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99: The Son of Ice and Fire, An Adventure Beyond the Wall pt.1
🕑 Added 2024-12-31 09:37:01 +0000 UTCMaekar POV
Maekar sat high atop Neferion as the dragon flew northward, the freezing winds of the far North cutting against his face. The vast white expanse of snow-covered wilderness stretched endlessly below.
Neferion, usually calm and obedient, was uneasy. Maekar could feel it through their bond—a tension, an instinctive reluctance that made the dragon’s great body tremble slightly mid-flight. His massive black wings beat the air with less confidence than usual, and a low, guttural growl emanated from his throat every few minutes.
“What’s wrong with you?” Maekar muttered under his breath, tightening his grip on the reins. He had read the accounts—how Queen Rhaenys’s Meraxes had been uneasy near the Wall, and even Queen Alysanne’s Silverwing had refused to fly over it. He had thought it a myth, an exaggeration of the past. Now, though, as Neferion roared again, he wasn’t so sure.
Ahead, Castle Black came into view. The sprawling black structure sat at the base of the great Wall, its dark silhouette stark against the icy monolith that loomed behind it. Maekar’s sharp eyes took in the details—the watchtower, the barracks, the line of smoke rising faintly from the buildings.
Yet something was wrong. The castle seemed... sparse. The courtyard that should have been bustling with black-cloaked brothers was eerily empty. Even from the skies, the absence was evident.
Maekar frowned. “What happened here?”
Neferion roared again, this time more forcefully, and Maekar felt the dragon’s reluctance grow. The bond between them throbbed with unease.
Pressing his will into Neferion’s mind, he commanded the dragon to descend.
Neferion obeyed. His massive wings folded slightly, and he began his descent, circling the castle before landing with a thunderous impact outside its walls. The ground trembled under his weight, snow spraying into the air as his claws dug into the frozen earth.
Maekar climbed down the dragon’s side, landing with practiced ease. As he adjusted his black-and-crimson cloak, thick with furs, he noticed a group of men approaching.
Lyonel walked at the head, his armor gleaming even in the muted northern light. Behind him came the Varangians, their expressions stoic, and a smattering of black brothers trailing cautiously behind, their faces pale and curious.
He had sent Lyonel and his best Varangians ahead while he stayed at Dragonstone for some time to oversee the beginning of dragonglass mining. They had sailed to Eastwatch and then made their way here to Castle Black.
“Your Grace,” Lyonel said, bowing deeply along with the Varangians.
Maekar nodded, his gaze sweeping over the scene. “Lyonel, I feel like I’ve missed something,” he said, his eyes flicking toward the castle. “Where is everyone? This place should be teeming with brothers.”
Lyonel straightened, his expression serious. “The Lord Commander took most of the brothers on a great ranging, Your Grace. They left shortly before we arrived.”
“A great ranging?” Maekar repeated, his frown deepening. “Why wasn’t I informed?”
“The message was likely delayed,” Lyonel said diplomatically.
Maekar clicked his tongue in irritation. “I see.” He glanced back at Neferion, who growled softly, his green eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.
“Stay with him,” Maekar ordered one of his bravest Varangians. “If he grows more restless, alert me immediately.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the man replied, stepping toward the dragon cautiously.
Maekar motioned for Lyonel and the rest to follow him as he turned toward Castle Black.
The heavy gates loomed ahead, their iron-bound timbers coated with frost. As Maekar approached, the black brothers at the gates dropped to their knees in deference, their breath misting in the cold air.
Lyonel, walking beside him, glanced at the kneeling brothers and then turned to Maekar, his brow furrowed with concern. “Your Grace,” he began, his tone hesitant yet firm, “you still have not mentioned why we are here.”
Maekar’s expression remained impassive as his eyes fixed on the towering Wall ahead. “I have to meet someone,” he said simply.
“Beyond the Wall?” Lyonel’s voice rose slightly, his concern now evident. “Your Grace, that’s too dangerous. The wildlings have grown bold—there are reports of raids, and the Lord Commander is leading the great ranging to deal with the threat.”
“I have you, my best Varangians, and Neferion. What could be safer than that?”
Lyonel exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated. “With all respect, Your Grace, even Neferion can’t protect you from the dangers lurking in those lands.”
Maekar didn’t respond immediately. His gaze swept the courtyard until it landed on a familiar figure standing on the ramparts above. Maester Aemon, frail and stooped with age, was accompanied by a large, awkward man Maekar recognized as Samwell Tarly.
Turning back to Lyonel, Maekar spoke firmly, his voice carrying an edge of finality. “My friend, my mind is made up. I plan to leave quickly. Ensure that all our men are armed with dragonglass weapons before we go.”
Lyonel’s confusion deepened. “Dragonglass? We brought it, as you requested, but why? Why bring it at all?”
Maekar’s eyes met Lyonel’s, his expression inscrutable. “I will explain,” he said, “but first, I must meet with my great-uncle.”
Without another word, Maekar ascended the stone steps leading to the ramparts, his cloak billowing behind him. Lyonel hesitated for a moment, then signaled the Varangians to remain vigilant before following his king.
Maekar approached Maester Aemon, who turned his blind eyes toward the sound of his footsteps. Beside Aemon, Samwell Tarly fidgeted nervously, his round face flushed from the cold. He seemed to shrink under Maekar’s imposing presence, though he bowed deeply as the king approached.
“I was surprised when the Kingsguard arrived, announcing your coming,” Aemon said, turning his head slightly toward the sound of Maekar’s boots crunching against the frost-coated stone.
“I’ve come to meet with you, Uncle—and another one of our family as well.”
Aemon’s faded, milky eyes narrowed, his sharp mind clearly at work. “I see. Was your rebellion his doing as well?”
“No,” Maekar replied evenly, “but he did help.”
“Why?” Aemon asked, his voice tinged with pain. “Why turn against our own blood? Have we not suffered enough as a family?”
Maekar’s jaw tightened. “It was the only way. Aegon…” He hesitated before continuing, his voice heavy. “Aegon was mad.”
Aemon fell silent, his head bowing slightly as though burdened by the weight of memories too painful to recall.
Maekar’s voice softened. “A great danger is coming. I am certain my father must have written to you about it.”
Aemon sighed deeply, his frail shoulders sagging. “Rhaegar, that silly boy,” he murmured. “I warned him not to take prophecies and dreams so seriously. I told him they could destroy us.”
Maekar’s voice hardened. “He was right about that—and only that.”
Aemon tilted his head, a question forming on his face. “Are you certain?”
Maekar nodded solemnly. “Brynden has shown me.”
The name seemed to strike Aemon, his lips pressing into a thin line as a great sadness washed over his face. He said nothing for a long moment, the wind howling between them.
Breaking the silence, Maekar offered quietly, “Do you wish to see my dragon?”
A faint smile appeared on Aemon’s lips for the first time. “It would be a great honor, Your Grace.”
=====
Maekar led Aemon from the ramparts toward the clearing where Neferion rested. Samwell Tarly followed close behind, his steps hesitant, while a group of black brothers trailed them at a wary distance. The expressions on their faces betrayed a mix of awe and terror as they approached the colossal beast.
Neferion loomed like a living shadow, his massive body coiled as his emerald-green eyes observed their approach. His dark scales shimmered faintly in the cold light, each plate edged with an eerie green hue.
As they drew closer, Aemon spoke, his voice curious and full of anticipation. “Can you describe him to me?”
Maekar glanced at the dragon, pride evident in his voice. “He’s larger than Vhagar now,” he said. “His scales are as dark as obsidian, with streaks of green that catch the light. His eyes are like molten emeralds.”
Neferion let out a deep huff, a plume of smoke escaping his nostrils, as if acknowledging the description. The brothers behind them took an instinctive step back, gripping the hilts of their swords.
Aemon stepped forward slowly, his frail frame steady with purpose. “He sounds magnificent,” he whispered.
Maekar placed a steadying hand on Aemon’s arm, guiding him closer to the dragon. “He is.”
Neferion lowered his head slightly, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed at Aemon, sensing the ancient blood of Valyria within him.
Aemon reached out a trembling hand, his fingers brushing the warm, smooth scales of Neferion’s flank. Tears welled in his sightless eyes, spilling down his aged cheeks. “Egg would have been so happy,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
=====
After returning to the castle, Maekar found himself alone with his great-uncle. Aemon sat in quiet contemplation, his blind eyes turned toward the faint crackle of the distant hearth.
“With what you’ve told me,” Aemon began, his voice soft but laced with understanding, “what the wildlings are doing makes sense now.”
“They’re running,” Maekar said, his tone firm. “Running from the Others.”
Aemon’s brows furrowed, his weathered face heavy with thought. “You will have some difficult decisions to make, Maekar—difficult and painful.”
“I know,” Maekar replied. “I only hope I have time to prepare. When the war comes, we’ll need more dragons. Neferion alone won’t be enough.”
Aemon’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Perhaps my uncle can help,” he said before pausing his expresson changing to one of concern. “Be careful, Your Grace. If you fall, so will the realm.”
Maekar met his gaze, his expression steady. “I’ll be fine, Uncle,” he said, though a flicker of doubt crossed his mind. “But there’s something else. Neferion—he refuses to cross the Wall. I’ve commanded him, but he won’t.”
Aemon tilted his head slightly, considering. “It has happened before, with Meraxes and Silverwing. Perhaps it’s the Wall itself—its magic—or perhaps the presence of the Others keeps him at bay.”
Maekar nodded slowly, the explanation settling uneasily within him. Rising from his seat, he adjusted his cloak. “I’ll take my leave now, Uncle. I’ve made preparations. I’ll meet Brynden and return as soon as I can.”
Aemon’s face turned toward Maekar, his expression one of quiet intensity. “Be cautious,” he urged again.
Maekar nodded once more. “The Lord Commander is heading to the Antler River, isn’t he? If there’s trouble, I’ll find him there.”
“Yes,” Aemon confirmed. “Be careful, nephew. I cannot bear to lose more family.”
With a final glance at the ancient maester, Maekar turned and left the chamber. Ahead of him lay a long trek, fraught with uncertainties and dangers, but he was ready—or so he hoped.
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Edmure POV
The gods had abandoned Edmure.
He wondered what he had done to earn their wrath. First, he was stripped of his titles and his birthright. Then he was sent to the Wall, condemned to die in the cold hell. And now, as if to add insult to injury, he and the small group of black brothers under his command had been caught by the very wildlings they were sent to scout.
“Move!” barked one of the savages, a hulking man with a long, tangled beard. His voice cut through the icy air like a whip.
Edmure stumbled forward, his bound good hand throbbing. The Lord Commander had ordered him and Randall Tarly to lead a small party near the Antler River, hoping to catch sight of the rumored army Mance Rayder was amassing. Their information had come from Craster, a vile man whose name alone made Edmure’s stomach churn. The horrors he had witnessed at Craster’s Keep were unspeakable, and the Watch’s complacency in the face of such evil was worse still.
Ahead of the column, his eyes settled on the leader of the wildling band—a striking woman draped in white furs. Her golden hair caught the weak sunlight, and her noble features seemed almost out of place among the savages. She moved with an air of authority, her piercing gaze constantly scanning the horizon. For a fleeting moment, Edmure wondered if she was a princess among the wildlings—perhaps even a woman taken during a raid south of the Wall.
The woman turned her head sharply, catching him staring. Her blue eyes locked with his, and he quickly looked away, the icy wind biting at his exposed face. His wrist burned where the rope chafed against his skin, but the cold dulled the pain, leaving only a numbing ache.
The landscape was barren and desolate, a sea of white stretching endlessly in every direction. Jagged rocks jutted out from the snow. The wind howled, carrying with it a fine spray of snow that stung the skin. The only sounds were the crunch of boots on ice and the occasional grunt from their captors.
The woman raised her hand, signaling for the group to halt. “We rest here,” she commanded, her voice clear and firm. She turned to one of her men, a burly wildling armed with an axe. “Keep the crows together and watch them closely.”
The wildlings shoved Edmure, Randall, and the three other brothers toward a jagged outcropping of rock, forcing them to sit in a heap. Edmure landed hard, wincing as his body struck the frozen ground. The cold seeped into his bones, and his breath emerged in frosty plumes.
Randall Tarly sat beside him, his expression a mask of barely contained rage. His glare was fixed on one of the wildlings—a lanky man who held Heartsbane in his grimy hands. The great blade looked out of place in the wildling’s grip.
“The usurper got what he wanted,” Randall muttered bitterly, his voice low but seething with anger. “My humiliation is complete. Heartsbane, lost to a savage.”
Edmure shifted uncomfortably. “We still have a chance,” he said quietly, his breath visible in the freezing air. “They haven’t killed us yet.”
“Yes,” Randall replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Perhaps they’re saving us for something worse.” His gaze remained fixed on Heartsbane.
“Where are you taking us, wench?” Randall shouted, his voice cutting through the icy air.
Edmure shot him a sharp look, his tone a harsh whisper. “Be quiet, Tarly.”
One of the wildlings, a broad-shouldered man with a face hardened by frost and fury, started toward them, his expression promising violence. But before he could reach them, the woman’s calm, commanding voice halted him.
“Enough,” she said.
The wildling stopped in his tracks, grumbling under his breath as he turned away. The woman herself approached, her white furs billowing in the cold wind. Her piercing blue eyes settled on Edmure and Randall, a mixture of disdain and amusement flickering in her gaze.
“You crows have the honor of meeting the King Beyond the Wall,” she said.
Randall scoffed, his lip curling in contempt. “Mance Rayder. You speak of him?”
The woman nodded.
“What do you want?” Edmure asked.
She laughed, a harsh, almost bitter sound. “We want to live,” she said simply. “Mance will lead us beyond the Wall—past you crows.”
Randall barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re mad! All of you! You’ll be slaughtered before you take a single step past the Wall.”
The woman’s gaze turned cold as the amusement drained from her face. “We’re doomed no matter what,” she said quietly, her words laced with a grim finality. Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away, her figure soon blending into the swirling snow. “Be quiet,” she called back over her shoulder. “Unless you want to draw something worse than us.”
Her words hung heavy in the air, settling over Edmure like a suffocating shroud. Doomed, no matter what. The phrase reverberated in his mind, an eerie echo that refused to be silenced.
He closed his eyes, desperate for even a moment of reprieve, but the darkness behind his lids offered no escape. Instead, the haunting images of the dead rising came rushing back—the glowing blue eyes, the frozen faces, and the terrible screams. He saw Marq again, torn apart in the snow, his cries for help drowned out by the relentless howling wind.
No. No, Edmure told himself fiercely. They were just dreams. Nightmares born of exhaustion and fear. Nothing more.
But the images persisted, vivid and unyielding. A small, insidious part of him whispered that it was all true—that what he had seen was no figment of his imagination, that the dead did walk, and they were coming.
He shook his head, trying to banish the thought, but the chill in his bones felt colder than the air around him.
====
The wildlings didn’t let them rest for long. Soon, they were trekking again, trudging through the snow-covered wilderness. The Antler River wound its way through the desolate landscape, its icy waters glinting faintly in the pale light of the overcast sky.
Randall leaned closer to Edmure as they were marched forward, his voice low. “Craster was right. The savages are camped here.”
Edmure nodded grimly, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar terrain. It wasn’t long before the camp came into view.
The woman leading them turned back, a smug smile on her face. “Look closely, crows. The free folk have united. Even the Thenns have joined Mance’s cause.”
Simon, one of the veteran brothers, gasped audibly. Edmure glanced at him, a question in his eyes.
Simon shook his head in disbelief. “The Thenns never leave their valley,” he muttered. “This hasn’t happened in a thousand years.”
The woman chuckled. “You’re correct, crow,” she said, her tone mocking. “It’s a rare sight, isn’t it? Now, come. The king awaits.”
They were led into the heart of the encampment, and as they entered, the jeering began. Wildlings of all shapes and sizes lined the path, their faces twisted with contempt and mockery.
“Look at the crows!” one shouted, tossing a handful of snow that struck Simon on the shoulder. Another flung a small rock that grazed Randall’s arm. Laughter erupted from the crowd.
“Such hospitality,” Randall muttered dryly, his expression dark.
The woman smirked over her shoulder. “This is actually a warm welcome,” she said.
The camp was sprawling, chaotic, and alive with activity. Tents made of fur and hides stood haphazardly, smoke curling from campfires. Children darted between the adults, their laughter mingling with the harsh shouts of men and women arguing over food or weapons. A part of Edmure whispered that these were not the savages he had always heard stories about.
Finally, they arrived at a massive tent, made of mammoth tusks and bones. Fur stretched taut over the structure, giving it an imposing presence. The woman pushed them forward, and they were herded inside.
The interior of the tent was surprisingly warm, the air filled with the faint scent of woodsmoke and animal fat. Edmure’s eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light, and he froze when he saw the man seated at the far end of the tent.
Mance Rayder was not what Edmure had expected. He looked more bard than king, dressed in simple, patched clothing, a lute resting casually in his hands. His demeanor was calm, almost welcoming, as though he were hosting a gathering of friends rather than receiving prisoners.
“Val,” Mance said, his voice smooth and measured. “I see you’ve brought guests.” He motioned toward the others in the tent, who began to prepare something. “Salt for our friends,” he added, his tone faintly amused.
Randall sneered. “I didn’t know savages kept to the custom of guest rights.”
Mance’s lips curled into a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Even we savages have our traditions, Lord Tarly.”
The salt was brought to them. Edmure hesitated for a moment, then took a pinch of the salt, following the custom. Randall, grumbling under his breath, did the same. The other brothers followed suit, their expressions ranging from wary to defiant.
“You’re under my protection now,” Mance said lightly, his dark eyes gleaming as he watched them. “For as long as you remain guests in this camp, no harm will come to you.” He leaned forward slightly, his smile sharpening. “But don’t mistake my hospitality for weakness. You’re here for a reason, and I intend to see it fulfilled.”
“Your names,” he said, his voice calm but commanding.
Edmure was the first to respond, his voice steady despite the tension in the room. “Edmure Tully.”
Mance’s eyes widened slightly at the name, though his expression remained composed. “Tully of Riverrun,” he murmured, his tone thoughtful.
The woman, Val, glanced at Mance. “What is it, Mance?” she asked. “Is he an important kneeler?”
Mance nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving Edmure. “This man was supposed to inherit an entire kingdom.”
Val chuckled, her tone mocking. “A princeling, then?”
Mance shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “No, nothing like that.” He turned his attention back to Edmure, his tone sharp. “Why is the heir to Riverrun in the Night’s Watch?”
He then turned to Randall. “And who must you be?”
Randall Tarly remained silent, his jaw set in defiance. Edmure sighed and answered for him. “This is Randall Tarly of Horn Hill,” he said, gesturing toward the older man.
Mance’s curiosity deepened. “And why are you here, Tully? What crime sent you to the Wall?”
Edmure’s voice tightened. “The new king sent me here.”
Mance tilted his head. “Rhaegar is dead?”
“Yes,” Edmure replied, his tone heavy. “There was a war. I, along with Randall and many other lords, sided with the true king and crown prince, Aegon, against the usurper Maekar.”
Mance froze at the name, his expression unreadable. “Lyanna Stark’s son?”
Edmure nodded. “Yes. We lost. Maekar is king now.”
The room fell silent, the weight of the news settling over the gathered wildlings. A burly man with red hair and a thick beard, who had been leaning against the wall, stepped forward, his expression curious. “What is it, Mance?”
Mance turned to him, his voice subdued. “How… how did Lyanna Stark’s son win? He couldn’t have had that much support.”
Randall, his temper flaring, sneered. “And why does the king of savages need to know about the matters of the south?”
The red-haired man strode over and, with a swift motion, struck Randall hard, sending him sprawling to the ground. “Shut your mouth, crow,” Tormund growled, his voice a low rumble.
“Tormund, enough,” Mance said sharply, his authority cutting through the tension. Tormund grunted but stepped back, his gaze still fixed on Randall.
Mance’s attention returned to Edmure. “How did this new king win?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
Edmure took a deep breath. “We had the Reach, the Stormlands, Dorne, the Westerlands, and my own Riverlands under us. Aegon was our king, the true heir. By all accounts, we should have won.” His voice cracked slightly as he continued. “But the usurper… he had something that guaranteed his victory.”
Mance leaned forward, his brow furrowing.
Edmure’s gaze grew distant, his mind replaying the horrors of that war. “A dragon,” he said, his voice almost trembling. “The usurper had a dragon. We stood no chance.”
The words hung in the air. Mance’s face paled for a moment, his composure faltering. The room seemed to chill, the wildlings exchanging uneasy glances. But then, to Edmure’s surprise, Mance smiled—a small smile, as if a realization had dawned upon him.
“A dragon…” Mance repeated, almost to himself. His gaze sharpened, and he fixed his eyes on Edmure. “Tell me, Edmure Tully, what is this Maekar like? And be honest.”
Edmure hesitated, gathering his thoughts. “He’s cunning,” he admitted. “He managed to rise to power within a year of arriving in the capital. He’s a warrior and a tactician, but more than that, he’s persuasive. He turned enemies into allies, gave us chances to surrender—chances to end the war without bloodshed. The Lannisters even took his offer and switched sides.”
Mance’s smile widened, his expression almost calculating. “I see,” he said, leaning back. “A man who is willing to negotiate. A man who understands the value of diplomacy.”
He turned to Val. “Take them away,” he commanded. “Treat them well, keep them alive. They are to remain unharmed.”
Edmure felt a surge of relief as Val and a few other wildlings stepped forward to escort them out of the tent. As they moved to exit, Edmure couldn’t stop himself from asking, “What are you running from?”
Mance paused at the question, his eyes darkening. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze distant, almost haunted. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and somber. “An old horror from the past. The undead and their masters….”
The words hit Edmure like a physical blow, his breath catching in his throat. His nightmares flooded back to him—the glowing blue eyes, the icy cold, Marq’s screams. He stumbled slightly, muttering to himself, “It’s true… it’s all true.”
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Maekar POV
They had been trekking for five days now—he, Lyonel, and ten of his best Varangians. The journey had been grueling, with biting winds and an unyielding cold that seemed to seep into their very bones. They had passed the Fist of the First Men yesterday, the ancient ring of stones made by his ancestors. Now, they were heading toward the mountains known as the Giant’s Steps, where Brynden had told Maekar his cave could be found.
Along the way, Maekar had warned Lyonel and the Varangians of the dangers they would face—not just wildlings but also the dead. Their reactions had been mixed. Some had scoffed, thinking it a jest, while others looked genuinely uneasy. Lyonel, always the practical one, had given him a long, concerned look, clearly questioning his king’s mental state. But Maekar was as serious as he could be. “When the time comes,” he had told them, “do not panic. Use the dragonglass we brought from Dragonstone.”
So far, they had not encountered any wildlings, the dead, or the Others. That absence brought Maekar some relief. If the Others weren’t this far south yet, he still had time. Time to prepare. Time to hatch more dragons, if possible. Time to find Lightbringer. There was so much to do, and so little certainty about how to do it.
There was also the matter of Neferion refusing to cross the Wall. That gnawed at Maekar; he needed to ask Brynden about it.
Lyonel interrupted his thoughts. “Your Grace, where exactly are we heading?” he asked, his voice edged with frustration.
“We’re close,” Maekar replied, his tone steady—though he privately hoped it was true. Brynden had assured him he would send someone to guide them as soon as they reached the Fist. But so far, no such person had appeared.
Suddenly, the winds picked up, howling through the trees with unnatural ferocity. The Varangians exchanged uneasy glances. Lyonel frowned and pulled his cloak tighter. “Where did that come from?”
Before Maekar could answer, one of the Varangians, Edric, called out, “Look there!” He pointed toward the horizon.
In the distance, a lone figure moved through the swirling snow. At first, it appeared human, but its gait was unnatural. As they watched, more figures began to emerge from the storm behind it.
“Could it be the brothers from the Great Ranging?” Lyonel asked, his voice tinged with uncertain hope.
Maekar’s heart sank as he focused on the approaching shapes. His stomach churned as he realized the truth. The figures were too stiff, their movements wrong—lifeless. “Arm yourselves!” Maekar barked, his voice sharp. “Use the dragonglass!”
The Varangians hesitated, confused by the urgency in his tone. Lyonel frowned. “Your Grace, are you sure—”
“Look closely, you fool!” Maekar shouted, drawing Blackfyre from its sheath. Its blade gleamed coldly in the dim light as he raised it.
Lyonel and the Varangians finally understood as the first of the figures moved into clearer view. Its flesh was mottled and gray, its eyes a chilling blue that seemed to pierce through the storm. Behind it, dozens more shuffled forward, their decaying forms illuminated by the eerie light of the snowstorm. Leading them was something far worse—an Other. Its body was humanoid but looked as though it were carved from living ice. In its hand, it carried a blade that shimmered with frost.
The dead surged forward at the Other’s command.
Maekar gritted his teeth and raised Blackfyre. “Kill them all! They are weak to the dragonglass!”
The Varangians scrambled to arm themselves with the obsidian weapons they carried, the sharp edges of the dragonglass glinting as they prepared for battle. Lyonel drew his own Valyrian steel sword.
The battle began, and the Varangians—despite their fear—stood their ground, wielding their dragonglass weapons with precision. Each strike caused the undead to collapse into lifeless heaps. The dead were relentless—some freshly killed, their faces twisted in macabre echoes of their former selves; others were decaying skeletons, held together by some unnatural force.
Maekar waded into the fray with Blackfyre, its Valyrian steel slicing through the undead with ease. Each swing of the blade cleaved a path through the advancing horde. Lyonel, armed with his own Valyrian steel sword, fought fiercely by his side.
“This can’t be real!” Lyonel shouted over the din, his voice edged with panic as he drove his blade into the chest of a shambling corpse.
“Oh, it’s real, my friend,” Maekar answered grimly, decapitating another with a swift motion. His gaze shifted to the figure commanding the dead, and his heart clenched. The Other stood unmoving amidst the chaos. It was terrifying—more so than Maekar had remembered from the fragments of his past life.
‘I have to kill him,’ Maekar thought. He charged toward the Other, Blackfyre gleaming in his hands. The Other noticed his advance and raised its weapon—a blade of shimmering ice that seemed to draw the cold from the air itself.
Their weapons clashed: Blackfyre against the icy blade. To his horror, the ice sword did not break. It met Blackfyre’s edge with unnatural strength, defying all reason. The Other moved with inhuman grace, its strikes precise and unnervingly silent.
It attacked with impossible speed, each strike faster than the last. Maekar was forced to call upon every ounce of skill he possessed to parry. The icy sword left trails of frost in the air with every swing, its chill biting into the marrow of his bones. It was like fighting a shadow given form—cold, relentless, and terrifyingly fast.
Then it spoke.
Its voice was unlike anything Maekar had ever heard—a deep, guttural rasp, like the cracking of frozen rivers. The alien words seemed to vibrate through the air, chilling him to the core. He could not understand the language, but the tone carried a palpable menace, as if mocking his very existence. For a fleeting moment, Maekar’s resolve faltered, his grip on Blackfyre tightening as he fought against the fear clawing at his mind.
The fight resumed with greater intensity. The Other pressed its attack, the icy blade moving in a blur. Maekar countered with precision, barely avoiding being overwhelmed. Blackfyre flashed as he swung upward, forcing the Other to retreat momentarily. It tilted its head, almost curiously, before rushing at him again with inhuman speed. Their weapons clashed—Valyrian steel meeting ice—the sound echoing unnaturally in the cold air.
From the corner of his eye, Maekar saw movement: another Other, mounted on an enormous ice spider. The grotesque creature scuttled forward on its spindly, frost-coated legs, moving with unnerving swiftness. The Other atop it carried a spear of ice, its frosty gaze locked onto Maekar.
“Oh, fuck,” Maekar muttered, his breath visible in the freezing air.
He refocused on the Other before him, dodging a deadly strike and countering with a slash of his own. Blackfyre found its mark, slicing through the Other’s torso. It shattered instantly, fragments of ice scattering like shards of glass.
Maekar quickly turned his attention to the ice spider, which loomed closer, the mounted Other preparing to strike. He stumbled as he tried to regain his footing, frantically searching for an escape. Suddenly, two small figures leapt from the shadows onto the Other. They moved with blinding speed, their sharp claws stabbing into the icy form. The Other let out an otherworldly shriek before shattering, taking the ice spider with it.
Maekar stared in stunned silence at his saviors. The two figures were unlike anything he had seen before. Their nut-brown skin seemed to shimmer in the dim light, and their hands had only three fingers and a thumb, each tipped with sharp black claws. Their large, slitted eyes glowed gold and green, like a cat’s.
He looked toward Lyonel and the Varangians, who stood gasping for breath. The undead had collapsed again, lifeless once more.
One of the small figures stepped toward Maekar, its gaze piercing. “Come with me, son of ice and fire,” it said, its voice strange yet melodic, as it extended its small hand toward him.
Maekar hesitated, his heart pounding. He glanced at Lyonel and the Varangians, who stared in disbelief, unsure whether to intervene or stand down. Slowly, Maekar took the creature’s hand.
He realized what they were: the Children of the Forest.
.
.
Next chapter will have giants.
Should I use the giants from the show or the giants from the books.
Comments
Winterrrose
book giants
Illusiveone
The sword he took from Harry strickland when he destroyed the golden company.
TyrantGod
Just a recap what Valyrian sword does Lyonel have?
NobleBoy24 .
giants from the show, but in limited numbers, too much is op
TyrantGod
Books Giants
