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112: The Son of Ice and Fire, Year One pt.2
🕑 Added 2025-03-08 08:37:12 +0000 UTCSix months after Maekar’s Revelation
To my beloved brother, Dickon,
I write to you with a heavy heart, yet also with purpose. By now, the king will have revealed to all of Westeros the terrible truth that we at the Wall have learned firsthand—the Long Night is returning, and with it, the dead march once more.
Our father fell as he lived—a warrior, a man of duty, and a soldier to the last. He fought bravely against the horrors beyond the Wall, holding firm with sword in hand against an enemy that does not tire, does not feel pain, and does not fear death. There was no retreat in him, no surrender. He met his end with honor, and I pray the Warrior welcomes him into His halls.
With this letter, I send you Heartsbane, the sword of our House—your birthright. Thankfully, Edmure Tully was able to retrieve it after Father died. Now, I return it to you, as you are the rightful heir of House Tarly, and you must wield it. It is Valyrian steel, and that alone can stand against the wretched things that stalk the darkness beyond the Wall.
I do not know what will become of me, Dickon. The enemy we face is not of this world—these are creatures we once believed were only myths. I have seen them all. I have seen giants and the Children of the Forest, and I have witnessed things I lack the words to describe.
I do not know if I will live long enough to see you again. But I hope that when the final battle is joined, I will stand with you, side by side, Heartsbane in your hands. And if the gods are merciful, perhaps we will even fight together.
Along with this letter, I send everything I have learned of the Others and how they may be fought. Read it, remember it, and prepare yourself, for the conflict that lies ahead will not be like any war we have ever known.
Give my love to Mother and Talla. Tell them I think of them always.
Your brother,
Samwell
====
Dickon sighed, his eyes lingering on the letter from his brother before setting it down. At least Samwell is safe.
His father was dead. He had fallen beyond the Wall, fighting against an enemy that, six months ago, he would have thought did not exist.
House Tarly had endured after the war. Unlike many other lords in the Reach, Stormlands, and Riverlands, King Maekar had not stripped them of their lands. The only difference was that their overlord had changed—no longer did the Tarlys answer to the Tyrells, but now to the Hightowers. His father was sent to the Wall, where he met his dreadful fate.
A part of Dickon still resented the Hightowers for their turncoat ways. First, they had sworn to King Aegon—just as House Tarly had—but then switched sides when King Maekar’s dragon took flight. Would his father have done the same if he had known King Maekar possessed a dragon?
Dickon exhaled sharply and stood. “Prepare my horse, Himmel. I wish to go for a ride.”
Himmel the steward bowed. “Yes, my lord.” He turned and left without another word.
Dickon adjusted the belt that held Heartsbane, the Valyrian steel sword now bound to him, as he moved swiftly through the halls of Horn Hill. His mind was set on the ride ahead, on the burdens left to him by both his father and brother.
But before he could make it to the stables, a voice called out behind him.
“Dickon.”
He stopped, sighing inwardly before turning to see his mother, Melessa Tarly, standing in the corridor. Her expression was severe, her hands folded in front of her, and beside her stood Talla, looking equally defiant.
Dickon could already tell this was not going to be a simple conversation.
“What is it, Mother?” he asked wearily.
Melessa exhaled sharply, glancing at Talla with thinly veiled irritation before turning her gaze back to him. “I caught your sister in the yard, training with a sword like some common hedge knight.”
Dickon’s brow arched slightly, and he turned to Talla. “Is that true?”
Talla lifted her chin defiantly. “Yes.”
Melessa’s face tightened in frustration. “It is unseemly for a lady of a noble house! A girl of her station should be learning how to manage a keep, not playing with weapons!”
Talla scoffed. “Manage a keep? For what? For whom? You still talk about duty and marriage as if the world is the same as it was before. It’s not! The Long Night is coming! Why should I prepare to marry? Why should I prepare to bear children when, in two years, we might all be dead?”
Her voice echoed slightly in the corridor. Melessa’s lips parted in shock, but Talla was not done.
“I refuse to sit idly by and pretend we’re living in normal times! The king says we must all stand against the dead, that every hand will be needed. If that is true, then I will not sit in some tower, waiting to die. I would rather fight.”
Melessa’s face paled. “You will not speak such madness—”
“It is not madness, Mother!” Talla’s eyes burned with conviction. “Father is dead—ripped apart by the dead.”
“And whose fault is that?” Melessa snapped back. “Was it not your king who sent him there? He would still be here with me—with us…”
Dickon sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before finally speaking. “Talla is right.”
Melessa turned to him sharply. “What?”
Dickon exhaled. “I have not arranged a marriage for her, nor do I intend to—not now. She is free to train if she wishes.”
His mother stared at him, aghast. “Dickon, please. You must see reason—”
“Reason?” he cut her off. “I see reason very clearly, Mother. The world has changed. If she wants to learn, then she will.”
He turned back to Talla. “I will see to it that someone instructs you properly.”
Talla’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but she quickly recovered, nodding. “Thank you, brother.”
Melessa looked between them, her mouth opening and closing as if struggling to find words. “I… I will not be a part of this madness.” She shook her head and turned sharply, walking away without another word.
Dickon watched her go before turning back to Talla.
“This will not be easy. If you choose this path, you must see it through.”
Talla met his gaze, nodding resolutely. “I will.”
Satisfied, Dickon turned and resumed his walk toward the stables.
The stables were alive with movement. Stablehands worked efficiently, brushing coats and securing saddles. As Dickon entered, the stablemaster bowed his head respectfully before stepping aside to allow him to approach his horse.
A magnificent chestnut courser stood waiting for him, already saddled as Himmel had ordered. Dickon ran a gloved hand down the beast’s neck before swinging himself onto the saddle. Heartsbane rested heavily at his hip, but for the first time since receiving it, he felt as if he was truly bearing it as the lord of House Tarly.
Without hesitation, he rode out.
The castle walls fell away behind him as he galloped into the open fields. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of ripened grain and freshly turned soil. It was the penultimate harvest before winter—the last before the Second Long Night.
Golden wheat stretched endlessly before him, swaying in the gentle breeze. Farmers worked tirelessly, scythes glinting under the morning sun as they reaped what they could before the frost set in.
Dickon slowed his horse, taking in the sight.
This was what they were fighting to protect.
Himmel rode alongside him, his expression neutral as he surveyed the fields.
“The harvest is going well, my lord,” Himmel noted. “The new grain silos that the king ordered to be built will be completed within the month.”
Dickon gave a small nod, his gaze never leaving the fields. “Good. But will it be enough, Himmel?” His tone was heavy. “You know the legends. The Long Night lasted for a generation—darkness and cold for a generation.”
Himmel fell silent. He had no answer to that.
As they rode, something unusual caught Dickon’s eye. A large gathering of people stood in the fields ahead, clustered near the edge of the harvest, their heads bowed, their voices murmuring.
Dickon frowned. “What is that?”
Himmel followed his gaze and stiffened. “We should go and see, my lord. They should be working in the fields, not loitering around.”
Dickon nodded, tightening his grip on the reins before urging his horse forward. The two men approached the gathering, the murmur of voices growing clearer.
It was a septon standing before them, robed in simple white and gold, hands raised toward the sky. The smallfolk—farmers and villagers alike—stood in reverence, listening intently.
As they drew closer, the septon’s words rang out with fervent conviction:
“The battle ahead is not for land or kings, but for the soul of mankind.”
The crowd murmured in agreement, some crossing their arms over their chests in silent prayer.
“The gods have spoken, my brothers and sisters! The Seven, the Old Gods, even the Lord of Light—they have all seen the darkness that comes for us! And they have chosen! They have chosen our champion!”
He raised his arms higher, his voice growing in intensity.
“King Maekar is the sword in the darkness! He is the warrior anointed by all gods! The son of ice and fire, born of ancient bloodlines, prophesied long before our time! Just as the Last Hero led men against the Long Night, just as Brandon the Builder raised the Wall, so too shall King Maekar stand against the darkness!”
A chorus of voices answered, “All hail King Maekar! The God-Chosen!”
The septon continued, his words burning with passion.
“Look to the past! When doom fell upon Valyria, no gods intervened! But now? Now they have given us their will, their warrior! To follow him is to follow the light! To disobey him is to embrace the dark!”
The smallfolk nodded fervently, some dropping to their knees in devotion.
“We will march in his name! We will fight in his name! We will die in his name! And through him, we shall triumph!”
Another roar from the crowd: “All hail King Maekar!”
Dickon sat still on his horse, watching with a mix of awe and unease.
In just six months, word of the Second Long Night had spread like wildfire, and King Maekar had done the impossible. The fear of the unknown had turned into unwavering faith.
Dickon was no fool. He knew how the smallfolk thought. They were terrified, lost in their own helplessness, and the king had given them purpose. No longer was he just a man—his name was now uttered in the same breath as Brandon the Builder, the Last Hero, Garth Greenhand, and countless other figures of myth and prophecy.
Had this always been his plan? Had the king known all along?
Had he rebelled against his brother because of this?
Himmel’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “I still do not think it was wise of the king to rearm the Faith Militant.”
Dickon let out a short laugh. “The Faith Militant? No, Himmel. It is the king’s militant now.”
Himmel blinked in confusion, and Dickon gestured toward the septon and his followers. “Look at them. Some even call themselves the ‘King’s Men’ now. The Faith has bent to the Iron Throne, Himmel. Whether they realize it or not, they no longer serve just the Seven.”
The septon’s voice still carried through the fields, his sermon now more a chant of devotion than mere preaching.
“King Maekar is our shield! King Maekar is our light! Through him, we shall be saved!”
Dickon felt the weight of Heartsbane at his hip and sighed.
Like the king proclaimed, a new age was indeed upon them.
.
.
.
One Year after Maekar’s Revelation
Benjen Stark strode through the heavy snow, his cloak billowing in the cold wind as he rushed toward the commotion ahead. The sounds of shouting and steel clashing filled the air, echoing off the frost-covered walls of Oaken Shield. His hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his sword as he and his fifteen armed escorts pushed through the crowd.
Before him, ten wildlings stood on one side, weapons drawn and eyes blazing with defiance. Opposing them were twelve Northmen, their large frames tense with fury, hands gripping axes and swords as they snarled at their foes.
One of the Northmen, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard flecked with gray, turned toward Benjen, rage burning in his storm-colored eyes. “My lord, this wildling scum has taken my daughter!” His voice was hoarse, filled with barely contained fury.
Across from him, the wildling—a younger man, his face half-hidden by a thick tangle of red hair and a crude wolf-pelt cloak—spat on the ground. “I took what was mine by right. I stole her.” His lips curled into a sneer as he gripped the handle of his axe. “That’s the way of things. Always has been.”
A roar of outrage erupted from the Northmen. The girl’s father lunged, fury overtaking him as he swung his blade at the wildling. The two groups collided again, weapons clashing, fists flying—until Benjen’s men surged forward, forcing them apart with the flats of their swords and well-placed shields.
“Enough!” Benjen’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade. “Stand down! All of you!” His men formed a barrier between the opposing sides, pushing them apart with practiced efficiency.
Breathing heavily, Benjen turned his sharp gaze to the wildling. “Where is the girl?”
The wildling smirked. “She’s with me.”
Benjen took a step forward, his expression darkening. “Did she come willingly?”
The wildling barked out a laugh, glancing at his companions as if the question itself was absurd. “What does her wish matter? I stole her, and now she’s my wife.” His smirk widened. “Didn’t even fight much. Weak thing.”
A collective snarl came from the Northmen. The girl’s father roared in fury, lunging again, his axe raised high.
Benjen shoved him back with one hand, his patience wearing thin. “I said enough!” His icy glare swept over both sides. “This ends now.”
His focus returned to the wildling. “You will return the girl to her family.”
The wildling’s smirk faded slightly, and he tightened his grip on his axe. “She’s mine. You can’t change that, kneeler.”
Benjen stepped closer, the cold steel of his authority cutting through the wildling’s defiance. “Your king agreed there would be no stealing from those south of the Wall. If you want to keep your ways, keep them among your own kind.” His voice lowered, steady and dangerous. “Break that rule again, and the punishment will be far worse.”
The wildling hesitated, glancing toward his companions. They were outnumbered, poorly armed, and up against fifteen well-armored men loyal to the Starks. With a grunt, he spat on the ground and muttered, “Fine.”
Benjen nodded, then turned to the girl’s father. “Your daughter will be returned.”
The older man still trembled with rage, but managed a stiff nod. Around them, the other Northmen grumbled, shifting uneasily. One of them—a burly Umber cousin with a scar running down his cheek—finally growled, “This is an outrage, Lord Benjen. These wildlings shouldn’t be here.”
Benjen’s expression hardened. “Do you think I wanted this?” He swept his gaze over them. “Do you think I enjoy dealing with it?” His voice dropped, cold as the Northern wind. “You forget what is coming. You forget what you have seen beyond the Wall. If we do not stand together, we will all be dead before long.”
A tense silence followed, broken only by the howling wind.
Benjen adjusted his cloak, nodding once to his men. “Mount up. We leave.”
The company turned, exiting OakenShield.
====
They rode hard through the icy winds, galloping toward Castle Black. Half a day’s ride took them through small villages near the Wall—settlements of wildlings, or Free Folk, as they preferred to be called.
So far, the uneasy peace he had worked so hard to establish was holding. There were flare-ups, small fights and grudges, but nothing that could not be quelled by swift justice and a reminder of what lay beyond the Wall. The dead were coming, and neither Northman nor Free Folk would survive alone.
As he neared the castle, the massive black walls loomed ahead—a fortress of ice and stone standing resolute against the biting cold. The courtyard was alive with activity, a sight Benjen was still adjusting to. Castle Black had never been this busy before, even after King Rhaegar’s reforms.
Since his nephew’s decree that new volunteers could leave after the war, men had flocked to the Night’s Watch, swelling their numbers. Even among the old sworn brothers, hope had begun to grow that their lifelong vows might end when the war was won. And so they worked with a desperation fueled by purpose: training, fortifying, preparing.
Benjen dismounted, handing his horse to a stable boy. His sharp eyes swept across the bustling scene—black-cloaked men hauling supplies, wildlings working alongside Northmen to reinforce the walls, new recruits learning to fight.
Too well, he thought grimly. Everything is going too well.
His boots crunched against the frost as he strode toward the ravenry, where the ancient Maester Aemon stood near the roost, Samwell Tarly at his side.
Samwell turned, whispering to Aemon, “Lord Benjen is here.”
The old maester lifted his head, his milky-white eyes staring into nothingness—yet Benjen had long since learned that Aemon saw more than most men with perfect sight.
“Ah, Lord Benjen,” Aemon greeted, his frail voice carrying over the wind. “I assume the troubles in Oaken Shield are settled, then?”
Benjen nodded. “For now. The matter is dealt with.”
Aemon inclined his head. “Good. I had hoped we would not have another incident so soon.”
Benjen’s gaze flickered over the ravens. “Has the Lord Commander returned from Queen’s Gate?”
“Not yet,” Aemon replied.
Benjen exhaled, his breath visible in the freezing air. “And is there any word from King’s Landing or Winterfell?”
Aemon hesitated for a moment. “Nothing official.”
Benjen frowned. “Unofficially?”
Aemon turned toward him, his lined face unreadable. “The king wrote to me before he left King’s Landing. He is heading to the Isle of Faces.”
Benjen’s brow furrowed. “The Isle of Faces? Is this about the new dragons?”
Aemon nodded slowly. “The children of the forest have magic that could accelerate their growth. Already, the three dragons have been growing at twice their natural speed due to previous efforts, but the king seeks to push it further.”
Benjen crossed his arms, exhaling sharply. “Good. We’re going to need them.” His eyes drifted back toward the men in the courtyard. “Everything is going well. Too well.”
Aemon chuckled softly. “You sound like a man who fears good fortune, Lord Benjen. Let us be glad that things are in our favor—for once.”
Benjen shook his head. “I hope it stays that way. The lords and the people are united behind Maekar. If this holds…we might actually have a chance.”
Samwell suddenly perked up, remembering something. “Oh, my lord! While you were away, five wildfire weapons arrived. They’re being fitted on the Wall now.”
Benjen raised a brow, interest sparking in his cold grey eyes. “Oh? Great. I’ll test them out myself before day’s end.”
Benjen was about to speak again when the sound shattered the surroundings.
One horn.
Then another.
And then, finally—the third.
The chilling blasts echoed over Castle Black, slicing through the cold like a knife. It was a sound not heard in generations, a sound that turned men’s blood to ice.
Three blasts.
Samwell Tarly trembled beside him, his face draining of color. His lips moved soundlessly, but Benjen could hear the words anyway.
“The dead.”
Benjen didn’t hesitate.
He ran.
His boots pounded against the stone as he sprinted through the courtyard, past the confused and panicked men scrambling for their weapons. Some men froze, the terror of the three blasts rooting them in place. Others prayed. Some cursed.
“TO THE WALL!” he bellowed, grabbing one stunned recruit by the shoulder and shoving him toward the stairs. “GET TO YOUR POSTS! NOW!”
The panic melted as the men snapped to action. The courtyard turned into a flurry of movement—bows strung, swords and axes of dragonglass drawn, torches seized.
Benjen reached the lift, gripping the wooden railing as the massive mechanism groaned to life. The clanking chains pulled him steadily higher, the frigid wind cutting through his cloak. Below, Castle Black seethed with frantic energy, men shouting orders.
As the lift neared the top, the sounds above became clearer—gruff commands, the creak of drawn bowstrings, and the heavy clunk of men loading the new wildfire-infused scorpions. And then—
The dead.
Benjen stepped onto the icy Wall, his breath curling in the freezing air.
Below, gathered at the base of the immense, frozen fortification, were hundreds of wights—a mass of twisted, rotting corpses, some fresh, others little more than bleached bone and frozen sinew.
And the mist was growing.
The wind howled, whipping the ghostly fog around them, creeping up the Wall like icy fingers reaching for the living.
“Benjen!”
Benjen turned to see Edmure Tully, bundled in black furs, standing with his men near the massive scorpion emplacements. The former Lord of Riverrun had adjusted well to his new role.
Edmure grinned grimly. “We’re going to burn these fuckers.”
Benjen tore his gaze from the wights and nodded. “What are you waiting for?”
Edmure barked out a command. “LOOSE!”
The Night’s Watch unleashed hell.
The scorpions fired, their bolts infused with wildfire—streaking through the night like green shooting stars. The first projectile slammed into the dead, and the fire erupted instantly, spreading like an unnatural plague through the ranks of the wights.
The base of the Wall lit up with emerald flame.
The screams were inhuman—piercing, unnatural wails—as the fire devoured the corpses, licking at frozen flesh and brittle bones, consuming them in green hunger. More bolts flew, and with each strike, the horde below shrank.
Benjen watched, his jaw tight.
Edmure exhaled, lowering his bow slightly. “Thank the gods. They can’t even touch the Wall.”
Benjen didn’t look away from the flames. “For now.”
A small cheer rippled through the men as the final wight collapsed, consumed in fire, leaving nothing but blackened bone and melting ice.
For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the flames.
And then…
A sound.
A deep, guttural roar.
Benjen’s blood turned to ice.
The roar echoed through the frozen mist surrounding them, distant but growing fainter, as if moving away.
Benjen turned sharply, meeting Edmure’s confused gaze.
“Was our good king supposed to be visiting today?” Edmure asked, his tone half-joking, half-uneasy.
Benjen’s jaw tightened. “…No. No, he was not.”
Edmure’s expression darkened. “Then what the fuck was that?”
Benjen stared into the icy fog, the fading roar still echoing in his mind.
His stomach churned.
“I hope it’s not what I think it is.”
He truly did.
Comments
Illusiveone
Will fix it
TyrantGod
You have Dickon as Dikon!
