A/N: Hope everyone enjoys the chapter! :)
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
The Twins, The Riverlands
Smoke drifted from the shattered gallery above The Great Hall of the Twins, where the rain still hissed against the smoldering timbers, but the true heat in the room radiated from the dais.
Daenerys walked down the center aisle, but she did not walk alone. The heavy oak doors groaned shut behind a shield wall of Northern soldiers who filed in with the discipline of a wolf pack, their boots thundering against the stone in a rhythm that silenced the begging of the gathered Freys.
She was no longer the exile in travel-stained rags; she was dressed for war and winter wearing finely cured grey leathers, tailored in the distinct, austere style of the North, with a heavy cloak of dark wool pinned at her shoulder. Walking a pace behind her, grim and watchful, was Ser Jorah Mormont. The exiled Lord of Bear Island wore new mail but a surcoat stripped of sigils.
At the end of the hall, standing beside the high table like a sentinel of the Old Gods, was Eddard Stark. He did not move to meet them; he held the room with a silent, terrifying authority, his hand resting on the pommel of Ice.
They were a study in contradictions. Ned was iron and stone, a man rooted in the earth. Daenerys was fire and blood, walking with a grace that seemed to glide over the rough stone floor, surrounded by the steel of her new alliance.
And ahead of them, looming over the shivering figure of Walder Frey who remained slumped in his high seat, was Morghaes.
The black dragon had grown terrifyingly fast in the weeks since Braavos. He was no longer the small creature that could perch on her shoulder. He was coiled around the back of the Lord of the Crossing's chair like a living shadow, his head resting dangerously close to Walder's ear. He watched the hall with a predator's indifference, his tail twitching lazily, knocking a golden goblet to the floor with a hollow clang.
Daenerys halted at the foot of the dais, looking up at the high table.
Walder Frey looked up at them, stripped of his dignity and his fine robes stained with wine, his rheumy eyes darting from the dragon to the Stark lord, and finally to her.
"Stark," the old man wheezed. "Call it off. Call the beast off."
Ned did not look at the dragon. He looked only at Walder Frey. "I do not command the dragon, my lord. I command the North."
Ned stepped back. It was a small movement, a single pace to the side, giving Daenerys a clear line of sight to the man who would have sold her. He was ceding the floor.
The hall held its breath. The Greatjon, leaning on his massive sword, watched with narrowed eyes. Roose Bolton, standing in the shadows, watched with no expression at all.
"You conspired to murder my allies," Daenerys said. Her voice felt thin in the cavernous hall, but she forced steel into it. "And took up arms against your liege lord's good-son."
"Heh," Walder spat, shrinking back into the wood of his chair as Morghaes lowered his head, smoke curling from the dragon's nostrils in a lazy grey ribbon. "Arms? I opened my gates, didn't I? I welcomed you. A man has to protect his own when the wolves and lions go to war. You think you can march on the South? You think a few savages and a girl with a pet lizard scare Tywin Lannister?"
"You knew she was here. Tell us exactly what he told you. Every word."
Morghaes hissed, a sound like steam escaping a fissure. He snapped his jaws, the sound like a cracking whip, and Walder scrambled backward in his chair, pressing himself against the high wood.
"Tell him!" Daenerys commanded. "Tell us everything, or I will let him find the answer in your belly."
"The bird came three days ago!" Walder shrieked, his defiance crumbling into terrified self-preservation. "Tywin sent a letter! He offered the deal! Riverrun for the crossing. But he knew. He knew you had the girl."
Walder pointed a shaking finger at Morghaes, his voice cracking with indignation. "But he lied! He said they were hatchlings! 'Runts,' he called them! 'No bigger than a cat,' he wrote! He didn't say nothing about that!"
The old man stared at the black beast, which was the size of a warhorse and staring back with molten eyes. Tywin's intelligence was outdated. The dragons were growing faster than anything in nature should.
"And where is he?" Ned demanded, seizing the front of Walder's robe. "Where is Lord Tywin now?"
"I don't know!" Walder squealed. "The letter came from Sow's Horn! He's marching! That's all I know, I swear it by the Seven!"
Ned released him with a shove of disgust.
"He asked for her," Walder gasped, clutching his chest. "Specifically. 'The girl and the hatchlings,' he wrote. 'Deliver them, and Riverrun is yours.' That was the bargain."
Daenerys felt the fire in her blood turn to sudden, freezing slush. "He wanted me dead?" Daenerys asked.
"Dead? No." Walder let out a wet, rattling laugh. "He wanted you alive. Tywin doesn't waste royal blood. He wanted you for the boy. For Joffrey. Breed the dragon back into the stag, heh? Or maybe just keep you in a cell until you laid eggs for him."
The thought made her skin crawl. To be a prisoner. To be a broodmare. It was Viserys all over again, but with a golden lion instead of a horse lord.
"Kill him, Your Grace," the Greatjon rumbled from the crowd. "Feed him to the beast. It's cleaner than he deserves."
Daenerys looked down at the shivering old man. He was pathetic. A spiteful, grasping creature who had bet everything on gold and lost to fire. Every instinct in her blood screamed to say the word. Dracarys. To watch him burn. To let the fire cleanse the insult.
She looked at Ned.
He offered no sign. His face was a mask of stone. He was letting her choose. He was testing her, she realized. Not her strength, but her soul.
"A dead man learns nothing," Daenerys said quietly.
She turned her gaze back to Walder Frey.
"You wanted to sell me to the Lannisters. You wanted to trade my life for a castle." She gestured to the guards. "Take him and his get to their own dungeons. The lowest cell. No light. No company."
"You can't!" Walder shrieked as two Stark guards hauled him up by his arms. "I am the Lord of the Crossing!"
"Let him sit in the dark," Daenerys said, her voice hard. "Let him sit there and realize he bet on the wrong side. Let him wonder, every time he hears a sound, if it is the dragon coming for him."
The guards dragged the screaming lord away. Morghaes watched him go, then let out a puff of smoke.
Ned Stark turned to her. For a moment, the mask slipped. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and he gave a single, sharp nod. It was brief, barely a gesture at all, but to Daenerys, it felt like a acceptance.
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The solar of the Twins was warmer than the hall, though the air was stale. Ned barred the heavy oak door with a thick plank of ironwood, shutting out the noise of the castle, the celebrating soldiers, and the screams of the dying fires.
Daenerys slumped into a high-backed chair near the hearth. The adrenaline that had sustained her in the hall evaporated, leaving her hollow and trembling. She rubbed her temples, trying to push away the headache that pulsed behind her eyes.
"You did well."
Ned moved to the side table. He poured dark wine into two silver goblets. He did not take the lord's chair behind the heavy desk. Instead, he pulled a simple wooden stool opposite her, placing the wine on the small table between them.
"I wanted to kill him," Daenerys whispered. She stared into the fire, watching the logs crumble into glowing ash. "When he spoke of Tywin... when he spoke of breeding me..."
"It would have been justice," Ned said. He took a sip of wine, watching her over the rim of the cup. "Few would have faulted you for it. The Greatjon would have cheered."
"And you?" Daenerys looked at him. "Would you have cheered, Lord Stark?"
Ned set the cup down. "I find little cause to cheer the death of men, even men like Walder Frey. But I would not have stopped you."
"My father would have burned him," she said. The confession tasted like bile. "He would have burned the whole hall." She looked at her hands, half-expecting to see them stained with blood or soot. "I felt it, my lord. The heat. It rose in me like a fever. For a moment... I wanted to be him."
"You are not him."
Ned's voice was low, but it possessed a certainty that cut through her panic.
"Aerys enjoyed the pain," Ned said. "He savored it. You showed mercy to a man who offered you none. That is not madness, Daenerys. That is restraint. It is the hardest thing a ruler must learn."
"Is it?" She took the wine he offered, her hands shaking slightly. "Or is it just weakness? Walder Frey is still alive. He can still plot. He can still hate."
"He is an old man in a dark hole," Ned said. "He is no threat to you now. But by sparing him, you showed the Riverlords that you are not a monster. You showed them that you are not your father. That is worth more than the satisfaction of an execution."
He leaned forward, his grey eyes searching hers.
"There is a reason I fear for you, Daenerys. A reason beyond the madness of kings."
The shift in his tone made her straighten. The praise was gone, replaced by the grim pragmatism of the Warden of the North.
"Walder Frey knew too much," Ned said softly. "Which mean Tywin knew too much."
"Spies?" Daenerys asked. "The roads are full of eyes."
"Mayhaps. But we also revealed you to the entire Northern host." Ned corrected.
The implication settled over the room like a shroud.
"A traitor," Daenerys breathed. "In your high command."
Ned nodded slowly. He looked pained, as if the words themselves were physical wounds. "Someone sent word to Tywin Lannister. Someone told him exactly what we carried."
"Who?"
Ned hesitated. He looked into his wine, swirling the dark liquid. "I have no proof. Only suspicion. And the instincts of a man who has lived too long among wolves."
He looked up. "Roose Bolton."
Daenerys pictured the Lord of the Dreadfort—the pale eyes, the soft voice, the skin that looked like cold milk.
"He was the one who warned Stevron Frey about the wagon," Daenerys recalled. "He told him the beasts were hungry."
"A game," Ned said. "Bolton plays games within games. He signals his usefulness to the enemy while appearing loyal to his liege. He keeps his options open."
"If you know it is him," Daenerys said, her grip tightening on the goblet, "why is he still breathing? Why is his head not on a spike?"
"Because he is a high lord of the North," Ned said heavily. "He commands four thousand spears. If I strike him down without absolute proof, I start a civil war in my own rear guard. The Ryswells are tied to him by marriage. The Dustins have no love for the Starks. If I move against Bolton now, the North fractures."
He looked at her, and she saw the vulnerability in him. This was a man bound by laws and honor, trapped in a cage of his own making.
"I must keep him close," Ned said. "I must watch him. But I cannot fully protect you from him if he decides to strike inside the camp. And that is why..."
He paused, setting his jaw.
"That is why you must go to Winterfell."
Daenerys froze. "No."
"Listen to me," Ned pleaded. It was not a command. It was the desperate request of a man who had seen too much death. "The war is here. The Riverlands are burning. Tywin Lannister knows you are with me. He will send men. Faceless Men. Sorrowful Men. Killers who do not care about honor."
He stood up, pacing the small room.
"I have seen what Tywin Lannister does to Targaryen children," Ned said, his voice cracking. He stopped and looked at her, and for a moment, he wasn't seeing her. He was seeing a throne room twenty years ago. He was seeing red cloaks and small bodies.
"I cannot let that happen again," Ned whispered. "I promised... I failed them. I will not fail you."
Daenerys watched him. She saw the grief etched into the lines of his face. He wasn't trying to dismiss her. He was trying to save her.
She stood up. She crossed the small distance between them. Protocol demanded she keep her distance, that she remain the Queen while he remained the Lord.
She reached out and took his hand.
His skin was rough, calloused from the sword and the reins. Her hand looked small and pale in his.
"I never knew a father, Lord Stark," she said softly. "My mother died bringing me into the world. My brother... my brother was a dragon who fed on those he should have protected."
She squeezed his hand.
"But I imagine a father would sound like you."
Ned stared at her. The ice in his eyes melted, replaced by a profound, aching sadness.
"Do not send me away," Daenerys said. "I am safe here. Not because of the army. Not only because of the dragons. Because I know you are watching over me."
She felt him tremble. The rigid posture of the Lord of Winterfell softened. He looked down at their joined hands, and then back up at her face.
"You are stubborn," he murmured. "Like..." He stopped himself, making her wonder who's name was on his tongue.
"I am a dragon," she said. "We do not hide in the snow."
Ned let out a long, shuddering breath. He squeezed her hand back, gentle but firm.
"If you are to stay," he said. "Then you will obey me in this." He released her hand and stepped back, his face hardening again into the mask of command. "You need more men loyal directly to you."
"I have Jorah," Daenerys began.
"Mormont is one man," Ned cut her off. "And he is a man seeking redemption, which makes him reckless. You need guards who are loyal to the bone, but who stand outside the game. Men who have no love for the Lannisters, and no ties to the Boltons."
He walked to the door and unbarred it. He opened it and spoke to the guard outside.
"Send them in."
Ser Jorah opened the door to let two figures entered the solar.
The first was Asher Forrester. He still wore his sellsword's leathers, battered and stained with the mud of the road, but he had cleaned the blood from his face. He grinned at her, a reckless, charming expression that hid the sharpness in his eyes.
The second was Beskha. The warrior woman looked out of place in the stone castle, her movements too fluid, her hand resting casually on the pommel of her curved sword. She looked at Ned Stark with wary respect, and at Daenerys with something like affection.
"They will join Ser Jorah in defending you," Ned said. "Asher is wild, reckless, and exiled. But his heart is Northern. He hates the Boltons and the Whitehills more than he loves gold."
Asher bowed low, a theatrical gesture. "My lord wounds me. I love gold quite a bit. But I love a good fight more."
Beskha nodded to Daenerys. "Little dragon."
"They will be your shield," Ned said. "They answer to you, but they answer to me for your safety. If you fall, they die."
Daenerys looked at them. The exile and the sellsword. They were not the Kingsguard of old. They were not knights in white cloaks. They were rough, dangerous, and scarred.
They were perfect.
"I accept," Daenerys said.
She moved to stand beside Ned. Asher and Beskha moved to flank them. For a moment, the four of them stood together in the dim light of the solar. The Wolf, the Dragon, and the Outcasts.
It felt like a beginning. It felt like something solid in a world of shifting sand.
"Go now," Ned said gently. "Rest. Tomorrow we cross the river. Tomorrow the war truly begins."
Daenerys nodded. She gathered her skirts and moved toward the door, her new protectors falling in step behind her. At the threshold, she paused.
"Lord Stark?"
He looked up from the map table, where he had already begun to study the terrain of the Riverlands.
"Thank you."
He didn't smile, but his eyes were kind. "Sleep well, Your Grace."
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Skirling Pass, Beyond the Wall
The wind in the Skirling Pass screamed as Robb Stark huddled into the lee of a jagged outcropping of black rock, his furs pulled tight against his throat, but the cold found him anyway. This cold pressed against his chest like an iron plate, slowing his heart, thickening his blood.
Beside him, the Smalljon wiped frozen snot from his mustache. The giant of a man looked small here, huddled against the stone, his greatsword wrapped in oilcloth to keep the metal from becoming brittle. Sigorn of the Thenn stood upright, his bronze armor dull in the grey twilight. He looked like a statue carved from the mountain itself as he scanned the white void below.
Grey Wind crouched at Robb's feet. The direwolf was usually a source of warmth, a living furnace, but even he was shivering now, his hackles raised in a permanent, jagged ridge along his spine.
"Varamyr," Robb rasped. His voice sounded thin, stolen by the wind. "What do you see?"
The skinchanger sat cross-legged in the snow, his eyes rolled back in his head, showing only the whites. He was trembling violently, his body seizing with the tremors of the trance. His snow bear lay beside him, whimpering, its massive paws covering its nose. The shadowcat paced nervously, spitting at the wind. Unlike the other beasts, Grey Wind did not whimper. He let out a low growl that rumbled through the rock beneath Robb's boots.
Robb reached out with his feelings. He tried to find the calm center Luke had taught him, the Eye of the Storm, but the storm here was too loud. The Force felt sluggish, like oil freezing in a lamp. It was hard to touch, hard to hold.
Varamyr gasped. His body arched, his spine cracking audibly, and he slumped forward into the snow. He retched, dry heaves that racked his small frame.
"Nothing," Varamyr choked out, spitting bile. "The eagle... nothing. It's difficult to see but the pass is clear."
He looked up at Robb, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "We are alone. There is nothing living in the valley."
"Living," Sigorn grunted. "That is the problem."
Robb frowned. He looked at the skinchanger. Varamyr was a coward, yes, but he was a powerful warg. If he said the pass was clear, it should be clear.
But the back of Robb's neck prickled. Grey Wind's growl deepened, becoming a steady, threatening thrum.
It was a sensation he had learned to trust more than his eyes.
Wrong.
The word whispered in his mind.
"Are you sure?" Robb asked.
"I flew the length of the gorge," Varamyr snapped, wiping his mouth. "I saw every rock. Every drift. We are alone."
Robb stood up. He ignored the protest of his stiff joints. He crawled on his belly to the edge of the ridge, peering over the lip of the stone.
The Skirling Pass dropped away below them, a steep, treacherous chute of shale and ice that funneled down into a narrow valley floor lined with pine trees. The visibility was poor, obscured by the driving snow, but Varamyr was right. It looked empty.
Then Robb blinked.
To the east, traversing the knife-edge of a parallel ridge that ran alongside their descent, a shadow moved.
As Robb eyes focused, the shadow resolved. It was moving with a fluid, unnatural speed, keeping pace with them from high ground.
It was a figure in armor that shimmered like moonlight on broken glass. It was looking across the gap. It was looking directly at him.
The distance was over a mile, yet Robb felt the gaze as if the creature were standing nose-to-nose with him. Blue eyes. Burning like stars.
"Varamyr is wrong," Robb whispered. He scrambled back from the edge.
"Get up," Robb commanded. His voice was low, urgent. "Get up. Now."
Smalljon grabbed his sword. "What is it?"
"We are exposed," Robb said. "There is a Walker on the eastern ridge. He is flanking us."
Varamyr scrambled backward, his face going pale. "No. I saw... I saw nothing!"
"He hid from you," Robb said grimly. "Or you were too afraid to look."
He looked at the terrain. Going back up was impossible; the slopes behind them were sheer ice, and they would be silhouetted against the sky. They would be picked off like grouse. But if the Walker on the ridge got ahead of them, he could drop down and seal the pass.
"We move," Robb decided. "We have to outrun him to the valley floor. If he gets ahead of us, we are trapped. Down. Now!"
"Down?" Sigorn asked, looking at the treacherous slope. "It is suicide."
"Staying here is death," Robb countered. "We race him to the bottom. Move!"
He didn't wait for agreement. He grabbed the strap of his shield and threw himself over the edge, sliding boots-first down the slope.
The descent was a controlled fall.
Shale clattered around them, a cascade of sharp black stones that announced their position to the world. Robb used his heels to brake, his sword scabbard banging against his hip. Beside him, the Smalljon slid on his backside, cursing with every bump. Sigorn moved with more grace, leaping from rock to rock like mountain goats, their bronze armor clinking.
Grey Wind moved the fastest. The direwolf was a blur of motion, paws scrabbling for purchase on the ice, claws digging in where men found no hold. He bounded ahead, a grey streak leading the charge.
The wind tore at them. Snow blinded them. Robb kept glancing to his left, watching the ridge, but the blowing snow obscured the enemy. He could only hope they were faster.
Robb kept his eyes on the tree line. It was rushing up to meet them. If they could just reach the cover of the pines...
They hit the bottom of the basin in a spray of snow and gravel. Robb rolled to his feet, drawing his sword in one fluid motion. Grey Wind was already there, shaking the snow from his pelt and snapping at the air.
"We made it," Smalljon wheezed, looking back up at the ridge. "We're ahead of him."
"Don't stop!" Robb ordered, shoving the giant forward. "Push for the trees! We need cover!"
They scrambled forward, boots crunching on the snow, lungs burning. They made it ten yards toward the safety of the dark woods.
Then the forest spit something out.
A figure stepped from the pines directly in their path, blocking the way forward.
It wasn't the shadow from the ridge. This was a new one.
It moved with a terrifying, gliding grace, leaving no footprints in the snow, holding a spear of translucent ice.
Grey Wind skidded to a stop, baring teeth that looked like daggers of wet ivory. He snarled, a sound of primal fury, and placed himself between Robb and the figure.
Robb skidded to a halt next to the wolf, his boots sliding on the ice. "Halt!"
The group collided with each other, weapons drawn.
"One," The Smalljon grunted. "We can take one."
A sound came from behind them. It was the sound of ice cracking.
Robb spun.
The Walker he had seen on the ridge had descended. He stood behind them now, cutting off the slope they had just come down.
"Two," Sigorn said, his voice tight.
Then, from the right flank, a third figure emerged from the deep woods. This one carried a curved sword of crystal that glowed with a faint, pale light.
Robb felt his stomach drop.
They were being herded.
The Walkers had shown themselves on the flank to drive Robb down the mountain. They had waited. They had positioned themselves to cut off every avenue of escape. They had maneuvered Robb right into the killing box.
"We are surrounded," Robb said.
The three Walkers stood motionless, forming a perfect triangle around the small group of humans. They did not attack. They simply watched, their blue eyes glowing in the gloom.
Varamyr Sixskins was the first to break.
The skinchanger let out a high, keen whimper. He knew, with the instinct of a creature that had survived in the wild for years, that his animals could do nothing against this.
"No," Varamyr squealed. "No, no, no."
He whistled. A sharp, piercing sound.
The shadowcat snarled and crouched. Varamyr vaulted onto the cat's back. He dug his heels into the animal's flanks.
"Varamyr!" Robb shouted. "Hold your ground!"
"I will not die for you!" Varamyr screamed.
The shadowcat leaped. It was a magnificent creature, sleek and powerful, capable of clearing twenty feet in a single bound. Varamyr intended to jump the gap between the Lead Walker and the Flank Walker, to use the animal's speed to punch through the encirclement and leave the others to die.
The cat was mid-air, a blur of grey fur and muscle.
The Lead Walker simply raised his right arm.
It was a casual motion. Almost lazy.
The ice spear flew from his hand, moving faster than any spear had the right to.
It was a streak of blue light, a blur that the eye could not track.
There was a wet, meaty thud.
The spear caught Varamyr in the chest. It punched through his furs, through his ribs, through his heart, and out his back. The force of the impact lifted him off the shadowcat. It carried him backward, pinning him to the frozen earth ten yards away.
The shadowcat landed, yowled in terror, and bolted into the mist, vanishing instantly.
Varamyr Sixskins did not scream or thrash. He was dead before he hit the ground, his eyes wide and staring, the ice spear vibrating in his chest. The spear then flew back to its master.
The psychic tether snapped with the warg's death. The massive snow bear, which had been cowering nearby, let out a roar of confused, primal terror. It scrambled upright, swiping blindly at the air before turning and lumbering into the trees, crashing through the underbrush in a blind panic. Above them, the eagle screeched, a piercing cry of freedom and pain, and winged desperately away toward the peaks.
The Lead Walker did not watch the animals flee. Neither did his kin. They ignored the bear and the bird as if they were nothing more than falling snow. Their burning blue eyes remained fixed solely on Robb.
Silence returned to the basin.
Robb felt the cold seep into his bones. It was a brutal, efficient kill. Varamyr was a powerful warg, a chieftain of the Free Folk, and he had been extinguished like a candle in a gale.
The Smalljon let out a low breath. "Fuck."
The Walkers began to move but they did not rush. They closed the triangle slowly, gliding over the snow.
Robb raised his sword. He pushed the fear down, compressing it into a tight ball in his gut. I am the Stark in Winterfell. I am the blood of the First Men.
The Lead Walker walked toward Robb but stopped when there was only 20 pace gap between them. It tilted its head and spoke.
It was the sound of a glacier calving, a grinding, cracking noise that set Robb's teeth on edge.
"Who taught you?"
The voice was cold but curious.
Robb blinked, sweat freezing on his forehead. "What?"
The Walker took another step. Its blue eyes bored into Robb's.
"The Old Magic," the voice cracked in his head. "We smell it on you. It sings in your blood. Who woke it?"
They sensed the Force. They sensed the training Luke had given him.
Robb tightened his grip on his sword. "I answer to no demon."
The Walker smiled. It was a horrific expression, skin stretching too tight over bone.
"We thought we them to be all dead in these lands," the voice mused. "The singers. The dreamers. The warriors of the mind. You are a relic, little wolf."
It raised a hand.
"Show us."
From the snowdrifts around the basin, the ground began to churn.
Hands erupted from the ice. Black, rotted hands.
Scores of wights pulled themselves from the earth. Wildlings who had died in the pass. They stood up, their movements jerky and unnatural, blue eyes igniting in their sockets.
"Form up!" Robb roared. "Triangle! Watch the flanks!"
Smalljon and Sigorn slammed their backs together with Robb. They presented a wall of steel and bronze to the horde.
The wights charged.
They did not have the grace of their masters. They were a mob. They threw themselves at the defenders with mindless ferocity.
Robb cut the head off a wildling corpse. He kicked it back and thrust into the chest of a dead crow. Smalljon roared, his greatsword cleaving two wights in half with a single swing. Sigorn fought with disciplined silence, his spear punching through rotten flesh and kicking it back.
But there were too many.
For every wight they cut down, two more stood up. They were drowning in dead flesh.
Robb felt his arm growing heavy. He used the Force to shove a wight back, buying himself a second of breathing room, but the exertion drained him. The cold was sapping his strength.
The three Walkers stood outside the melee, watching. They were testing him to see the magic.
"We're going to die here," Smalljon grunted, smashing a wight's skull with his pommel.
"If we die," Robb yelled. "We die fighting!"
Then, the sky tore open.
It was a sound like the world ending. A roar that drowned out the wind and the screams of the dead. It was the shriek of a predator, vast and angry.
Robb looked up, expecting to see leather wings blotting out the sky.
The clouds parted violently.
A shape dropped from the heavens. But as it fell, the image shattered. It was not a dragon. It had no head, no tail. It did not flap or glide.
It was a beast of iron, something he has never seen or heard of before. It fell erratically, yawing wildly to the left, then correcting with a sickening lurch to the right. Robb stared, his mind unable to reconcile the roar of a monster with this strange, rigid shape.
The ship leveled out fifty feet above the ground. A turret on the bottom spun.
THOOM-THOOM-THOOM.
Bolts of red lightning spat from the turret, brighter than fire.
But they missed.
The shots blasted apart a massive pine tree to the left of the melee. They vaporized a boulder to the right. They carved smoking craters in the ice, nowhere near the wights.
The ship slammed down.
It hit the ice with a crunch that shook the ground, sliding sideways, crushing three wights beneath its landing gear by sheer accident. It came to a halt twenty yards from Robb's group, steam hissing from its vents.
The ramp dropped with a hiss.
Two figures descended into the blizzard.
The first was a man wearing Northern leathers, fur-lined and thick, with the direwolf sigil embossed on the chest. He looked like a Stark bannerman, but he moved with a calm that no bannerman possessed.
The second was Amidala.
"Clear the way," Luke Skywalker said.
He did not shout. He did not need to.
Amidala launched herself. She was a white blur as she hit the wight line like a battering ram. She tore the arm off a dead wildling and spun, her jaws snapping the spine of another.
She reached Robb's circle and turned, putting her back to Grey Wind. The two wolves snarled in unison.
Luke walked down the ramp. He reached to his belt.
Snap-hiss.
A beam of pure green light erupted from his hand. The hum cut through the howling wind, a sound of absolute, controlled power.
The wights stopped. They recoiled from the light.
The Lead Walker turned his head. His blue eyes narrowed.
Luke walked past the wights. He ignored them. He walked straight toward the three Walkers.
"Greeting." Luke said calmly.
The Lead Walker stepped forward. He raised his crystal sword.
"So," the Walker's voice grated in Robb's head. "You are the one."
Luke stopped. He held the lightsaber in a relaxed, low guard. The green light illuminated his face, casting deep shadows.
"Depends on who I am speaking with," Luke said.
"I am but a vessel," the Walker said. "A finger of the hand that grips the world. But you..." The creature tilted its head, studying Luke with a hunger that made Robb nauseous. "You burn bright. You would make a far finer skin to wear than this ice."
Luke's expression hardened. "And it seem that I have my answer."
The Walker lunged.
The crystal sword swung in a killing arc.
Luke moved to meet the strike head on.
The green blade collided with the magic ice sword.
HISS.
There was a violent explosion of steam. The Walker's sword did not shatter, held together by dark sorcery, but it was knocked back with tremendous force.
Luke stepped in.
He became a blur.
The other two Walkers charged.
Luke spun. He used the momentum of his block to flow into an acrobatic sequence. He flipped over the Lead Walker's head, his green blade carving a circle of light in the air. He landed behind them, parrying a thrust from the Flank Walker without looking.
He was fighting three of them. And he was winning.
He ducked a high swing, swept the legs of the Rear Walker with a Force-augmented kick, and then thrust his hand forward.
A pulse of invisible energy slammed into the Flank Walker. The creature was lifted off its feet and blasted fifty yards backward. It tumbled over the ice, crashing through a dead pine tree.
Now it was two on one.
Luke blocked a dual strike, his lightsaber humming angrily as it held back two crystal blades. He gritted his teeth, pushing back.
The Walkers realized their mistake. They could not match his blade work nor match his speed.
The Lead Walker stepped back and raised his hand. The Rear Walker did the same.
The air temperature plummeted.
A wall of white descended. It was a supernatural blizzard, summoned instantly. It swirled around Luke, blinding him, burying him in a vortex of snow and ice.
"Master!" Robb screamed, ducking under the clumsy swing of a rusty axe. He drove his sword through the wight's chest, kicking the corpse back into the mob.
He saw the green glow of the saber dimming in the whiteout. Luke was hesitating. He couldn't see his targets. He was waiting for the Force to guide his strike, preparing to end them.
Robb blocked another blow, his arm trembling not from fatigue now, but from adrenaline. He realized the stakes.
"Master!" Robb roared, his voice cracking as he beheaded a dead crow. "If you kill them all, the wights die! We need proof to show the South!"
Inside the blizzard, Luke's head snapped toward Robb's voice. He nodded once.
He understood.
Luke spun as he felt the Rear Walker lunging through the snow. He didn't need eyes.
He didn't hesitate. Luke swung the lightsaber in a flat, horizontal arc.
The blade cut through the snow. It cut through the ice armor. It cut through the neck.
The Rear Walker's head separated from its shoulders. The body shattered into a thousand shards of ice.
One down.
Luke clipped his saber to his belt. The blade vanished.
He closed his eyes. He stood in the center of the swirling storm, arms at his sides.
Around him, the battle had transformed. The hopelessness that had choked them moments ago was gone, replaced by a savage, renewed fury.
Smalljon Umber bellowed a war cry that shook the snow from the trees, his greatsword cleaving two wights in half with a single, ruinous swing. "FOR THE NORTH!"
Sigorn fought while hacking limbs from the dead to keep the circle unbroken.
And the wolves... Grey Wind and Amidala were a blur of fur and teeth. The grey whirlwind and the white avalanche fought back-to-back, guarding the men. Amidala's metal jaws crushed a wight's skull with a sickening crunch, while Grey Wind tore the throat out of another.
They were holding the line.
Inside the eye of the storm, Luke centered himself. He drew the Force in, gathering it from the living trees, from the terrified men, from the savage courage of the wolves, from the very air.
He opened his eyes.
He extended both hands.
BOOM.
A massive, concussive wave of pure Force energy erupted from him. It was a dome of pressure that expanded outward at the speed of sound.
It hit the blizzard and blasted it backward. The snow was vaporized. The air cleared instantly.
The wave hit the Lead Walker and the wights. It launched them.
Hundreds of dead bodies were hurled backward as if swept by a giant broom. They flew hundreds of feet, smashing into the tree line, shattering against the rocks. The ice shelf behind them cracked and collapsed under the impact.
The basin was cleared.
Only one wight remained.
It was a dead wildling, missing an arm. It lay near Robb's feet, pinned to the frozen ground by an invisible hand. It thrashed and screeched, clawing at the air, but it could not move. Luke was holding it there with his mind.
"Get to the ship!" Luke shouted. He didn't look tired. He looked focused. "Bring it with us!"
Robb stared at the ship. It sat on the ice, steam rising from its landing gear, the ramp open like a mouth. It was a metal beast. A dragon made of iron.
"Move!" Smalljon grabbed the wight by its remaining arm. Sigorn grabbed a leg.
They dragged the screeching creature toward the ramp. Robb followed, his sword still drawn, walking backward to cover their retreat.
Luke ushered them up the metal gangway, his lightsaber still humming in the dark, a green barrier between them and the storm.
Robb stepped across the threshold.
The ramp hissed shut behind them, sealing with a heavy, metallic thud that cut off the wind instantly.
The silence was sudden and shocking. The howling gale was replaced by a low, rhythmic thrumming that seemed to vibrate through the soles of Robb's boots.
"Drop it there," Luke commanded, pointing to a space on the floor.
Smalljon and Sigorn threw the wight down. The creature thrashed, snapping its teeth at Luke's boots.
Luke reached to his belt and pulled out a small, silver device. It looked like a shackle, but it had no keyhole. He knelt, fearless, and slapped the device around the wight's single wrist. He pressed a stud on the metal and a beam of blue light shot from the cuff, anchoring itself to the floor grating like an invisible chain.
The creature convulsed as the light touched it, then went rigid, pinned to the deck, though its blue eyes still burned with hateful fire.
Robb stared. It was a manacle that bound without iron. Magic. It had to be.
The interior of the ship was not like any hall or holdfast Robb had ever seen. It was white. Blindingly clean. The walls were lined with panels of glass that glowed with steady, unmoving light, torches that burned without fire or smoke.
Smalljon backed away from the paralyzed wight until he hit the wall. He flinched, as if expecting the white metal to burn him. He looked around wildly, his massive sword shaking in his grip.
"It hums," Smalljon rumbled, his voice thick with unease. "The floor... it trembles like a dying beast. Are we in its belly, Robb? Have we walked into the gullet?"
Sigorn reached out and touched the curved wall. His fingers left a smudge on the white. His face was a mixture of fear and naked greed. "Metal," he whispered. "So much metal!"
Robb stared down the corridor toward the front of the ship. He saw no servants. He saw no hearth. He saw only the impossible craft of a world he did not understand.
It was a culture shock so violent it almost broke him. He felt dizzy. The reality of his world of swords, snow and wolves collided with this sanctuary of glass and light.
Luke walked past him, removing his heavy fur gloves.
He stopped and looked at Robb.
The relief in his eyes was evident. He was glad they were alive. But then, his expression hardened. The warmth faded.
He was not the friendly teacher who had sat in the godswood. He was the Master. And Robb was the student who had run away.
"We have a lot to talk about," Luke said.
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