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***
- We must strike now, while the army of the dead is on the Isthmus,' Lord Tarly said, and his son Deacon nodded in agreement. - At the moment the Wychs are pinned down on the Kingsroad and their numbers play against them. We must strike now, before they kill all the northerners on the road and break out into the Riverlands. After that, they'll be much harder to deal with.
- Aren't the Wychs trying to take Serovodje or other settlements on the Isthmus? - Varis asked.
- It's hard to say, as we have no idea where the locals live,' Randyll replied. - And only Lord Reed knows where Serovodje is. It may well be that all of Isthmus has already been taken by the Wychs, if they've managed to get through the swamps.
- Our troops wouldn't have time to reach the Riverlands, let alone the Isthmus,' Grey Worm said. - Besides, as I understand it, our numbers won't make any difference on that road.
- I agree,' said Theon Greyjoy, who usually preferred to remain silent. - The path is narrow, and our troops will be stretched out for miles. Not to mention that we really won't have time to reach the Isthmus that quickly. By then, the Wychs will be pouring into the Riverlands. Squads of them have already been spotted in the Tully lands, and it's only a matter of time before they flood in.
- Men and horses won't have time,' Lord Tarly said, not denying the obvious. - But the dragons will.
The eyes of those present turned to Daenerys Targaryen, who listened attentively to her military advisers while feeling the anxiety rising in her soul. All too often today she had heard a word that had been on her mind for a long time. Ever since the day she had dreamed of the Northmen and their king.
Isthmus.
- What do you propose, Lord Tarly? - The queen asked.
- Send dragons to the Isthmus and burn the hell out of it,' Renydill said bluntly. - We know that fire is one of the few things that can kill Wychs, so we must use it.
- But the Northmen could be hit,' Lord Varys objected.
- Acceptable casualties,' Deacon Tarly said.
- Acceptable?! - Spider was indignant.
- Yes, acceptable,' Randyll seconded his son's opinion. - In case you haven't realised, Lord Varis, we are in a war of annihilation. The enemy takes no prisoners, does not negotiate, he kills all living things, even birds and squirrels. In such circumstances, the loss of a handful of northerners is an acceptable price. I'm sure their king, if he were here, would agree with me. When the survival of millions of people is at stake, thousands must be sacrificed.
We will never forgive! And we will never forget!
The words of the King of the North rattled in Daenerys's mind, drowning out the voices of those who spoke. What was the reason for such hatred? Were the current events connected to the dream that had so frightened the Mother of Dragons? If so, in what way?
Could it be that if she sends dragons to the Isthmus and they burn the Viht with the Northmen, the latter will hate the Stormborn and prefer to die rather than swear allegiance to her? Or maybe it is the other way round? What will happen if Daenerys does not send her fire-breathing children, and then the Wychs will be able to freely kill all the Northmen and make them part of their army? Could it be that it is for inaction at such a desperate moment that the Northerners will hate the Southerners along with their queen?
How to understand what to do when the wrong choice could lead to dire results? And why, just when the Targaryens need Lord Tyrion's advice, did the Lannisters leave the capital to prepare for an invasion? And while Jaime Lannister's departure was welcome, the queen was dismayed by the Imp's absence. Despite Lord Varys' pleas, Tyrion left with his brother, which frightened Daenerys to her knees.
Kingslayer. The man who murdered her father. The brother who killed his sister. How many lives had he cut short and how many more would he cut short? Will Daenerys herself be the one to bring the count of Lannister's murdered royalty to three? To be honest, the Stormborn did not want to know.
- What say you, Your Grace? - Randyll Tarly turned to her as those present waited patiently for her decision.
They want to put it all on me, Targaryen realised. No matter what happens next, no matter how the public reacts to her actions, she will have only herself to blame. Yes, Lord Tarly had suggested the idea of using dragons, but the queen would be the one to decide whether or not to follow that advice. But she's not just anyone. She is Daenerys Targaryen, Stormborn, Mother of Dragons. She is not afraid of decisions, whether they are right or wrong.
- The dragons obey only me,' Targaryen finally said. - Without me, they will do nothing. Missandei?
- My queen,' the former slave girl stepped closer.
- Have my clothes prepared for me,' Daenerys ordered. - I will go to the Isthmus myself. Until I see it for myself, I will not make a decision.
- Your Grace, it could be very dangerous,' Margaery Tyrell tried to dissuade her. While the council of war had been going on, the girl had kept silent, for she understood nothing about such things. But now, seeing how unwise the queen wanted to do, Margaery decided to intervene. - If anything should happen to you...
- I have made my decision,' Daenerys stopped the argument before it could begin. She already knew all the words that were going to be said to her. That without her, the dragons would fall out of submission. And that the kingdom had no heir to sit on the throne after her. The girl had heard it all many times before, and she had no desire to hear it again.
Swallowing the words that were tearing from her tongue, Margaery stepped back. Lately Tyrell had felt unwanted, even forgotten. Queen Daenerys' servants cared nothing for her, the Unsullied looked at her as if she were nothing. The Dothraki were repulsive. In fact, even the queen herself didn't care much for her allies, and she was much more focused on the Tarlys. Suddenly Margaery found herself thinking that even in Winterfell she had received a much warmer welcome, even if the Starks weren't particularly happy to see her. Here in the capital, surrounded by crowds of people, Margaery felt more abandoned and alone than ever.
As Daenerys left the hall and the councillors followed her, Tyrell mentally vowed to herself that if she could survive the war, she would return to Highgarden and never come to the capital again. She had had enough of life in King's Landing and had no intention of living here any longer. The Rose of Highgarden belonged in the Expanse, not in the stinking pit they called the capital.
A few hours later, the three dragons soared over the capital, and only the keenest eye could spot the tiny figure in white sitting on the black dragon, the largest of the three. Making a circle over the King's Harbour, the monsters swept north.
Standing on the balcony and looking at the three distant dots, Margaery Tyrell felt uneasy for some reason. It seemed to the girl that something irreparable was about to happen. Something so terrible that the consequences would be felt even through the ages.
***
John walked stubbornly forward, trudging through the snowdrifts, feeling the gaze of Durnevir behind him. There, ahead, was a magic that not even an ancient dragon could overcome. Like an invisible barrier, it stood in the way of the guest from the other world, so there was no escape, and John had to go the rest of the way alone, but now he knew where to go. He could feel the ancient magic burning his skin. A magic that was familiar to him in some way.
There were cliffs ahead, with a sort of passage between them, and that was where John was heading. The frost was bitterly cold, and the air seemed to tingle, but the King of the North stubbornly walked on, ignoring the cold. He had to get there, and survival was out of the question. He knew from the start that his chances of survival were slim, but Jon could not turn back: it was against Jon's nature, and against Dovakin's, who was always stubbornly forward, no matter what. Every difficulty, every obstacle in his way was nothing more than a nuisance to be overcome or swept away.
And so he walked on until he reached the passage, and at that moment the whole world ceased to exist for him. The frost stopped burning his skin, and the winds stopped trying to get under his clothes and strip the meat from his bones. John did not know if Durnevir was waiting for him, or what was going on, for ahead, in the centre of the huge bowl of rock, lay an altar of ice blocks. And now John knew how the White Walkers raised the dead.
The man's ears were filled with barely audible screams, groans, and roars. Tens of thousands of voices were screaming, suffering the endless agony to which the Night King had condemned them. Thousands upon thousands of souls were trapped within the ice blocks like giant soul stones. The soul of every living thing that had died in Westeros was trapped here, giving the Night King strength. What unknown magic bound the ancient monster to the altar was unknown to Jon, but now he knew what the Night King was waiting for.
He was waiting for the people themselves to give him as much power as he needed. He had to wait centuries, even millennia, before he could regain his strength and prepare for an invasion. There was no hurry, for he had all the time of the universe at his disposal. Who knows what he was doing all that time. Maybe he slept. Or maybe he was doing the only thing he knew how to do. The Night King waited patiently, and his wait came to an end when the altar was filled to the brim with souls and power, and the longest and fiercest winter since the Long Night fell upon the lands of Westeros.
Jon wandered between the ice blocks, peering into their surface, and he could have sworn he saw countless faces of the unfortunate in the ice. And now he knew that there was no postmortem, for thousands and even millions of souls did not bliss in the Seven Heavens or suffer in the Seven Circles of Hell. No, they were all here, trapped in the thickness of the ice, being the source of the Night King's power.
Could this be why Beric Dondarrion had lost something after every time he was resurrected? Could it be that every time he died and then resurrected, a piece of his soul remained here, in a place from which even the Lord of Light could not take it all away, forced to leave something here? Who knows. Maybe a piece of John himself is also here. One thing he knew for sure: all the dead Starks, all the wildlings and brothers of the Night's Watch, all those who had died in Baratheon's Rebellion, they were all here. Every living thing, from mouse to giant, they were all here. In the Lands of Eternal Winter, doomed to torment in the thick ice.
John drew his sword from its sheath. He was going to put an end to what was happening.
Was he imagining it, or was there really a spark of fire on the edge of the sword?
John approached the first block, a relatively small one, as if it had been placed there recently. With both hands gripping the hilt of his sword, he thrust it into the ice, and at the same moment he was almost deafened by the shouting of hundreds of voices. The block emitted a bright light, and John increased the pressure on the hilt, plunging the Long Claw deeper and deeper into the ice. The screams did not subside for a second, but the block continued to stand, and Jon realised that his efforts were not enough to free the souls.
The solution came lightning fast.
- GOL!
The scream escaped his lips, and in the same instant the block shattered, unable to resist the will of another. Sharp chunks of ice, like arrows, flew in different directions. One of the shards struck John's arm, tearing through his clothes and skin, and another nearly took his eye.
Far to the south, at the walls of the Mutton Gate, the castle defenders watched in amazement as the Wycht army crumbled to dust for no apparent reason. The blue fire was extinguished in their eyes and the dead fell to the snow, and within moments the wind had carried away what was left of them.
Feeling the blood freezing on his wounded arm, John headed for the next block, eight more of which remained, not counting the block in the centre that looked most like a sacrificial altar. Taking a deep breath and gathering his strength, Jon plunged his sword into the block, which reminded him of stone in its hardness. The Vallirian steel sank into the ice with difficulty, Jon struggled to hold the hilt of his sword, which seemed to glow, and his scream was so loud that blood flowed from Stark's ears.
- GOL!
The scream did what the sword could not do on its own. Under its force, the ice seemed to soften, and the Long Claw ripped through the surface of the block as if it were paper. The monolith flared so brightly that John had to look away and close his eyelids to keep from going blind, but even with his eyes closed he could feel how bright the light was. Something stabbed painfully at his leg. Opening his eyes, Stark saw a piece of ice sticking out of his thigh.
The Viht army that had approached Old Castle to replace the one that had destroyed Durnevir had ceased to exist, causing the Northmen to rejoice. The people rejoiced, for they had no doubt that their king had achieved his goal.
Slowly, each time receiving new wounds, from which his strength was drained with the blood, Jon walked from one ice monolith to another, shattering them and freeing souls. High above the cliffs, the lights of radiance blazed, the play of which was admired by Durnevir as he soared through the sky. It was not difficult for the necromancer dragon to recognise in these lights the countless souls who had finally found freedom. They were rejoicing, and if humans could hear their rapturous laughter, they themselves would not be able to resist indulging in mindless merriment.
The dragon could also feel Kwanarin growing weaker each time he gave his all to victory. He would not back down, even though he could feel Death's burning breath at his back.
All across the North, people watched in amazement, turning to delight, as the army of the dead perished. Across the kingdom, the Vihtas turned to ashes, leaving the few Walkers in the midst of angry men clutching pieces of dragonglass in their hands, if they had any. In Greywater, which the Wychs still managed to find, the White Walker was surrounded on all sides, and though he was not afraid of conventional weapons, the lake people held him back so much that Howland Reed plunged a spear with a dragonglass point into the walker's chest.
***
The three dragons, guided by their mother's will, flying along the Kingsroad, were rapidly approaching the Isthmus. At Daenerys' will, Drogon lowered himself, allowing the queen to see the Northmen running at full speed on the heels of the Viht army, slaughtering anyone unlucky enough to fall or fall behind. There, on the ground, the slaughter was going on, handfuls of soldiers desperately defending themselves and dying, trying to give the women and children enough time to escape.
- 'Forgive me,' Daenerys whispered, ordering Drogon to fly higher and join his brothers. To destroy the Vihtans, their strike must be united. Soaring high, Drogon turned and headed for the ground again, with Viserion and Rhaegal trailing behind him.
The dragons prepared to unleash their flames upon the earth.
***
Staggering with fatigue, Jon approached the last clump, the largest of all, the oldest. He was bleeding from numerous wounds, his eyes were dark, and he could barely hear his own footsteps, the crunch of ice and the screams of tens of thousands of souls.
- We must end this,' Jon whispered, unable to hear his own words.
The Long Claw glittered in the darkness, as if it absorbed all the light that the blocks shone before they split. The wolf's eyes on the hilt blazed, but Jon didn't notice it. As he approached the monolith, he rested his hand against it, catching his breath. Strange, where did the fine splashes of blood on the icy surface come from? Because of his clouded consciousness, John didn't realise that it was his blood that was spurting out of his lungs with every breath.
Gathering the rest of his strength, John raised his sword, which went round and round in his hand until the point hit the icy surface of the block.
- GOL!
The Nords, who were retreating along the King's Road, suddenly found that they had no one else to run from, for the vast army, emitting a shrill shriek, collapsed to the ground, rapidly turning to ashes. The people froze, unable to believe their own eyes. A wildling gently kicked a pile of bones that crumbled before their eyes.
Tormund kept his axe in the distance, waiting for an attack, but there was no one else to attack them. The mere thought that the reign of terror had suddenly come to an end refused to settle in his mind, and the warrior, accustomed to endless battles, kept his guard up. Beric, who had frozen beside him, also kept his flaming sword at his side, gazing into the trees that flanked the path.
- Is this the end? - Dondarrion finally exhaled.
- I don't know,' Tormund admitted.
But no sooner had the warriors rejoiced at such an unexpected victory than they heard a shout:
- Dragons!!!
Beric and Tormund turned round and saw three dragons approaching from the south. They were flying in a clear formation, equidistant from each other, and in the centre of them was a huge black dragon with a white figure on its back.
- You're too late, you fool! - yelled Tormund, but Beric suddenly grabbed him by the arm and shouted:
- Run!
The dragons opened their huge jaws, and the flames rained down unbearably hot on the path.
***
Staggering with exhaustion, Jon sat down on the icy altar. His muscles ached and his lungs burned with fire, but Jon knew that if he didn't finish what he'd started now, all his efforts would be for nothing. Yes, the Night King would retreat, but centuries would pass before he regained his strength. New ice monoliths will grow around the altar and a new army of Wychs will descend on Westeros, only this time there will be no one to stop it. The Wall is gone, and there is no one to build a new one, for the Children of the Forest are gone, and there are no more giants. Woon-Woon was the last of their people. It must end here and now.
John stood up with difficulty and looked at the altar, realising its purpose. New White Walkers would rise from here, and as long as the altar stood, the Night King would continue to create them. As dangerous as the wychs were, they were but a pale shadow of the true threat compared to their masters.
- Go to the furnace, creatures,' Jon whispered, thrusting his sword into the smooth surface of the altar. - They're waiting for you there.
The altar exploded, and in that instant the world around him was completely dark.
*Breath of the Void - Night of the Wolf.