"Where are you taking us, you savages?" Edmure heard Randall yell, his voice dripping with disdain.
Edmure clenched his jaw, barely refraining from groaning aloud. Was Randall trying to get them all killed? He shot a glare at his fellow former lord, now his brother in the Night's Watch.
Five days had passed since their imprisonment in the wildling camp—or the 'free folk,' as they proudly referred to themselves. Three days into their imprisonment, Edmure, Randall, and the other three brothers had been dragged from their icy prison with minimal explanation, told only that they were going on a small trek.
Randall, of course, had loudly speculated that the King Beyond the Wall had broken his word and planned to execute them far from the camp. The suggestion had earned little more than cold stares from their captors.
Edmure wasn't so sure about Randall's theory. Their bindings had been removed, and while they were unarmed, the wildlings seemed in no rush to kill them. If Mance Rayder had wanted them dead, he could have done it easily, without the need for a days-long trek through this frozen wasteland.
The journey further north had been grueling, the cold biting into his skin and the wind howling relentlessly around them. The vast expanse of snow and ice stretched endlessly in every direction, broken only by jagged rocks and sparse, skeletal trees. The silence was oppressive, save for the crunch of their boots in the snow and the occasional conversation among the wildlings.
Edmure's mind churned as he tried to make sense of what he had seen in their brief time at the wildling camp: giants—actual giants. Tales told to scare him as a child by his septa suddenly made real.
The giants had squashed-in faces, square teeth, and tiny eyes peering out from folds of weathered flesh. They were massive creatures, towering above even the tallest men, their shaggy hair and hides blending seamlessly with the icy landscape. He had watched in stunned silence as they moved about the camp, their sheer presence filling him with equal parts wonder and fear.
Then there were the so-called skinchangers and greenseers—men and women who claimed to speak to animals, to see through their eyes, and to wield strange powers. More stories from childhood had been brought to terrifying reality.
If these legends were real, what else could be true? Edmure's stomach churned at the thought of the Others—the ancient and deadly foes of men. He remembered how they had killed his friend. No, he told himself firmly. For the sake of his sanity, they had to remain just stories.
Edmure walked faster and drew nearer to Val, who was leading this expedition. They walked in silence for some time, exchanging glances.
"Why are we here…?" Edmure asked, breaking the silence between them.
Val turned her head slightly, giving him a sidelong glance. "Ah, so the kneeler finally found his voice," she said, her tone laced with amusement.
"Where are we going?" Edmure pressed, his voice steady despite the knot tightening in his chest.
Val's gaze returned to the horizon as she replied, "We are scouting for the enemy."
The knot in Edmure's stomach turned icy as his heart skipped a beat. The word enemy once again conjured visions of his nightmares—the monsters with glowing blue eyes, the creatures that haunted his every sleeping moment. His breathing quickened as he fought to maintain composure.
Val must have noticed the change in him because she slowed her pace and turned to meet his gaze. Her eyes were sharp and probing, as if she could see straight through him. "You've seen them, haven't you?" she asked, her voice low and intense.
Edmure's breath hitched, and he averted his gaze. "Seen what?" he asked, his tone defensive, trying to deflect her question.
Her eyes narrowed. "So you have seen them," she said, her voice softer now.
Edmure remained silent, his jaw tightening as he struggled to suppress the images rising in his mind.
Val's voice dropped further, carrying a note of quiet despair. "Then you know what's coming, crow. My people are doomed. The Others hunt us, raise us up as their slaves—undead and hollow."
"You don't know what you're saying," Edmure replied, his voice barely above a whisper, his good hand trembling at his side.
She stopped walking and turned fully to face him. "I know exactly what I'm saying," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. "I lost my sister to them. I had to cut her down as she tried to rip me apart."
Her words struck like a hammer, and Edmure's breathing grew ragged. He could see the truth in her eyes, hear it in the raw pain of her voice. The memories he had tried so hard to dismiss as dreams clawed their way back to the surface.
They walked in silence for a time, the trees thinning until only the stark whiteness of the landscape remained ahead. The snow crunched beneath their boots, the sound unnaturally loud in the otherwise still air.
It was Val who broke the silence. "The king you mentioned," she said, her tone contemplative. "The one Mance believes could let our people through the Wall—the one who rides a dragon. Do you think he would do it?"
Edmure glanced at her, startled by the question. For a moment, he thought of Maekar Targaryen, the Usurper who had taken everything from him—the man who had destroyed his world.
"He is half Stark and lived in the North all his life," Edmure said carefully. "I do not think he has any love for you wildlings."
Val's expression faltered, and for the first time, she looked vulnerable. "I see," she said quietly. "So if we march on the Wall, we might face dragonfire."
Edmure sighed. He could hardly believe he was about to speak positively of the new king. "If Maekar Targaryen sees the threat you speak of, I believe he would be amenable to diplomacy."
Val didn't respond immediately, her gaze fixed on the endless snow ahead. Before she could reply, a booming voice interrupted them.
"Val!" A wildling with fiery red hair and an equally fiery temper stomped over. "Varamir has spotted something!"
Val's demeanor shifted instantly as she turned and walked toward the commotion. Edmure's eyes followed her until they landed on a small, wiry man with an unsettling air about him—Varamir, the skinchanger. The sight of him and his pet bear sent a shiver down Edmure's spine.
Edmure walked over to where Randall and the other brothers sat, surrounded by eight wildlings who kept a watchful eye on them. For reasons unknown, the wildlings had given Edmure the freedom to wander a short distance from the group. Perhaps they deemed him less of a threat due to his missing arm.
"What did you learn from her?" Randall asked as soon as Edmure approached.
Edmure hesitated for a moment, then replied grimly, "If we're unlucky, you'll see. We'll all see."
Randall's expression darkened as he glanced toward Val, Tormund, and Varamir, who were huddled a short distance away. His gaze lingered on Varamir with disdain. "That man...he's some sort of sorcerer."
"Skinchanger," Edmure corrected.
"First Men dark sorcery, that's what it is," Randall muttered.
Willem, one of the other brothers, spoke up, his tone weary. "Skinchangers are common here, beyond the Wall. They say some can even control wolves or eagles."
Randall sneered, his anger boiling over as he glared at Varamir. "That bastard holds my sword—my family's sword. He doesn't deserve to touch it."
Edmure tuned him out as Randall began ranting about Heartsbane, his bitterness unending. The man's anger was becoming exhausting. As much as Edmure understood his frustration, there were bigger concerns at hand.
Suddenly, Val, Tormund, and Varamir broke away from their discussion and walked briskly toward the group. Their expressions were tense.
"We have to go, crows," Val said firmly.
Edmure frowned. "What happened?"
Before Val could answer, Edmure saw it—a figure emerging through the blinding white ahead of them. Slowly, more forms appeared, their movements unnatural and jerky, stepping out of the thick snow.
"Fuck," Tormund cursed under his breath. "They were waiting for us."
Val's voice cut through the rising panic. "Run!"
Randall turned to Edmure, his voice high with fear and confusion. "Who's attacking us? What is this?"
"The dead, crow," Tormund growled as they began to run. "The fucking dead."
The group bolted through the snow, the wildlings leading the way. Edmure's heart pounded in his chest as he struggled to keep up, his breath visible in the freezing air. Behind them, the sound of crunching snow and eerie moans grew louder.
Edmure's mind spun with memories—flashes of his first encounter with the dead. The glowing blue eyes, the inhuman strength—they were all coming back to haunt him.
"They're gaining on us!" one of the brothers shouted.
Tormund glanced over his shoulder and spat. "We have to fight! This is just a small force."
Varamir hissed through gritted teeth, "He's right. This is just a small part of the larger force, leagues away."
Val's voice cut through the chaos. "The one heading toward our camp, you mean?"
The group skidded to a halt, their breaths coming in ragged gasps.
Tormund hefted his axe. "We fight here… you too, crows."
"Give the crows some dragonglass. They'll need to do their part," Val said.
"This is our chance," Randall hissed.
Edmure's jaw tightened, and he furiously whispered back, "No, Randall! Are you mad?!"
Randall didn't respond, but Edmure could see the gleam of desperation in his eyes. Edmure's gut twisted as he realized what Randall was about to do.
The moment Randall was armed, he lunged at the nearest wildling, knocking him off balance. Two of the other brothers, emboldened by his actions, followed suit, swinging their fists at their captors.
The wildlings stumbled, caught off guard by the sudden attack. Val's voice rang out, furious: "Let the crows go! Let them run, the fools!"
Edmure and Willem remained frozen, their eyes locked not on the chaos around them but on the advancing silhouettes in the blinding white storm. The dead were closer now, grotesque forms moving with horrifying purpose.
"You fools," Edmure muttered under his breath as he watched Randall and the others sprint away into the swirling snow.
A tense silence settled over the group. The only sounds were the howling wind and the crunch of snow beneath their feet. Edmure's pulse pounded in his ears, his dragonglass dagger trembling in his grip.
Then, it began.
A bloodcurdling scream tore through the stillness—a sound of pure agony. Edmure's breath caught in his throat as he heard another scream, then another.
"Randall…" Edmure whispered, his heart sinking.
The distant cries of the dying filled the air, carried on the wind. They were inhuman, the kind of sounds that linger long after they're gone. Edmure's stomach churned as he imagined the dead ripping the men apart, dragging their lifeless bodies back to whatever master they served.
Val's piercing blue eyes locked onto Edmure and Willem, her voice sharp and unyielding. "Are you planning on running too?"
Edmure shook his head, though his heart thundered in his chest. Willem, standing beside him, gave a hesitant but firm nod.
"Good." Val thrust a knife into Edmure's hand. Its jagged edge felt strangely light. "It's made of glitterglass—it kills the dead," she said simply, before turning to ready her own weapons.
Edmure looked at the knife. Glitterglass, Val had called it—it reminded him of obsidian. Dragonglass, some called it.
They moved quickly, forming a rough circle. Tormund barked orders, his deep voice cutting through the howling wind. "Stay close! Don't let them separate you!"
Edmure glanced at Willem, whose knuckles were white around his dragonglass knife. The terror in Willem's eyes mirrored his own.
The storm intensified, and through the thick, blinding snow, the dead emerged. Some were fresh, their faces frozen in expressions of agony; others were decayed husks, little more than skeletons held together by malevolent magic. Their eyes glowed an unnatural blue, a sight that sent shivers down Edmure's spine.
The first clash was chaos. A wildling struck first with a roar, bringing his axe down on one of the dead. The creature crumpled, but another was already upon him, its bony fingers clawing at his throat. Tormund swung his sword in a savage arc, shattering its head into a spray of ice and bone.
Edmure stood frozen.
"Move, crow!" Val's voice snapped him out of his paralysis.
Edmure raised his dragonglass knife as one of the dead lunged at him. He struck blindly, the blade sinking into its chest. The creature let out a screech as it shattered into icy shards. The rush of victory was brief, as another undead creature loomed before him, its skeletal hand reaching for his throat.
Val appeared suddenly, slashing the creature's arm off before driving her blade into its head. "Stick together!" she yelled. Then she cried out as another undead tackled her from behind.
"Val!" Edmure shouted, fear forgotten, rushing to her aid. He drove his knife into the back of the creature pinning her, throwing it off. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her away from the fray of approaching dead.
"What are you doing?" she snapped, trying to wrench herself free. "Let me go!"
"Why are you attacking me, woman?" Edmure yelled back, but his words were cut off as the ground beneath them gave way. They tumbled down a small snowy ledge, landing in a heap with Edmure on top of her.
"Get off me!" Val growled, shoving him aside.
Edmure rolled off, panting. They both scrambled to their feet, brushing the snow off themselves. "I was trying to help!" he said indignantly.
"I didn't need your help!" she shot back, but her glare softened as they heard the sounds of battle still raging above. Without another word, they ran back toward the fight.
The undead pressed relentlessly, their glowing blue eyes cutting through the blinding snow like ghostly beacons.
They seemed endless. Four wildlings fell, screaming as the icy claws of the undead tore through flesh and bone. Their bodies collapsed into the snow, adding to the growing carnage. Varamir the skinchanger fought atop his giant bear, but his life ended when one of the dead climbed onto the bear from behind, biting into his throat. Edmure watched as he fell to the ground, the bear dying along with him.
The tide of undead surged. Edmure swung his dragonglass knife desperately, but the sheer number of attackers overwhelmed him. He stumbled, falling into the snow as a skeletal hand reached for his throat. His eyes darted around frantically, landing on the still form of Varamir and his bear. Clutched in Varamir's lifeless grip was Randall Tarly's ancestral blade—Heartsbane.
With a surge of adrenaline, Edmure lunged forward, prying the Valyrian steel sword from Varamir's cold hands. He swung it with both rage and desperation. The blade cleaved through the undead with ease, cutting through bone and sinew as though they were nothing. The dead fell before him, their monstrous forms crumbling into heaps of bone.
"Kill them all, One Arm!" Tormund roared, his booming voice cutting through the chaos. His grin was feral, even in the face of death. "Show them what you crows are made of!"
Edmure felt like he was in a trance as he cut down the dead around him. Soon, the battlefield grew silent. Edmure collapsed to his knees, panting heavily. The snow was littered with broken bodies. Val approached, her face streaked with dirt and blood. She extended a hand, pulling him to his feet.
"Oh gods," Edmure muttered, his voice trembling. "We are fucked if they cross the Wall."
Val nodded grimly. "We were lucky," she said, her tone somber. "There wasn't an Other commanding them this time."
Tormund strode over. "Lucky, aye," he growled. "But we've no time to waste. Varamir said it himself—there's an army of them heading for the camp."
Val's eyes widened in horror, and Edmure's stomach dropped. "We have to warn them," she said, urgency sharpening her words.
"First, we burn the dead," Tormund said firmly. "No chances."
As the unnatural storm began to clear, Edmure's gaze fell on the mangled forms of Randall and the other brothers. He gripped Heartsbane tightly, his heart heavy with grief.
He made a silent promise to return Heartsbane to Randall's son.
"After I finish using it," he muttered quietly, his fear replaced by grim resolve. He was the shield that guarded the realms of men—and he would keep that oath.
.
.
.
Maekar, Lyonel, and the Varangians trudged through the snow, following the strange, small beings that had guided them for what felt like hours. The landscape was desolate, surrounded by skeletal remains of long-dead trees, their twisted branches clawing at the gray sky. The air was bitterly cold, and every breath formed a misty plume.
Lyonel and the Varangians moved warily, their nerves still raw from the earlier battle. It wasn't every day one fought the undead, let alone encountered creatures thought to exist only in myth. Their guides were equally unsettling—small, almost childlike figures with nut-brown skin and large, slitted eyes.
Maekar had spoken briefly with them, but they were secretive, only revealing what they deemed necessary. The three that led them had introduced themselves as Ash, Snowlocks, and Leaf. They called themselves by a name in the Old Tongue that Maekar could barely pronounce, which translated roughly to "those who sing the song of earth." For simplicity's sake, he had taken to calling them Earthsingers—a better name than simply "children of the forest."
Brynden had shown him glimpses of these beings during their dreamscape discussions, but seeing them in the flesh was something else entirely.
"We are close," Leaf said as she glanced back with her piercing golden eyes.
Maekar nodded, his expression grim. Lyonel approached him, his face set in a rare frown, while the other Varangians followed closely, their eyes darting nervously at every shadow.
"I hope you have a plan, Your Grace," Lyonel said quietly, his tone betraying the strain of their recent ordeal.
"I do," Maekar replied firmly, his voice steady. That seemed to bring some relief to Lyonel and the others.
"With Neferion and the Seven Kingdoms behind me, we can defeat the Others. Our ancestors were able to drive them back, and so can we," he added, though his own doubts lingered deep inside.
Edric, one of the younger Varangians, hesitated before speaking. "The old tales… they say the Long Night lasted a generation."
Maekar glanced at him, his expression softening. "We will survive. And this time, we will finish them off for good." He paused, remembering a theory he had. "Perhaps that will end the long winters as well."
The Varangians exchanged murmurs. Maekar stopped and turned to face them, his gaze meeting each of theirs.
"For now, we must remain brave. Prepare to fight, to endure. Survive this, and history will remember us as the heroes of old," Maekar said, his resolve unyielding.
"We are here," Leaf's soft voice interrupted, breaking the solemn moment.
Maekar's eyes narrowed as he spotted a small entrance in the distance, barely visible beneath the looming shadow of a massive weirwood tree. The tree stood alone among the surrounding dead ones, its pale bark and blood-red leaves a stark contrast to the gray, lifeless landscape.
The Earthsingers led them forward, their small forms moving with a strange grace. Leaf took the lead, and the others followed silently. Maekar watched them as they communicated in their soft, melodic language.
The entrance to the cave was narrow, forcing them to walk single file as they descended into the earth. The air grew colder, and the faint smell of damp soil and ancient wood filled their nostrils. The dim light from the surface gave way to an eerie luminescence emitted by glowing moss clinging to the cave walls. The sound of dripping water echoed faintly, amplifying the oppressive silence.
As they moved deeper, Maekar noticed more of the Earthsingers emerging from the shadows, their curious eyes following him and his companions. They did not speak but whispered among themselves in their musical language. The Varangians tightened their grips on their weapons, their unease evident.
Then Maekar saw it—the heart of the chamber. In the center, where the roots of the great weirwood plunged deep into the earth, sat Brynden Rivers. The tree had grown around him, its roots twisting and curling to form a throne-like structure. His pale skin was almost indistinguishable from the bark, and his single red eye glowed ominously.
"Welcome, my King," Brynden rasped, his voice low and gravelly.
Maekar stopped, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of Blackfyre. "So we finally meet, you old fucking bastard."
Brynden's cracked lips curved into a faint smile. "Yes," he replied, his tone laced with amusement. "But we must be quick. Time is not on our side."
Maekar's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
Leaf stepped forward, her expression tense. "Urganash will arrive soon," she said.
"Urga-what?" Maekar asked, brow furrowing.
Brynden's gaze shifted to Maekar, his crimson eye locking with his. "Leaf has lived for thousands of years, Maekar. She alone remembers the names of the old kings—the ones who made the pact with the Great Other, becoming its champions and bringing the Long Night upon the world. Have you forgotten already?"
Maekar's jaw tightened. "So this Urganash… this Other… he's the only one left? The last of them?"
Brynden nodded slowly, the roots around him creaking in agreement. "Yes. He is the last of the old kings. The final champion of the Great Other."
"So if he dies," Maekar said, "this whole nightmare is over."
"In a way," Brynden replied, weariness coloring his voice. "But the Great Other is an immortal, ever-present force. It cannot be killed. Perhaps it will take another ten thousand years, but it will find another champion."
Maekar's lips twisted into a smirk. "Well, that's a problem for the people ten thousand years from now. Let's focus on killing this Urga… urga…"
"Urganash," Lyonel echoed from behind Maekar.
"Yes, that," Maekar said, glancing back at him.
Leaf, who had been standing near Lyonel, began to inspect him with a mix of curiosity and fascination. Her clawed hands lightly touched his armor and shoulders, her golden-green eyes scanning him with an intensity that made Lyonel freeze.
"Your Grace," Lyonel muttered nervously, "what is she doing?"
Brynden's voice, rasping yet steady, answered, "Do not worry, Ser Storm."
Leaf tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "The son of ice and fire has brought a child of the storm with him as well. This bodes well," she said cryptically, her voice both melodic and haunting.
Lyonel glanced at Maekar, his face a mixture of confusion and alarm. "Child of the what?" he asked, clearly uneasy. The Varangians behind him stirred as the other Earthsingers drew closer.
Maekar ignored Lyonel's question and turned to Brynden. "You said we didn't have much time. Tell me why I'm here. We could have spoken through the dreamscape, yet you called me here."
Brynden's crimson eye focused on Maekar. "Because I need you to take Leaf and her kin beyond the Wall and deliver them to the Isle of Faces."
Maekar blinked, his voice incredulous. "That's it?"
"That," Brynden said, his tone calm but firm, "and to save the freefolk who are being hunted by the Others."
Maekar frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"Mance Rayder," Brynden explained, "has just been crowned King Beyond the Wall. His camp holds seventy thousand freefolk, and their numbers grow daily. But the Others have set their sights on them. Without intervention, they will be wiped out soon—and then seventy thousand more will join their ranks."
"Fuck," Maekar muttered, the weight of the revelation sinking in.
"Yes," Brynden replied dryly. "Indeed."
Maekar raked a hand through his hair, exasperated. "What the fuck am I supposed to do? My dragon won't even cross the Wall!"
Leaf stepped forward, her voice confident. "We can help with that."
Maekar looked at her, a flicker of hope in his eyes as the other Earthsingers gathered closer, their initial wariness replaced with an air of trust.
Leaf continued, "But we must leave soon. Time is not on our side."
Maekar's mind raced. "We need more dragons, I need to find more eggs," he said, remembering one of the many critical questions he had for Brynden. But the urgency of the moment caused him to slip from his mind.
Brynden's thin lips curved into a faint smile. "Ah, I can help with that."
Before Maekar could respond, he felt the pull of the dreamscape once more. His vision blurred, and the world spun around him. He fell to the ground, the last thing he heard was Lyonel's panicked voice calling his name.
=====
Maekar groaned as he opened his eyes. He was surprised to find himself in a familiar place—the godswood of Winterfell.
"Fuck," he muttered, running a hand over his face. "I told you to stop dragging me into this without my permission."
Brynden stood silently nearby, his single red eye gleaming with an inscrutable expression.
Before Maekar could say more, the scene shifted. He saw a woman with striking features—a Stark, undoubtedly. Her pale complexion, gray eyes and dark hair bore the unmistakable marks of the ancient northern house. To his surprise, she held a red dragon egg in her hands
"Who is that?" Maekar asked, curiosity piqued.
"Sara," a gruff voice called from the shadows.
Maekar turned to see a man approaching—tall and broad-shouldered, his features eerily familiar. He looked like a younger version of Maekar's uncle, Brandon. The man carried a wooden chest, his expression firm but tinged with softness as he regarded the woman.
"Cregan," the woman—Sara—replied, rising to her feet.
'Cregan?' Maekar thought, shocked.
Maekar watched intently as Cregan opened the chest, revealing two more dragon eggs nestled within. Their colors glimmered faintly—one a deep blue and the other a shimmering gold. Sara hesitated, then placed her egg alongside the others.
"This is all I have left to remember Jace," she said softly, her voice laced with sorrow.
Cregan looked at her solemnly. "It will be safer with the others." He closed the chest with care, securing its latch.
Sara's gaze darkened. "What you did is treason, brother. You stole two dragon eggs."
Cregan's lips curled into a faint smirk. "It was my reward for loyalty. The child king hates dragons now. He'll never come looking for them."
Maekar's eyes followed as Cregan turned and began walking toward the crypts of Winterfell, the chest in his hands.
"Wait," Maekar muttered, trying to step forward, only to find himself rooted to the spot.
Brynden's voice broke the silence. "Cregan Stark stole two eggs during the Hour of the Wolf. The third was laid by Vermax, left to Sara Snow by Jacaerys Velaryon."
Maekar turned to Brynden, his mind racing. "So the rumors were true. They had an affair?"
Brynden nodded.
Maekar's thoughts swirled as he pieced it together. "So there are dragon eggs hidden in Winterfell," he said.
"Yes," Brynden replied simply.
Before Maekar could ask more, the scene began to dissolve. Snow swirled around him, and the godswood blurred into indistinct shapes.
Maekar opened his eyes slowly, his head resting on Lyonel's lap. The cold cave air brushed against his skin, and the distant sound of Brynden's pained groaning reached his ears. Lyonel's face loomed above him, etched with worry.
"Your Grace, are you—" Lyonel began.
"I'm fine," Maekar interrupted, his voice rough but steady. He pushed himself upright, glancing around.
Leaf stood nearby, her gaze sharp and filled with urgency. "We need to leave," she said, her voice firm.
Maekar shook his head. "No, I have questions."
Brynden spoke then, his voice weaker now. "You have everything you need, Maekar. My time is at an end. Leaf will guide you now."
Maekar turned to lock eyes with the single red one of the man entwined with the weirwood roots.
"I served my purpose," Brynden rasped. "Now do yours… serve your people. Save the Seven Kingdoms from the Great Other. And after…rule well… change… end the rot this world… has suffered for… thousands of years."
Maekar stood silently for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he nodded. "Goodbye, you old bastard."
Brynden managed a faint smirk, his voice barely audible. "To you as well… bastard."
======
Outside, Maekar watched as the Earthsingers gathered. Lyonel and the Varangians stood by, observing with awe and a hint of fear. Maekar felt a pang of sympathy for the old man, but it seemed he had accepted his end.
"Brynden will pass soon," Leaf said quietly.
"He told me there should always be a Three-Eyed Crow," Maekar said, glancing down at the ancient being.
Leaf met his gaze. "And there will be," she said mysteriously, then walked toward her kin.
Maekar watched her with suspicion as Lyonel and the others approached.
"Your Grace, what now?" Lyonel asked.
"We need to save the wildlings," Maekar declared.
Thom, one of the Varangians, frowned. "You plan to let the savages cross the Wall, Your Grace?"
Another Varangian snapped back, "Did you not hear the man in the tree? If we don't, they'll be killed and turned into an army of the dead—an army we'll have to fight."
The group began to argue, their voices rising. Maekar remained silent, letting them vent their fears and frustrations until Lyonel's voice rang out like a whip. "Silence!"
The group fell quiet.
"You were all one people once. You can be again—against the enemy of us all," Leaf said from where she stood.
Maekar nodded. "I have a plan for the wildlings," he said, his voice cutting through the tension. Then he turned to Leaf. "But first, my dragon. I need it to be able to pass the Wall."
Leaf nodded. "I need to be near it."
"Good then lets make haste back to the wall" Maekar said as they began walking.
As they walked, Leaf spoke once again to Maekar "You must be careful, son of ice and fire. For while you ride a dragon of fire… Urganash was known to ride a dragon of ice."
Maekar stopped in his tracks.
"Fuck," he muttered as things got even more complicated.