Into The Unknown

Just South Of The Last Bastion, Old Valyria

Daenerys Targaryen

“Keep up the pace!” One of the men shouted, encouraging his fellows to press on as they made their way through the rubble-laden streets of the ruined city, their attention constantly flitting towards the west.

From there, the distant sound of their foes’ wails reached their ears, as well as the shockwaves of the explosions which rang so loudly that it made them wince every time.

“Harry…” Daenerys mouthed after a particularly loud blast, almost tripping as the ground shook with great fury.

She stopped for a moment to stare in that direction before forcing herself to move again.

Now, more than ever, she wanted to abandon her place in the mission and go to Harry’s side in order to aid him in his chosen task.

No! Daenerys’ mind roared, ruthlessly crushing her heart’s desire and focusing her attention on the tall tower ahead. We have a plan. I cannot jeopardize it, not for anyone’s desire— not even my own.

Her gaze hardened, sweeping to the tower ahead.

This city was her ancestors’ home, at one point.

When she had first laid eyes upon the desolation that remained, the image of the city in its golden days had superimposed itself over her own vision, and somehow Daenerys knew that she had been peering into the past; the city had been a hub for trade, commerce and the premier destination for any would-be magical practitioners who wished to serve under the Valyrians— a veritable gem of the Freehold.

Now, however, all that was left standing was this black tower; a place of foreboding, hearkening to an age long past— clinging to it with a fervor having long since crossed the point of insanity.

Daenerys’ senses had begun to attune themselves to this place, and she swore that she could almost feel the deep longing, as well as the desperation in the magic suffusing the air of this place.

The rawness of it all reminded her of her brother, Viserys, and of his final days in this world. His body language, his demeanor and behavior— even his very scent, at times— had exuded a sense of purpose far beyond the natural.

The Last Bastion of Valyria. Daenerys thought, bringing her thoughts back to the great edifice before her. Much like how Viserys’ madness had manifested and caused his own death, this final ground of the Valyrians is all that remains after their obsession caused their dynasty to be torn asunder by the Doom.

“Just a little more and we clear the buildings.” Joqo said, getting her attention as they turned a corner, reaching a small path that led to a massive open field. “See?”

“Yes.” Daenerys acknowledged, her eyes scanning the terrain. She frowned, seeing a large band of chimera remaining. “Look, there are still chimeras. Fourteen?”

“No. Eighteen.” Joqo said, his eyes keener than the rest of their assembly. “Equal numbers, just about. We can take them.”

“Would have been easier if they’d all been gone.” One of the soldiers said, though he hefted his spear in preparation.

“Indeed, it would have been— but we did not imagine that Lord Potter would have distracted them all, in any case. Whoever controls them must have prepared for such an eventuality.” Barristan said, his face turning grim as they walked the length of the road and exited the ruins proper. “There are fewer creatures here than I’d dared to hope.”

The chimeras could see them now and, without even a moment’s hesitation, began to rush to their location.

“Positions!” Daenerys said as everyone fell into their roles.

Everyone who carried a bow took position atop various piles of rubble at the edge of the zone, high above their group. They did not waste time, nocking arrows and drawing their bows, waiting for the command.

“Wait…” Barristan called out, his hand raised in the air in case his voice did not reach their ears. The old knight’s pale blue eyes narrowed, and he cried. “Loose!”

Arrows flew above their heads, assailing the charging chimera in an attempt to bleed them as much as possible before they made it to the group.

Though the chimera were fast and quite agile, a few of the arrows still found their marks. One pierced the leg of a lizard-chimera and sent him tumbling down into the earth. Another drove itself straight between the eyes of a bull-chimera; it fell down without fanfare, dead before it even realized what had happened.

Daenerys suppressed the urge to cheer; that had been their only chance to do some damage before the swift creatures reached them.

“To arms!” Cried one of the Dornish bowmen, abandoning his bow in favor of drawing his sword. The rest followed and dropped down the rubble to join their group, crying out in challenge at the chimera, who were almost upon them.

Daenerys’ eyes flashed as she placed her hands together, gathering her power for a few moments before she cried out. “Clear a path!”

The line of men in front of her parted, their eyes widening as they saw the compacted sphere of flame struggling to escape the woman’s hands.

Daenerys kept the fire contained, pouring as much power as she could into it before she could hold it no longer.

With a grunt, she thrust her arms forward, the crimson ball of flame blasting forward into the group of chimera.

They tried to scatter, but Daenerys spread her hands apart with a yell, allowing the compressed fire to lose its cohesion and explode in a brilliant shower of crimson.

Fire roared, and monsters wailed as they were roasted alive. They flailed, spasmed, squirmed and rolled on the earth as they did their best to put it out.

Daenerys sagged for a single moment before she forced herself upright, taking her spear from Ser Barristan and hefting it in preparation for a hard fight.

Ser Barristan drew his sword and rushed ahead, before the remaining chimera could regroup. “Kill them all!”

The men roared in approval as they advanced on their downed and flailing foes, hoping the shock of the explosion would give them enough time to cut them down to size before they could recover.

The chimera, to her dismay, did not acquiesce to her wishes, getting up just in time to engage their new foes with far more ferocity than they’d seen before. Barristan had expected such a radical shift in behavior and managed to save himself from a bloody death, slamming his shield into his lunging foe and sending it downwards. He followed the creature down with his shield, driving its bottom into the chimera’s neck and crushing its throat and windpipe with one brutal blow.

A moment later, he stepped back and moved to rejoin Daenerys, aiding any of his comrades who were in trouble. Already, Daenerys saw that two of the Dornishmen and one of the unaffiliated adventurers had already been downed by their opponents.

They’re different— far more crazed than before! Daenerys realized as she tiredly fended off a dog-like chimera. She tripped on a piece of errant stone and fell on her back. The dog-chimera swooped down on her, fangs bared and ready to tear her throat out, but its jaws clamped on Daenerys’ spear shaft, instead.

With wide, fearful eyes, she watched as it attempted to snap the wood into two pieces. It gave up on the effort and instead raised its paw to claw at her, but Daenerys drove a finger into the creature’s ear and called up every silver of power she had left.

A deadly glow emanated from the ear, and Daenerys saw the dog’s eyes widen in terror before the fire blasted out of its eyes, nose, mouth and other ear. Daenerys kept it up for another second before ending the flow of her magic.

She stared at her handiwork before pushing off the corpse with a great grunt. She picked her spear up again and assessed the damage while keeping her eye on the fighting around her. It was a little scratched and burned, but otherwise as solid as it ever was.

Nodding, she moved forward, joining with Ser Barristan, who was accompanied by Arianne, who was covered in blood.

“It’s not mine.” Was the first thing she said before another chimera tried to engage them. Ser Barristan blocked the attack with ease, and with a savage slash, opened the chimera up from neck to waist.

“Come.” Ser Barristan said. “We have seized the advantage.”

And so the clearing was filled again with the sound of fighting, followed by the agonized cries of the chimeras for the next few minutes as they went about making sure that each and every single one was dead.

Ser Barristan drove his sword into the last one, and Daenerys watched the life leave its compound eyes, doing her best to suppress the grimace which threatened to appear on her face.

They were doing a good thing, here. By ending the chimeras’ lives, Daenerys was ending the unfortunate people’s misery.

You are free now. She thought and was forced to take a deep breath. That last use of magic had taken a larger toll on her than she had expected.

“You are tired.” Arianne said from beside her.

Daenerys swept her gaze over the group just to make sure no one was looking their way. She tore her eyes away from the soldiers gathering their dead and turned to see Arianne cleaning the blood off of her dagger.

“I will be fine.” Daenerys kept her voice strong and resumed a rigid stance.

“Of course, Your Grace.” Arianne said and looked like she wanted to say something, but thought better of it. “Shall we go?”

Daenerys turned her gaze west to where she could still hear the faint rumbling of explosions and collapsing buildings before she hardened her resolve. Her eyes found the great black tower before them again, and her lips pursed as her eyes filled with determination.

She did not answer Arianne’s question, instead leading the way down to the building’s entrance, flanked by both Joqo and Barristan.

They stopped just a few spans away from the large, black steel doors.

“There doesn’t seem to be any mechanism to open it.” Ser Barristan said, frowning. “Perhaps it can only be opened from the inside?”

Daenerys considered the man’s words and nodded. “Your logic is sound, Ser Barristan.”

Joqo moved past them and tried to push the door open, his muscles rippling as he put his all into it. The door did not make a single sound.

“It seems that the entrance is too heavy for such an attempt.” Ser Barristan said, shaking his head. “I fear we need far more men to pry it open with strength alone.”

“He is right.” Joqo said, grunting with exertion as he stepped back and looked at the tower before gesturing towards the sides. “Perhaps we can check for other entrances?”

“It is worth checking. Do so.” Daenerys said, but didn’t seem particularly optimistic about the idea.

“Perros, go with him.” Arianne commanded, and the man gave her a nod of deference before he moved to stand by Joqo.

“I’ll take the left.” Joqo said.

“The right for me, then.” Perros replied, and the two split to circle the building. As the group waited for them to return, Daenerys’ eyes narrowed as she stared further at the inscriptions on the large doors.

She approached the entrance to attempt to read the text, and Ser Barristan followed her dutifully.

“Can you read the inscriptions, Your Grace?” Ser Barristan said, frowning at the doors alongside her. “They do not resemble High Valyrian, nor any language I have ever come across…”

Daenerys nodded. “I have never seen its like, either.”

And yet, she felt drawn to the letters, as if she could understand them on some level. She focused and realized that the scripture began to shift in her mind’s eye, forming into letters she could understand. “T… h… e… r… e… There?”

“You can understand it?” Ser Barristan said, cutting through her concentration.

“Somehow.” Daenerys tore her gaze away from the doors to address the man, though she hesitated when she saw his shock. “I am unsure, Ser Barristan, but it seems I can understand it— simply by gazing into the scripture.”

The inscribed patterns themselves still did not make an iota of sense to her, but her mind still recognized them in some way. What did this mean? Was this another secret of the Valyrians— a language that only other Valyrians could read and understand?

Daenerys did not know.

“That is…” Barristan said, shaking his head with amazement. “Then perhaps the secret to opening this door lies within what is written.”

She nodded to herself as she continued to try and decipher the writing.

“There… a… r… e… t… w… o… There are two… t… h… i…” Daenerys said, her mind struggling as she went through the entire script, trying to translate it into something usable.

It took her many minutes, and she had to stop a few times when the sound of Harry’s fighting in the city distracted her from her task.

Another minute, and she blinked at what she was reading. “It’s a riddle.” 

“A riddle.” Ser Barristan repeated, and Daenerys realized that everyone had made their way to her at some point.

I was so distracted by the scripts that I didn’t even notice they were there. She thought. What if there are enemies near? I would be very much dead, if it were not for the efforts of everyone here.

“What does it say, Your Grace?” Arianne’s soft voice graced the woman’s ears. “I’m quite good at riddles.”

“Best that we all know what it is.” Ser Barristan said, looking thoughtful. “Though I’m not particularly good with them— one of us surely must be able to divine an answer.”

Daenerys looked over everyone and realized that their desire to find a safe place to hide was increasing by the second. She nodded.

“Of course.” She said she began to read the script with great care. “There are two things I seek. The first is thus: while it is bound, it chooses kings and peasants. When it is freed, it foretells war or woe. While it is bound, it propels men’s lusts and furies. When it is freed, it tumbles, falls, and fades. While it is bound, life will often thrive. When it is freed, death will often follow.“

A silence permeated the group.

“And the other thing?” Arianne said.

Daenerys nodded and began to read through the next part of the script. “The other is thus: it is mainly red, though it may be many other colors. It has no mouth, but it can eat many things. Wind, it does not fear, but water is its mortal enemy. A spirited jig, it dances bright. Banishing all, even darkest night.”

Daenerys stopped and stepped back, pondering the riddle. Joqo and Perros returned together, shaking their heads.

“We found nothing.” Perros said. “No entrance from either side. No way to scale the tower, either.”

Joqo nodded. “This is the only way inside.”

Daenerys nodded, having expected as much. “It was worth the attempt.”

“I don’t understand.” One of the men said. “What could this riddle mean?”

“A riddle?” Perros said, looking at everyone, and Daenerys quickly retold the riddle.

“I see…” Perros said, nodding. “My father was often fond of riddles. The second one… ‘Wind, it does not fear, but water is its mortal enemy’.”

“Yes.” Arianne nodded at the man with a smile. “It is fire.”

Daenerys nodded, the logic sound. “It can be other colors, it banishes the darkest night, and water kills it. Very good.”

“The other one…” Arianne said, her brow furrowing, but Daenerys shook her head, having understood that one as soon as she realized the second riddle’s answer was fire.

“Blood.” Daenerys said. “The answer is blood. Our blood defines who is king and who is a commoner. War and woe often follow the loss of it.”

“I see now.” Ser Barristan said, his eyes bright with understanding. “Yes, given the information, the answer is correct.”

“And yet.” Daenerys said. “That is not how I solved it.”

“Your House words.” Arianne said, and Daenerys gave her a nod of confirmation. “Fire and blood.”

“Or, in this case.” Ser Barristan said, gesturing at the doorway. “Blood and fire.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. Her house words truly were prophetic in more ways than one, weren’t they? Fire and blood was what had given birth to her children. They had been what had set her on this path in the first place. How many more of her family had been guided by these words?

Had the Conqueror known of this when he first decided that these were to be their House words, or had he been clinging onto glories from a kingdom before his time?

Daenerys did not have an answer to that. But at least now I know how to open this door.

“It is a password, then?” Joqo said and started towards the door. “Blood and fire!”

Everyone stared at the massive doorway for a moment, but nothing happened.

“Perhaps the words can only be said by a Valyrian?” Arianne mused and sent a significant look to Daenerys. “If you would, Your Grace?”

Daenerys met her gaze and gave her a nod before turning her attention to the large doorway, taking a few steps towards it. “Blood and fire.”

Once again, nothing happened, and so Daenerys frowned. What was the problem? Why wasn’t it opening?

She mulled it over for a moment before trying something new. “Ānogar se perzys!“

Still, the gate did not open.

“Even High Valyrian did not work?” Arianne voiced the woman’s thoughts. “Then what was the point of the riddle— unless our answers are not correct?”

“No.” Daenerys said, shaking her head as she realized exactly what would be required of her. “Our answers are right.”

“Then…”

“Ser Barristan.” Daenerys said, holding her hand out towards the man. “A simple cut ought to be enough.”

Ser Barristan narrowed his eyes at her for a moment before nodding. “I understand.”

He turned his gaze towards one of the Unsullied men here. “Prepare a bandage beforehand.”

“Very good.” Daenerys said and let Ser Barristan take her hand into his own.

“Are you ready, my Queen?” He said, drawing a dagger.

“Yes.” She said and, doing her best to ignore the shiver she felt at having to cut herself open, she moved her hand to grab onto the blade.

Ser Barristan drew the blade away. “No. The top of your forearm, Your Grace.”

Daenerys stared at him for a moment and nodded, presenting her left forearm instead. Ser Barristan held the dagger in a tight grip, swiftly dragging it across her forearm. She felt the cold of the steel for a few moments before her arm began to sting and turned uncomfortably warm.

Gritting her teeth as the pain intensified, Daenerys pressed her palm against the new wound and stepped forward. She pressed her hand over the inscriptions, dying them crimson with her blood.

A moment later, she summoned flame, pressing it against the doorway and ignoring the steady trickle of blood falling down her arm and dripping from her elbow.

Nothing. She thought, clenching her forearm as her remaining Unsullied attended to her, bandaging the wound up. “It didn’t—”

She closed her mouth, watching as the inscriptions began to glow before the small slit between the two massive doors flashed white. A second later, the ground began to shake, and the sound of metal grinding against stone filled the air as the doorways opened inwards, revealing nothing but a fog of white so bright that it nearly blinded her.

No one did a thing, instead staring at the white fog in silence.

“Your Grace…” Ser Barristan broke it first as he checked over her bandage and tightened it further. Daenerys winced with a little pain as she looked at him. “Shall we go?”

Daenerys stared into his eyes for a moment before stepping forward, away from the gaze of everyone else. She swallowed down the nervousness, awe and fear that she felt before turning to everyone else.

“Time is of the essence.” Daenerys said, keeping her head tall and her voice strong. “Let us proceed.”

Everyone nodded and gathered by her. Daenerys glanced towards the west one final time before she stepped past the threshold of the Last Bastion and into the white mist.

oooo

Jon Stark – The Haunted Forest

The biting cold of the North seeped into Jon’s bones as he surveyed the desolate landscape around them. Snow blanketed the ground, transforming the world into an endless sea of white, broken only by the dark silhouettes of bare trees and jagged rocks. The wind howled relentlessly, carrying with it tiny ice crystals that stung any exposed skin.

Their small fire had long since been extinguished, its ashes now as cold as the surrounding snow. Jon knew the wisdom in this decision— even the faintest glow could betray their position to the Wildling’s army— but he couldn’t help longing for its warmth. Ghost pressed close to his side, the direwolf’s presence offering some comfort against the unforgiving elements.

Jon’s gaze drifted to Sandor Clegane, and he felt a pang of sympathy for the man. The Hound sat hunched over, his massive frame shaking slightly as he pulled his furs tighter around himself. His scarred face was etched with misery, his teeth audibly chattering.

It was clear that, accustomed to the milder climate of the South as he was, Sandor was struggling mightily against the harsh reality of life beyond the Wall.

As another gust of wind cut through their meager shelter, Jon pondered their precarious situation. They were outnumbered, isolated, and trapped in a frozen wasteland with dangers lurking both seen and unseen. The Wall, their only path to safety, now lay in partial ruin behind them, a silent reminder of how quickly everything could change.

Jon cautiously emerged from their makeshift shelter, his hand instinctively resting on Ice’s hilt. He squinted against the swirling snow, scanning the white expanse for any sign of movement. The world around them was eerily still, save for the constant moan of the wind. After several tense moments, satisfied that they weren’t in immediate danger, Jon ducked back into their hiding spot.

“Coast is clear.” He muttered to Sandor, his voice rough from disuse and the cold. “We should move.”

The Hound grunted in response, his face a mask of grim determination as he hauled himself to his feet.

“About bloody time.” He growled, flexing his stiff limbs. “One more minute in this frozen hell and I’d have become a fucking ice statue.”

They set off, trudging through the deep snow towards the northwest. They both knew it was a risky gambit, heading in the opposite direction of Castle Black and their allies. With the enemy’s army spread out to the south, however, they had little choice. Their only hope lay in reaching the western edge of the Wall, praying it still stood intact and manned.

As they walked, Jon’s mind raced with calculations. The journey would be long and perilous, taking them through unknown territory fraught with dangers both natural and otherworldly. Food would be scarce, and the cold a constant threat. But it was their only chance of survival, slim as it might be.

Ghost padded silently beside them, his red eyes alert for any sign of threat.

Jon took some comfort in the direwolf’s presence, a piece of home in this hostile wilderness. He glanced at Sandor, noting the man’s determined, if miserable, stride. He had been a most unwelcome companion at the start, but Jon had quickly grown grateful for his directness.

Oh, he still didn’t like him a bit, and Jon was certain the feeling was mutual, but they at least had a certain respect for each other.

With each step northwest, they moved further from safety and deeper into the unknown.

Jon’s unease had been growing steadily, a prickle at the back of his neck that refused to subside. There was something in the air, an oppressive presence that seemed to close in around them with each passing moment.

Sandor, ever observant despite his discomfort, noticed Jon’s increasingly tense demeanor.

“What’s got you so jumpy, Stark?” He growled, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. “Seeing shadows?”

Jon opened his mouth to respond, to try and put words to the nameless fear that gripped him, when suddenly an arrow thudded into the snow at their feet. The world seemed to freeze for a heartbeat, then exploded into action.

“Wildlings!” Jon hissed, drawing Ice in one fluid motion. Ghost’s hackles rose, a low growl rumbling from the direwolf’s throat.

They were surrounded. Figures melted out of the snowy landscape, clad in furs and wielding a motley assortment of weapons. Jon counted at least two dozen, maybe more. Their faces were hard, etched with the determination of those fighting for survival.

Sandor let out a string of colorful curses, his own blade now in hand.

“Fucking hells.” He spat. “I just had to say something.”

Jon’s mind raced, assessing their situation. They were outnumbered, tired, and caught in the open. But there was something else, too. That creeping dread he’d felt earlier hadn’t dissipated. If anything, it had intensified.

As the wildlings closed in, weapons raised, Jon couldn’t shake the feeling that this ambush was only the beginning of their troubles. Whatever dark presence had been stalking them was still out there, watching, waiting for its moment to strike.

Jon’s mind raced, his instincts honed by countless battles taking over. In a heartbeat, he made his decision. There was no time for diplomacy, no chance for surrender. They would have to fight their way out.

Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Jon reached deep within himself, calling upon the power that had become a part of him since his friend’s arrival in this world. Ice erupted into brilliant blue flames.

The sudden appearance of the flaming sword caught their attackers off guard, their eyes widening in shock and fear. All except Sandor, who, having seen this before, immediately dropped low to the ground.

With a wordless cry that was equal parts defiance and determination, Jon swept the blazing blade in a wide arc. A wave of sapphire flame roared outward, expanding rapidly towards the encircling wildlings. The air crackled with heat and power, the snow at Jon’s feet instantly vaporizing.

Most of the wildling archers, caught by surprise, loosed their arrows in panic. The blue flames consumed the projectiles mid-flight, reducing them to ash in an instant. The wave of fire continued unabated, washing over the archers themselves. Their screams of agony pierced the air as they dropped to the ground, rolling in the snow in a desperate attempt to extinguish the magical flames.

The battlefield was transformed in seconds. Where there had been an orderly ambush, now there was chaos. Some wildlings fled in terror, while others stood frozen in disbelief at the display of power before them.

Sandor rose to his feet, his sword at the ready, a grim smile on his scarred face.

“Well, Stark.” He growled. “That’s one way to even the odds.”

Ghost, unperturbed by the flames, stood ready at Jon’s side, teeth bared at any wildling who dared approach.

Jon stood in the center of the carnage, Ice blazing in his hands, its blue light reflecting in his determined eyes. He knew the battle had only just begun. Some of the wildlings were regrouping, their initial shock wearing off. And beyond them, that oppressive presence still lingered, watching, waiting.

With a grim set to his jaw, Jon readied himself for the next wave of attack. The true test was only beginning.

“Wait!” A man called out, his voice carrying across the snow-covered expanse.

The battlefield froze in an uneasy tableau, the wildlings hesitating between fight and flight. From among their ranks, a large figure stepped forward, his presence commanding immediate attention.

Jon kept Ice raised, its blue flames casting an eerie glow over the scene, but he held his position, curious about this unexpected turn of events. Sandor remained tense beside him, sword at the ready.

One of the archers, a redhead with her bow still half-drawn, turned to the man who had spoken.

“Tormund.” She said, her voice a mix of confusion and frustration. “Why are you stopping us? We have them outnumbered!”

The man called Tormund— a man with a broad chest, massive belly and a beard as white as snow— stepped closer. His eyes never left Jon, a mix of wariness and something that looked almost like hope in his gaze.

“Think, Ygritte.” Tormund replied, his voice gruff but calm. “This man wields fire like it’s a part of him. Have you ever seen the like?”

Murmurs rippled through the wildling ranks as they considered his words. Tormund continued, addressing his people but keeping his eyes fixed on Jon.

“We need all the fire we can get.” He declared. “Southern kneeler or not, a man with power like that could be the difference between life and death for our people.”

Jon lowered Ice slightly, though the blade continued to burn. He exchanged a quick glance with Sandor, who looked as surprised as he felt at this turn of events.

“What are you proposing?” Jon called out, his voice cautious but clear.

Tormund took another step forward, hands spread wide in a gesture that was part peace offering, part challenge. “I’m proposing we talk, fire-wielder. Our true enemy isn’t south of the Wall anymore. It’s out there in the cold, and it’s coming for all of us.”

The tension in the air was palpable as both sides waited to see how Jon would respond. The fate of many could hinge on his next words.

“Why’re you lot so far from the fighting?” Sandor growled, his scarred face twisted in a sneer. “Bunch of bloody cowards, are you?”

The tension in the air suddenly spiked as Sandor’s accusation hung between them. His words, blunt and undiplomatic as ever, cut through the uneasy truce. The reaction from the wildlings was immediate and fierce. Angry shouts erupted, and several raised their weapons again, ready to fight. The fragile peace teetered on the brink of collapse.

Amidst the chaos, one voice rang out clearer than the rest, driven by indignation.

“Cowards?! We had to protect Tormund while he blew the Horn of Winter! Without us, the Wall would never have fallen!”

The revelation hit Jon like a physical blow. He whirled to face Tormund, his own weapon raised once more. The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity— the destroyed section of the Wall, the invading wildling army, it all traced back to the man standing before him.

“You…” Jon said, his voice low and dangerous, eyes blazing with a mix of anger and disbelief. “You’re the one responsible for bringing down the Wall? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

The air around Jon seemed to crackle with energy, the temperature dropping even further as his fury built. Ghost growled low, picking up on his master’s emotions.

“You’ve endangered the entire Seven Kingdoms.” Jon continued, his voice rising.

“Thousands will die because of your actions. The realms of men left defenseless against…” He trailed off, remembering the nameless dread that had been haunting them.

Tormund stood his ground, meeting Jon’s gaze unflinchingly. The wildling leader’s face was a mask of grim determination, but there was something else there too— a hint of desperation, perhaps even regret.

“And what about us, then, southerner?” The redhead— Ygritte— said what everyone else was thinking. “Were supposed to wait for our deaths? You’re all the same…”

The fragile alliance they had just forged now hung by a thread. The wildlings tensed, ready for a fight, while Sandor shifted his stance, prepared to back Jon if it came to blows.

The next few moments would determine whether they would face the coming threat as allies or enemies. Jon’s hand tightened on Ice’s hilt as he waited for Tormund’s response, the weight of the Seven Kingdoms’ fate seeming to rest on this precarious moment.

The tension in the air was palpable, blades half-drawn and harsh words on the brink of spilling over into violence. But Jon’s focus suddenly shifted, his senses alert to something beyond the immediate conflict. That oppressive presence he’d been feeling was back, stronger than ever.

Too close.

“Stark, get it together!” Sandor barked, noticing Jon’s distraction. “This isn’t the time to lose your concentration.”

Jon shook his head, his eyes clearing as he made a decision. With deliberate steps, he walked directly up to Tormund, ignoring the wildlings who quickly pointed their weapons at his throat. Ghost padded silently behind him, a white shadow ready to strike if needed.

Meeting Tormund’s gaze unflinchingly, Jon spoke with quiet intensity. “You’re going to follow me now.”

Ygritte’s laugh was loud and incredulous. “Join forces? Why in the frozen hells would we let a southern kneeler lead us anywhere?”

Jon’s response was immediate and unsettling. He pointed off into the distance, in a direction that seemed to make everyone else’s blood freeze. “Because of what’s out there. I can feel it. It’s watching us. We’re going to kill it.”

A hush fell over the group. Tormund’s eyes widened in shock and then narrowed with interest. The other wildlings exchanged uneasy glances, their weapons lowering slightly.

“You can sense it?” Tormund asked, his voice low and serious. “The cold ones?”

Jon nodded grimly. “I don’t know what they are, but I can feel their presence. They’re watching us, waiting for us to destroy each other so they can pick off the survivors.”

Tormund stared at Jon for a long moment, assessing him. Then, unexpectedly, he threw back his head and let out a booming laugh.

“Maybe a fire-wielder can do what the rest of us couldn’t.” He said, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.”

He turned to his people. “Listen up! We’re joining forces with the fire-wielder and his friends. Any objections?”

There were grumbles and uncertain looks, but no outright challenges. The wildlings recognized the gravity of the situation.

“What’s your name?”

“Jon Stark.”

“Stark, is it..?” Tormund said, seemingly confirming something to himself, before he clapped Jon on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. “Lead on then, Jon Stark. Show us this enemy of yours, and let’s see if your fire can melt the heart of winter itself.”

As the unlikely alliance prepared to move out, Jon caught Sandor’s eye. The Hound looked thoroughly uncomfortable with the entire situation but gave a grudging nod of approval.

With renewed purpose, Jon set off in the direction of the presence he felt, the wildlings falling in behind him. They were marching towards an unknown danger, but for the first time since the Wall fell, there was a flicker of hope in the cold northern air.