the hill, each step heavier than the last. The massive black dragon perched atop the rise, its glowing green eyes locked on him. Its tail flicked behind it, curling and uncurling in restless movements, while faint wisps of smoke rose from its nostrils.
Atop a flat rock near the dragon sat the rider. He wore a thick black cloak lined with fur, and dark armor gleamed beneath it, reflecting the faint light of the rising sun. In his hands, he held a sword pointed downward, its dark blade embedded in the frozen ground.
The Dragon King looked up, and their eyes met.
“The King Beyond the Wall,” he said, his voice calm yet commanding.
Mance inclined his head slightly. “The King of the Seven Kingdoms,” he replied, his tone even.
They held each other’s gazes for a moment before Mance broke the silence. “You’ve seen the doom that comes for us all.”
The Dragon King nodded. “I have been expecting it for some time.”
Mance’s eyes widened at the admission. “Then you know my people need to get across the Wall,” he said, his voice laced with urgency.
The Dragon King nodded again, his expression serious. “That would be difficult.”
Behind him, the dragon let out a low growl, the sound rumbling through the earth. Mance closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He surprised even himself as he sank to one knee, bowing his head.
“The freefolk pride themselves on not being kneelers,” Mance said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. “And here I am, their chosen king, kneeling before you—begging you to save my people.”
The Dragon King stood, his dark cloak billowing slightly in the wind as he moved closer. “Get up,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. His gaze flicked toward the distant freefolk who watched from the edge of the battlefield. “Let’s hope they didn’t see that.”
Mance rose slowly, confusion flickering across his face. “Is this not what you want?” he asked, his voice guarded.
“No, no,” Maekar replied with a faint smirk. “I was going to help anyway. You doing this would have made things more difficult.”
Mance couldn’t help but smile—a small but genuine expression. “You’re not what I expected.”
The Dragon King extended his hand. “I greet you, King Mance. You may call me King Maekar.”
Mance grasped the offered hand, a sense of relief washing over him. “King Maekar,” he said.
“I am in a hurry,” Maekar said, glancing back at the dragon. “Get your people to Hardhome. I’ll make arrangements for their transport from there.”
Mance frowned. “Hardhome is cursed.”
“Well, being hunted by the dead might help you get over it,” Maekar said dryly.
Mance chuckled softly despite himself. “That’s it then? Wait to be transported from Hardhome?”
“That’s it,” Maekar confirmed. “Oh, and I’ll need to capture some wights as well.”
Mance raised an eyebrow. “That can be arranged.”
“Good,” Maekar said with a sharp nod. “I hope our people can work together, Mance. Because if not, we’re all going to die.”
Mance smiled, a genuine, hopeful smile that spread across his face. “I hope so too, King Maekar. I hope so too.”
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