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The Dragon’s Hoard Pt. 4

Summary: A dragon and a butterfly on the Wall… and they aren’t alone.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen & Ravella Whitmore (OC)

Warnings: Smut if you squint. Fluff. Horror. ESL, please be patient.

Word count: +15k

Disclaimer: I’d meant to post this earlier, but a lot of things happened. Pt. 5 is scheduled to be posted next Saturday. I hope you enjoy it. Unedited, as usual.

***

The Wall was the most impressive thing in Westeros, he thought. Even more so than the Hightower, or Storm’s End. The rangers standing on it looked like tiny black dots no bigger than ants, but Aemond knew they were looking. For their benefit, he had Vhagar put on a spectacle. The wind and light blizzard muffled the sound of Ravella’s excited screams. He had no doubt Vhagar was showing off to please her, and couldn’t keep a grin off his face.

It disappeared when he tried to make Vhagar make a turn, fly past the giant barrier of ice; she refused. He tried again, but the dragon remained firm. There was a frown on his face when he felt Ravella touch his thigh, so he leaned forward to hear her, “She might disrupt the spells guarding us. Let her be.”

It was said the ice on the Wall served to preserve its real structure: blood and magic. A child’s tale, the maesters agreed, but Aemond wasn’t so sure anymore. Loath of breaking the very thing that stood between the Others and them, he made Vhagar land. As she did, he was able to hear the many shouts of the rangers on the ground, the sound echoing around them.

“Prince Aemond, Lady Whitmore,” a grizzled bear of a man, who he presumed to be the Lord Commander, stepped forward to greet them.

“Lord Commander Rhysling, what a pleasure to see you again,” Ravella said with a wide smile. Then, she turned to Aemond, “My love, this is the Lord Commander I told you about.”

Aemond held out his hand. “The pleasure is all mine, my lord. My wife tells me of the great help the Night’s Watch gave when she was a girl. I’m indebted to you.”

The man’s blue eyes moved between them as he shook Aemond’s hand. “That’s been taken care of, my prince. I suppose you’d like to see Thoren?” he asked Ravella.

As she nodded, Aemond said, “As a matter of fact, we’d also like to take a look at your library.”

“As you wish. I’ll tell maester Duncan to guide you there and give you whatever you need.”

If Rhysling thought the request strange, he didn’t show, acting as if random Targaryen princes showing up on dragonback to read their books was normal. But then, given what Ravella had told him, Helaena’s dreams and the things Cregan said last night… Aemond would welcome dealing with royalty if he were in charge of guarding the world against legendary monsters. That was, if Rhysling knew or accepted the Others were real.

“In the meantime, come inside. Have refreshments brought for the prince and Lady Whitmore,” Rhysling barked to his steward.

Aemond and Ravella followed. Behind them, Vhagar roused from her seconds-long nap, shaking her scales to shrug off the molten snow off her body, and took to the air. He wondered what she’d eat. Hopefully, not some farmer’s livestock.

Once they’d taken the bread and drink offered, placing themselves under the protection of the Watch, Aemond noticed how relaxed the Lord Commander was. The three of them were sitting on a high table in what was called the Shield Hall, a large room adorned by the shields and arms of every fallen ranger who’d sworn his life to the Watch. He looked around, and saw the silver butterfly of House Whitmore represented. In fact, the most notable absence was that of Houses Targaryen and Velaryon; it appeared every House had had a man serve as a Black Brother.

“Little lady!” A man as old as Rhysling strode forward, his laugh of the booming sort. Judging by his appearance, Aemond would’ve considered him a Baratheon, so it was surprising to realize that was the wildling ranger who’d taught Ravella about skinchanging.

“Thoren! How wonderful to see you again!” she stood up, and gave him a hug so tight, she disappeared between the folds of his black furs. As she brought him close to the table, Aemond was able to see the stumps of his nose and right ear. Probably lost to frostbite, he concluded as he stood up. “Meet my husband, Prince Aemond of House Targaryen.”

“I always knew you were a baby princess,” Thoren provoked, bowing to him. “I’m sorry you’ve been saddled with this troublemaker, young prince.”

That was so absolutely not formal. He grinned. “Normally, I’d agree, but now I don’t mind. My wife has grown on me, like mold on bread.”

The man widened his blue eyes… but then let out another burst of booming laughter. “Addam would’ve approved of you. He would,” he told Ravella.

“I know. Ours was a love match forced by complicated circumstances,” she told him.

“Is that so?” he took the chair across from hers, next to his Lord Commander.

“Yes. Let me tell you the tale of our courtship, so we can move on to the reason of our visit,” she suggested with a smile and did just that.

Thoren slapped the table, “You stole her?”

“Actually, I stole her from the man who’d stolen her, if that counts.”

“It does. Wildling marriage tradition works like that. The man steals a woman when he’s interested, he doesn’t court her,” Ravella grimaced. “And, if I recall correctly, the woman who doesn’t want to be stolen kills the man, because she’s a spearwife, as great a warrior as any man.”

Aemond was amazed there were female warriors amongst the wildlings, though, judging by what he knew, he shouldn’t be surprised. Wildlings were the main victims of the Others.

“You didn’t have the chance to kill him, but I think you would, if he’d shown his face. But you didn’t kill me, either, though you had the chance.”

She shrugged. “I dare you to say you wanted me to.” When he shook his head, she finished telling their story.

One hour later, when she finished, he asked, “How many men have you lost in rangings?” Aemond shrugged off his coat and threw it over her shoulders.

“Almost fifty this year. That’s not counting the ones whose heads were returned by the lords,” Rhysling said. “They go out in groups of three. Two are lost in the forest — either to the cold or to the wildlings. The other is lost to desertion.”

“You’re not counting the ones that came back mad,” Thoren said.

“I can hardly ask help for mental breakdowns, man,” the Lord Commander replied, his tone gruff.

Thoren shook his head, grimacing, and said, “They saw the Others.”

“Don’t say that, Thoren,” Rhysling scoffed, shaking his head.

“You’ve grown feeble if you think the little princess didn’t tell him about it, old buffoon,” the ranger replied with a tsk of his tongue, signaling that, in spite of their different backgrounds and views, they were good friends.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Ravella leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table. “I had to. Aemond wanted to go beyond the Wall and provoke the Others. I had to make him stop.”

“She was quite adamant I didn’t go,” he confirmed.

“Why did you come, then?” Thoren scowled. “That beast you brought could burn all the wights they have.”

“How many are out there?” Aemond asked.

“Hundreds of thousands. Millions,” he shrugged. “Eight thousand years is a long time to build an army. Not that I’ve ever seen it — as a child, I grew up hearing of free folk settlements overrun by wights.”

An army that didn’t need to eat or rest, Aemond thought. “I’ll do whatever I can to bring up the struggles you face straight to the king. My lord father dotes on Ravella, he’ll pay attention, if only to please her.”

“But not you?” Thoren inquired with a suspicious look.

“I’m not half as pretty,” he shot back. “I’ve been accused of plotting murder when I smile in anyone’s direction,” he glanced at Ravella.

“Looks like I’ve stung you, One-Eye,” she hid a grin behind her cup.

Aemond shook his head, facing the men again, “I’d feel better if I could carry proof back home. A wight would be incredibly helpful, even if it’s an animal.”

Rhysling and Thoren exchanged a glance. “He could—”

“He wouldn’t,” the Lord Commander gave a sharp denial. He explained, “One of ours… several, really, but only Davos is sane enough, has seen the Others. Said they cut off one of his companions almost in half, head to guts. The dead one rose and tore off the head of their companion. The only thing Davos was able to do while the wight stood there holding our brother’s head was get the horses and flee.”

Aemond thought of it. “Flee? No,” he shook his head, rejecting the idea for he understood the situation for it was. Before they could ask for clarification, he wanted to know, “Has it happened before?”

“We believe so. Some lords have sent reports of the men they executed grumbling that Davos was right,” Rhysling sighed. “Davos’s been on the Watch for forty years. He’s seen a lot. I was surprised when I heard him rambling about the icy corpses with steam rising off their skin and chilling blue eyes. Killing him would’ve been a mercy, but… mad or not, he’s one of us. His loyalty is to the Watch, so we do our best to keep him alive and stable.”

“When did it happen?”

“Almost a year ago.”

“And after that, you lost fifty men,” he made some calculations. “Seventeen patrols gone wrong,” the men confirmed, eyes wide. Aemond rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Would you mind?” he touched the eyepatch, and they shook their heads, so he took it off. Not a comment about his sapphire, though they looked as Aemond scratched at the inner corner of his eye, his eyelid closing and opening over the gemstone, the inner skin irritated by the dry, cold air. “The Others aren’t just killing your men. They are taunting you.”

“What do you mean?” the men asked together.

“They kill two, but one makes it out alive. The Watch is all that stands between them and us. They should be killing as many rangers as possible. They have the advantage in numbers. Probably they know it.”

“The Others can’t walk past the Wall,” Thoren said, unknowingly echoing Berry’s assurance.

“Maybe. But they don’t have to. The Watch of old would’ve assembled a force and gone north to fight,” Ravella said. “You remember the old stories.”

“You mean they’re letting our men escape? Why?” Rhysling asked, ignoring the two of them.

“To do what Ravella said,” Aemond replied. “‘We’ve killed one of yours. What are you going to do about this?’”

“By the gods,” Thoren groaned. “They’re scary, don’t make them intelligent, too.”

“Mother have mercy,” Rhysling shook his head. “Three groups left last week from here. We aren’t counting the rangers from Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower. They’ve been having issues, too.”

“How long until they come back?”

“A fortnight or so.”

Aemond nodded. “I’d ask you to avoid sending them deep into the forest until I’ve spoken to my father.”

“The Night’s Watch isn’t supposed to sit idly,” Rhysling replied.

“You won’t,” Aemond said. He looked at Ravella.

“There are a lot of trees to be cut. Repairs to be made to the castles, men to be trained to fight. I’ve brought a donation,” she looked as Aemond lifted the heavy bag bursting with coins that she’d insisted on bringing. “This should buy you supplies to last some weeks. We’ll also bring weapons and appropriate clothes, and will continue bringing them, as much as possible.”

Thoren smirked when he looked at her. “She looks like she’s come from the Bay of Seals, doesn’t she?” Rhysling nodded, though he made a better job of disguising his mirth.

“Is this how the women dress up there?” she asked.

“I meant you look like a seal, little princess,” Thoren burst out laughing, and even Aemond lifted the left corner of his mouth, so she wouldn’t see. With all the clothes she had on, Ravella looked enormous.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t anticipate the moment she’d get rounded and had difficulty walking due to the weight and size of her belly after he’d put a baby in it. Just the idea of her carrying his child warmed him up.

But her dragonriding attire…? He was reminded of the first time she wore it, of the way he’d almost rolled on the floor, laughing.

“I bet the seals don’t get cold,” she replied, taking a bite of her bread.

“Likely they don’t,” Aemond agreed, still stifling laughter. “Back to the subject at hand — can you get me a wight? If the lords saw one, they wouldn’t be able to argue. At least, I could give them enough proof of what’s happening here.”

The two Black Brothers exchanged a glance. “You have contacts,” Rhysling said.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The Lord Commander took a bite of his bread, pointing at Aemond, “Can’t you just take your dragon and burn those…” he glanced at Ravella and picked another word, “… things?”

“I would, but I don’t know what Valyrian magic would do to the Wall’s. And I’d rather not find out,” he shrugged.

Both men studied him. It was Thoren, the one obviously well-versed in magic, that nodded in agreement. “There are tales of your… great-grandmother coming here. A queen.”

“Yes, Queen Alysanne. She admired the Watch a good deal. I believe it’s time House Targaryen reminds the rest of Westeros of that,” he said, smiling at his wife.

***

“I fucking hate the cold,” Ravella said, embracing herself. Her teeth clattered, the merciless wind cut at her skin, and not even the several layers of clothes and Aemond’s arms wrapped around her made her feel less like a block of ice.

“Let’s go down, little one,” he said, holding her hand. She scowled as he guided her through the long corridor on top of the Wall. As they passed, the Black Brothers standing watch nodded in acknowledgment, enthralled at having met a real prince. The older ones remembered Ravella, and had a lot to say of her late father. “Excuse me, can you tell me from where I can see the Hightower?” he stopped to ask one.

The man jumped at the chance to be of service; he led them several meters to the left. The Brother, who could be anywhere from twenty to sixty, was standing too close to the white edge of the Wall for Ravella’s taste, but she said nothing as he pointed to what she soon realized was the very top of Aemond’s uncle’s seat. From this distance, they couldn’t see much, though the bright red and gold flame burning on its beacon, guiding the ships to the harbor, was there, dancing to the wind.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

She was forced to agree with his riveted question. Sometimes, Aemond felt more Hightower than he did Targaryen. She supposed it was due to his mother’s influence. She’d heard Alicent had tried to blend in with Viserys’ family — Rhaenyra and Daemon — in the early years of their marriage, but after Ser Otto was dismissed as Hand, and substituted by Lord Lyonel Strong, she stopped her attempts. The people who told the story were sure she was being rebellious, but Ravella suspected there was more to it.

“Can we see Casterly Rock, too?” she asked, knowing the Lannister’s seat was higher than both the Hightower and the Wall.

Aemond nodded, and pointed at a hill in the same direction. “It looks better when faced from the Sunset Sea. I’ll take you there someday,” he grinned.

“Good. Will you join a tourney and make me your Queen of Love and Beauty, too?” she winked.

“Of course not,” he snorted. “You know I don’t give a shit about tourneys. But if having the title is important to you, I’ll see what I can do. Right now, I crown you the Queen of Air and Darkness,” he said, adjusting the cap over her head and tying it under her chin.

She looked around. To the south, she saw verdant green and several structures rich with color. The north, however, though as white as to blind, had a lingering shadow cast over it. She didn’t care for it one bit.

It’s a fruit of your imagination, she scolded herself in thoughts. To Aemond, she forced a smile and said, “There’s a lot of air around here, to be sure.”

With a tilt of his head, he said, “You don’t understand, little butterfly. Remember Helaena’s dream.”

I dreamed of a dragon alone in a dark and cold cave… his sister told Ravella during their wedding feast. This dream showed Helaena that she and Aemond were meant to be together. It took her years to see the conclusion of that part of the dream, but when she did, Helaena said the butterfly representing Ravella had returned life to the dragon and his cave.

Looking at her husband now, she smiled wide and hurled herself at him, giving him a scorching kiss on the very edge of the world. She could bear the cold and darkness as long as he considered her his lighting beacon.

***

Three weeks later, a raven arrived from the Red Keep. The words, written by Princess Rhaenyra herself, were concerning: Prince Daemon had flown to Volantis and, from there, to Vaes Dothrak. No one in Essos knew of a similar disease to that of King Viserys. Worse, a new wound had appeared on the king’s leg, though its progression seemed to be slower, a small mercy.

“Tell them to burn it,” Ravella said, suddenly.

“What?” Aemond lifted his eye from the message.

“Write back and tell them to cauterize your father’s wound.”

Not asking questions, he did as she asked, and with the message in hand, went in search of the maester. Alone in one of the many halls of Castle Black, Ravella continued her reading. There was something bothering her, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on what. It wasn’t merely the search for tomes on Valyrian magic — none to be found there —, but something else.

“Milady,” a Brother said. He was too young to be called a man, she thought, placing him at two or three years younger than Prince Lucerys. A boy, she realized, appalled. The fate of the Seven Kingdoms rests on the shoulders of children. “Would you like anything? You looked like you were searching for something.”

She grinned. “Actually… where can I find a weirwood?”

There were several trees around, but none were weirwoods. Oaks, ironwoods, pines and sentinel trees, which the Black Brothers who followed the old gods used to pray — moments in which Ravella joined them. But she missed the weirwood. After almost a month, she felt… depleted, almost as if something was being taken from her. A piece of her soul.

It was unnatural to be so close to where the old gods held power, but unable to go there.

The boy blinked. “Well, there aren’t many weirwoods here. The Nightfort has one, but you shouldn’t go there, milady. It’s cursed.”

Ravella knew the stories about the Nightfort. Many horrible things were said to have happened there. To tranquilize the boy, she smiled, patting his head, “Very well. Any others?” She wouldn’t go there until the day of Berry’s arrival, as the child of the forest had promised to meet them there.

“There’s a ring of weirwoods a few days from here. The ones with First Men blood make their vows there.”

“Beyond the Wall?” He nodded. She shook her head. “Aemond would never let me go there.” And she didn’t want to go. Maybe, if Vhagar were there to protect them…

“The forest’s more dangerous than the Nightfort, milady. You shouldn’t go there,” he repeated, expression so earnest, she took pity on him.

“I won’t. I guess the other trees should do for now.”

“I can ask the others, if you want. Thoren has left, but Haggon’s still here.”

“I’d be really thankful if you could do that for me,” she winked at him.

He blushed and took off, almost running one of his sworn brothers over in the haste; the man shouted in anger, shaking a fist in the air. She heard a light chuckle and looked up to meet Aemond’s gaze. “Stop seducing children,” he warned, holding his index up, looking like a disapproving septon.

She leaned back on the chair. “I’m not seducing anyone who isn’t you. Did you dispatch my message?”

“Yes. Maester Duncan said the raven will take a few days to get there, so I don’t know if it’ll help. Maybe they can implement it on new sores.”

She touched his hand. He interrupted his reading to look at her. “Aemond, I… I know you and your father have a difficult relationship. I’m sure he’ll appreciate your efforts to help him find a cure.”

“There’s no cure for that,” he said. Whatever hope he’d had for his father’s illness was long dead.

“I know. But you and the rest of your family are fighting to give him the best life you can. It matters. I do believe he’ll remember what he feels for each one of you,” she rushed to add.

Aemond looked at her, a fire in his eyes that dwindled as he calmed down. “You’re a wonderful woman,” he smiled faintly, caressed her cheek, and leaned down to read.

She frowned, studying him. Here, he didn’t mind about wearing the eyepatch. Several men were missing limbs and body parts, so he didn’t feel bad about it, though it didn’t go lost on her that, in particularly cold days, each one hid their missing limbs from view, possibly due to phantom pain — not two days past, they were unable to read due to a Black Brother screaming his lungs out as the maester fought to cut off two fingers of his right hand. Ravella felt bad for the poor man. The fact was, the north was cold, and the man had been sent off to cut some trees of the haunt forest due to her suggestion.

Maybe if he’d been sent patrolling, this wouldn’t have happened. He might’ve been ambushed and killed by wildlings or Others, she thought, face darkening.

“Can you make an annotation for me?” Aemond asked suddenly, so she took up the quill and a piece of paper. They’d taken to writing down some things they judged important. “It’s a long passage,” he warned, and began reading:

The smallfolk of the Seven Kingdoms say dragonglass is made by dragons. Their belief is shared by the wildlings. Of course, both are wrong — what they call ‘dragonglass’ is nothing but obsidian, a stone found in places with volcanoes, such as Dragonstone and Valyria. As much as they want to believe otherwise, there’s nothing magical about it…

He paused and they both looked at each other, snorting. He grinned and went on:

Similarly, the stories of the Night’s Watch fighting with obsidian are mere legends. Obsidian weapons are notably impractical…

He closed the book at that point and told her the name of the book. Per maester Duncan’s request, they separated it — some tomes were falling to pieces, and Aemond had offered to have new versions copied and returned to the Wall. This was one he meant to take back home with him.

“Why are obsidian weapons impractical?” she asked, still thinking of the screaming Brother and overcome by guilt.

Aemond leaned back in his chair, hands over his belly, enjoying the chance to give her a lesson. One thing about him — he’d make a good maester, as long as he was teaching someone. She arched a brow when he slid the signet ring off his finger and held it out. He ran the curve of it over her fingertip and she hissed, more in startlement than in pain.

He smiled. “It’s sharp, right?”

“Yes,” she shook her hand, then looked down, trying to find blood. “A big enough piece of obsidian could kill someone?”

“Hm-hm,” he nodded, putting back the Whitmore ring on. “It has been used to kill many someones. Mostly before people learned how to work metal. But yes, obsidian is a sharp, cutting thing that can cause a lot of damage. The problem is, if you give it a pointy edge, it breaks. It’s too brittle.”

She tapped the table with her fingers. “So, if you carried an obsidian sword…”

“Odds are, I’d be able to kill some people, as long as I just cut their throats instead of thrusting it into their guts.”

She shook her head. “The Night’s Watch of old used to fight with it. The Children gave them obsidian spearheads. Here,” she read out the passage, written by a maester who’d served at the Wall:

The Children of the Forest used obsidian to hunt and wage war against the giants, long before the First Men crossed the Broken Arm of Dorne. Living alone in the woods with no predators but the giants, they didn’t need to work metal — something that proved a great disadvantage when the First Men came, with their torches and bronze swords. After the Pact was brokered, however, the Children no longer had need of lifting their rocky weapons against Men, who were now their allies.

Thousands of years after the First Men spread all over Westeros, the obsidian became useful once more: following the defeat of the Others after the long night, the Children started to give the Night’s Watch a hundred obsidian spearheads per year. This tradition came to an end as the Age of Heroes ended, and the Children retreated from the world of Men.

Aemond scratched at his jaw, a frown forming. When he nodded, she took it as invitation to reread the passage. “Please, write there that the Others can be killed by obsidian,” he pointed to the paper.

She arched a brow, but did as he said, using a different quill and ink color. Once she was done, he said, “Come on,” and got to his feet; holding her hand, he led her to the maester’s quarters. The man whose fingers had been amputated was sleeping soundly, thanks to milk of the poppy. “Maester, do you have a big piece of obsidian lying around?” Aemond asked.

The man blinked, but walked to a huge chest and took a stone from it. It was enormous, about the size of her fist — only, it was red instead of the usual black. “Are you going to use it for something in particular, my prince?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes. Don’t worry, maester. I’ll have a bigger piece brought over from Dragonstone. Same color?” he tilted his head.

After the maester — who was around Princess Rhaenyra’s age — insisted he didn’t have to replace it, Aemond took her to the training yard, where the Watch’s weapons-master was training some recruits. Maester Duncan ended up following them, and watched as, at Aemond’s request, another Black Brother carved the stone into what was a spearhead and made an arrow from it.

A gasp escaped her when he removed her cap and cut a piece of her hair with the dragonglass. She watched as it dangled in the air, secured by his hand… with a wink, he put it in his pocket.

A Brother was kind enough to fetch them several fluffy pillows stuffed with goose feathers, and nail them to a tree. By the time Aemond was taking aim, everyone had stopped to watch him. He released the arrow from the bow. He didn’t hit the center of the pillow, but came close, and several men applauded his skill, commenting that losing an eye hadn’t made him any less gifted. She smiled at the way he reacted — so proud of himself, he was glowing.

He repeated the feat four other times. The last one, the pillow came apart and the arrow hit the trunk… and shattered upon impact, splinting into a thousand little pieces that looked like blood against the snow.

In front her, Aemond straightened, giving the bow to a man. “That’s what happens to obsidian. Deadly, but frail.”

“I should’ve used that thing to cut your throat for what you did to my hair,” she growled.

“I should’ve cut your tongue instead, Lady Whitmore,” he replied with a glower.

A battle of words began between them, only stopping when Aemond let out a roar and grabbed her by the shoulders to smash her mouth with his.

“That’s perfectly normal between them. I’ve heard Prince Aemond and his wife sting each other with the same ferocity as enemy knights,” Maester Duncan said to someone, making them smile against each other’s lips.

“That would be right, maester,” Aemond said after they broke apart. “Being married to this woman is a daily struggle to avoid drowning her in a pot of smoking hot soup.”

“Stop threatening me with a good time, One-Eye,” she mumbled, arms wrapped around herself.

Aemond shook his head, laughing. “Your messenger has returned,” he pointed out.

“Milady,” the boy stepped forward, noticing their attention upon him, “Haggon said there aren’t close weirwoods but the one at the Nightfort and some two leagues north. He said he can take you there when he goes out. It can be seen from the top of the Wall.”

“Thank you, my dear. What’s your name?”

“Rickard,” he said, blushing furiously.

“Rickard,” she repeated with a smile. “I asked him to find me a weirwood.”

“Two leagues?” Aemond confirmed, giving her an askance look. Rickard nodded. “Do you want to go there?”

“Would you let me?”

“Most days, I might want to lock you up in a really high tower and have Vhagar standing vigil, but yes, I’d let you go. Of course, I’ll go with you.”

“You can take her on your dragon!” Rickard chirped, animated.

“I would, but the cold makes Vhagar grumpy,” Aemond laughed.

The boy looked down, his brow furrowed. “I understand. It’s bad, especially now that the Wall isn’t weeping.”

In warmer days — at least, warm in comparison to the normal days here —, the ice threatened to melt. Small rivulets of water ran down the Wall… in one of their first days here, Aemond happened to raise his head while talking, and a drop fell in his mouth. He told Ravella it tasted of blood.

She didn’t want to consider he wasn’t just teasing her.

“Do you know where we can find this weirwood?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ve ridden past it.”

“Then you’ll escort us there, as well.”

“We’ll pay you back,” Ravella promised, glaring at him. The Watch wasn’t his to order around. “What do you want?”

He looked at Aemond. “Nothing, milady.”

She looked at her husband. Upon seeing the sapphire, she arched her brow. “Anything, Rickard. Just ask for it.”

“I’m happy to serve,” he looked down.

“If that’s how you feel, we won’t insist,” Aemond said. Ravella was going to scold him for his aloofness when he continued, “But you should be rewarded, as should anyone who serves. Would you like to fly a dragon?”

Rickard’s face brightened. He couldn’t contain his excitement fast enough to refuse the offer, so she untied her scarf, took off her gloves and put them on him. “Go, now. He won’t offer again.”

Vhagar had landed several feet away behind Aemond as soon as the offer was made. Ravella blew kisses at the dragon — Vhagar seemed to be answering, though she stayed where she was as Aemond all but dragged a prancing Rickard to her. Again, he repeated the routine of having the dragon take a good sniff of the new rider. Soon enough, they were up in the air, Aemond’s laugh booming in the distance as he held Rickard so he wouldn’t fall off.

When they came back down, Rickard was a bit dizzy and red-faced, but watching as his brothers messed with his hair and he told them all about flying, she guessed it was more like a result of exhilaration than sickness.

“What are you thinking?” Aemond asked, threading his fingers through her hair when she rested her forehead on his chest, her arms circling his waist.

She sighed, smiling as she looked up, her chin pressed between his pecs, “I want a child, Aemond. I want to see you teach our baby everything you know. I know you’ll be a great father, and that’s just the gift I hope to give any we might have.”

When Rickard met them in the yard early next morning, her body was covered in bruises of her husband’s ravenous kisses and bites. As she walked, deliciously tired after a night of intense lovemaking, she was thinking she’d have to make Aemond quit the habit of taking her into his arms and striding away when they were in the company of others. Everyone knew what he was going to do to her.

Nevertheless, when she fell to her knees in front of the weirwood, several men of the Watch next to her, she still prayed for a baby.

***

As the days passed, more news came from King’s Landing. Apparently, Luke and Rhaena had managed to find a part of a spell to create a dragon horn, but that wouldn’t be enough. Aemond explained it as, “Ancient Valyrians used blood magic and horns to control dragons. After Valyria fell, we began to rely on their training, using command words. But the horns could do wonders. There are reports of a single Valyrian general taking dozens of dragons to the sky when they waged war against the Rhoynar. The spell is useless unless the rest of it is found.”

Ravella nodded. “The Free Cities—”

“We can’t go to them. They’d try to use the spell for their own gain, conquer their own dragons. It’d be catastrophic. The Freehold, remade by the slavers of Essos,” he shook his head. “Our quest must be a secret.” He smiled at her, caressing her bottom lip with his thumb. “At least, your suggestion’s worked and father’s injury is better.”

Just then, someone knocked on their door. “Come in,” Aemond said.

“My prince, milady,” Rickard bowed to them, “Lord Commander Rhysling wants you to see something. On the other side,” he added.

Ravella took a great fur coat and put it on. During their stay at Castle Black, they were occupying the King’s Tower, the most lavish rooms in the castle — thusly named after housing King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, King Viserys’ grandparents, during their visit almost a hundred years ago. Rickard guided them to the horses, and twenty minutes later, they joined the fifteen Brothers standing vigil over… two dead men. Fallen rangers, judging by the black clothes and heartbroken looks on the faces of the living ones, he thought.

“The men you were waiting for?” he asked.

“Two of them, yes. But Black Emmett and Garin Sand didn’t leave together.”

Aemond looked down at the men, then at Rhysling. “You said three groups left. Where’s the other?”

“I don’t know. Emmett’s group was supposed to make it to the east, Garin’s to the west. The other would follow center, use that path over there,” he pointed to the cleared line between the trees. He watched the stumps, seeing the progress the Brothers had made — hundreds of trees had fallen to their axes.

And dozens of axes had fallen to the cold, he noticed, making out the dim glinting of sunlight reflecting on the metal shards.

“Has this ever happened before?” he asked, gesturing toward the men.

A shake of Rhysling’s head. “Thoren was standing vigil and saw them emerge from the trees. It wasn’t dawn yet. He sounded the horn, but stopped when the men simply fell on their backs and a pool of blood appeared beneath them.” Said blood was congealed now. “He brought us here.”

“Where is Thoren now?” Ravella asked in a low voice.

“He went investigating. If wildlings did this—”

“When did he leave? I told you not to send anyone into the forest,” Aemond snapped. Shaking his head, he ordered, “Sound the horn so they’ll be back. They aren’t too far gone.”

True enough, in a matter of minutes, Thoren and five other men emerged through the trees.

“Prince Aemond,” Ser Doran Royce bent his knees. “Lady Whitmore.”

“Ser Doran, what a pleasure to see you,” she smiled at Lord Royce’s fourth son. “I wish it were under better circumstances, though.”

He nodded. “Pleasure is all mine, my lady. I heard you’re wed. Congratulations,” he offered a small smile.

“Thank you, ser,” Aemond responded. He knew the Royce brothers had all offered for Ravella — Aegon had told him. “Did you find anything?”

A shake of Doran’s head. “Nothing. It isn’t like the wildlings. I’d say the cold killed them, if it weren’t for the blood.”

“Are you sure they died when you spotted them, Thoren?” Rhysling asked.

“Aye.”

“—black,” Rickard mumbled from his place beside Ravella.

“What, Rickard?” Aemond turned to peer at him. Ravella pushed the boy closer with an encouraging nod. “Say it again.”

“Their hands are black,” Rickard said.

Aemond bent down to lift the heavy black cloaks, and like the boy said, their limbs were black and frozen. He covered them again, realizing now that the men who’d found them didn’t have the time to look at their wounds. “Where were they bleeding from?”

“There were cuts to their bellies, my prince,” Maester Duncan said from his left, wiping at his hands. He glanced at Ravella, and when she nodded at him to continue, went ahead, “Their intestines are frozen. The hounds have refused to get closer.”

“We were going to use them to search for who did this, but they went feral and bit Little Jack,” he nodded at the man, and Aemond saw why the maester had been cleaning his hands. “Now—”

“I had no idea Black Emmett and Garin Sand had blue eyes,” someone said, crouching to take a closer look at the men’s faces.

As one, they dropped their gazes to the men. They were staring up at the sky, their eyes open — bluer and brighter than even his sapphire. Aemond’s arm tightened around Ravella’s waist and he fought against the urge to take a step back and usheath his sword, because he had the feeling the big one’s left eye moved a tiny fraction, boring itself into his.

But that was a trick of the dim dawn light and a passing cloud. Surely.

***

The graveyard in King’s Landing, tended to by the Silent Sisters, was more animated than the great dining hall of Castle Black, he thought hours later. By then, the third member of the third group had been found — his appearance as dramatic as that of his fallen brothers, albeit bloodless. Ser Steffon Connington’s red hair was a stark contrast to his black garments, but the natural blue of his eyes prevented his brothers from affirming there was anything wrong about him. He wasn’t dead, but… looking at him, Aemond didn’t think the man was alive, either.

Tension growing, he’d asked that Steffon be carried to the maester’s chambers. Maester Duncan informed that no visible wounds were on Steffon’s body, and likely he was in a state called coma due to the cold — unlike the other two, his hands and feet weren’t black yet, and though faint, he still breathed and had a heartbeat. The small puncture the maester had made on his finger bled a vivid red, though his veins were purple underneath the pale skin.

It didn’t sit well with Aemond that Connington was the only hope they had of getting answers. Not when the man could die at any moment — and, if he’d been ambushed by Others, his mind might be lost just like the minds of those Brothers who didn’t speak anything useful whenever he and Ravella tried to chat.

As the days went on, those men had taken to avoiding them, hiding in the first empty room they could find. Including Davos, one of those who’d accompanied Thoren to south when she was a child.

That night, after dinnertime, the doors leading to the elevators were bolted. The brothers standing watch would come down once their shift ended, but all the others would stand vigil inside. Aemond had the feeling the three men hadn’t returned as they had on a coincidence, and that hypothesis would be tested tonight. And all nights to come, until something happened, he thought.

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” Ravella said as he put his eyepatch on. The Wall was freeing in the sense that he didn’t have to wear it all the time — neither his wife nor the Brothers cared about his missing eye —, but at the same time, the cold made being there unbearable. It cut deeper than Jace’s dagger, as if it had a mind of its own and were trying to squeeze around his bones to shatter them.

“I’ll be fine, my love,” he kissed her forehead. “Don’t be concerned about me, hm? We’ll be together soon.” He looked left, eye boring into Rickard’s. “Watch her for me, boy.”

“I will, my prince,” the boy nodded.

Aemond walked out, the door bolting shut behind him. Thoren handed him a torch. “Nice cap,” the older man grinned.

His hair was too attention-grabbing, so he’d braided it and hid it under a black cap of Ravella’s. As he’d got ready for the mission, he told her Rickard would stay with her — so the boy, too, would be safe. He didn’t think the boy would be able to defend her if a fight broke out, but at least, she’d be calmer knowing at least her young friend wasn’t out there. Aemond would, too. Letting children join the Night’s Watch was as wrong as letting children visit brothels. And yet, no matter how hard he thought, he couldn’t come up with a way to make either stop. The Night’s Watch wasn’t in a position to turn recruits away — they needed everyone available —, and the brothels… corruption was part of human nature, he thought with a defeated sigh.

The corridors of Castle Black were empty, not a sound to be heard. A crow croaked up, attracting the attention of the men, but in the darkness, they couldn’t see it. Except for a lit fireplace burning bronze, there were no fires. The crow croaked again, and he smiled, “Be quiet, Ravella.”

The crow screeched, but rested, snapping its wings shut. He shook his head, chuckling to himself, “If he barges in, she’ll tear out his eyes,” Thoren muttered beside him.

Aemond nodded, asking, “Which one?”

“Either,” the man shrugged.

Someone coughed when the air became dry, the temperature suddenly dropped. Whoever the Brother, he was able to control his throat. Aemond squinted at something to his right… steam emanated from a body. Its deep blue eyes were looking around. The thing… the wight… let out a screech when Rhysling stepped from the shadows to stand in front of it, and lunged at its former Lord Commander.

Ropes and knots flew at it from all directions. The Brothers scattered around the room were able to capture the wight, even as it batted at the ropes with the ferocity of a trapped animal. As one, the Brothers were able to direct it to the makeshift coffin they had arranged at Aemond’s request, working to tie it up. Aemond finished their work by lighting up the torch in the fireplace burning with Vhagar’s fire. The hinges securing the wooden box all but melted.

“Send the raven as soon as the other one is disposed of,” he told Maester Duncan.

The man was pale, the rich dark gold of his skin looking sick. “Yes, my prince.

They waited, having resumed their positions, but nothing happened. After half an hour, all of them were carrying torches lit up from Vhagar’s fire, in groups of three. To say the rangers were anxious to go hunting was an understatement.

“You coming with me?” he asked the raven when it landed on his shoulder. The bird’s beak met his cheek, as if Ravella were kissing him.

They searched and found nothing. It was like the other wight had disappeared. “Maybe it’s still inside the ice cells. Is there another way out?”

The man he was talking to — the First Builder — shook his head. “No, my prince. Just the door.”

Eventually, every group returned to the main hall. “Stay where you are. If he’s lurking out there, this may be an ambush,” he told the raven.

It was a fair enough assumption, but not too long after that, the door to the elevator opened, a Brother running into view to shout, “Black Emmett has left the castle!”

***

“Be reasonable, Ravella!”

His shout echoed through the hall. An uproar followed on the heels of the Brother’s announcement, with every man available trying to come up with a plan to destroy the wight that was Black Emmett — the gamekeeper to the Watch. Their cock-measuring battle came to an end when Aemond announced he’d find the wight and burn it. He had a dragon, he could go faster.

It was when Ravella came up from behind him and announced she was going, too. He lost his mind. “I’m being reasonable, Aemond Targaryen,” she poked at his chest, furious at his stubbornness. “You aren’t leaving this place without me!”

“You’re both wasting time,” Thoren’s voice broke their argument. The man held both hands up when they glared daggers at him. “Take her if she wants to go, but make her stay with your dragon. Both of you’ll be happy then.”

Aemond sighed. “Is that acceptable?”

“Yes.” He was mad if he thought she’d stay up in the air with Vhagar, but she’d be an idiot to tell him now, or he’d have her locked up.

“The hounds are gone, too,” Rickard reported. There were some shouts coming from outside. “He took the two biggest and turned the others. My brothers are killing them.”

“Tell them to use the torches, but save at least one wight,” Aemond instructed. The boy opened the door to shout the order. “Where are they going to?” It wasn’t only Emmett, but Connington, too. Maester Duncan had returned to his chambers to find the knight up, but when he tried to talk to Connington, the redhead clamped a too cold hand around his neck and squeezed… before releasing him and saying he had to go, an absent expression on his face.

The Lord Commander looked up. “The line of torches the sentinels have lit is close to reaching Deep Lake. Maybe he’s trying to make it to the Shadow Tower. The Bridge of Skulls can be crossed.”

“Maybe,” Aemond agreed. Turning to Ravella, he said, “Be ready. Let’s assume the things we’ve read are true.”

She nodded. “Let’s hope they are, but… Aemond, we don’t have obsidian,” she said in a low voice.

Rhysling, his brow furrowed, extended his hand to Aemond. “May the gods accompany you two.”

Aemond accepted it, then walked out. He and Ravella ran to Vhagar, and he let her climb first. While he took the saddle behind her, she waved at Thoren. Next thing she knew, they were up in the air, and the raven she’d skinchanged wasn’t the only one in the air. Thoren.

As they flew to the left, still on the south, beyond the line of Brothers, she noticed that Vhagar’s fire wasn’t about to die out. She’d have to come up with a solution to keep it going for the Watch, so they had a fighting chance in case the Others decided to attack. Dragon fire had to be better than regular fire, she thought, recalling the tale of how Balerion burned Harrenhal, cooking up everyone inside.

“Stay here,” Aemond ordered when they reached their destination.

She shook her head. “I’m not a fighter, and you know fully well I can’t control Vhagar. I’ll be safer with you.”

He pursed his lips. The disgust on his face was so similar to the one Alicent displayed at times. “You planned it,” he accused.

“Of course. Besides, now I can see for myself how you trained her. Please, don’t send me away.”

He sighed. “Will you let this dragon close his fist around you, butterfly?”

“If that’s what clears your mind for the fight to come, yes,” she smiled back. “Just remember Helaena’s dream, husband: the butterfly healed the dragon when she got close.”

On the ground, they looked up. Ravella saw the weirwood Rickard had told her about, a single white and red tree in a forest of frozen brown ones. Per the boy, it grew where the kitchens of the Nightfort were. She shook her head. Though she couldn’t see it, she knew the Nightfort was the heart of the Wall — its magic radiated from there. She felt it in her blood.

Aemond drew his blade, and took her hand. His jaw muscles were working — he hated being half-blind, she knew. “It needs healing.”

Her whisper made him glance at the weirwood. “The tree is sick?” he arched a brow. Though twisted, it looked healthy enough.

“No, it just needs healing. Keep going,” she hushed him. It was difficult to explain.

The main gates to the Nightfort weren’t spread open; someone, possibly the wight, had barreled through them. The sight of Black Emmett’s shape made Ravella swallow. She was afraid of what would happen. If the stories were true, good, but if they weren’t… she refused to think of it. Her resolve renewed, she tightened her handle around the torch, relishing the way Vhagar’s fire chased the excessive cold away.

“Can you feel it? The magic,” she explained when he turned to look at her. He shook his head. “I can. It sings in my blood. They are here, Aemond,” the last bit was said with admiration. Looking up, she saw Thoren’s raven watching her, and the bird’s head moved. He felt it, too.

The old gods would keep them safe, like they had the last hero.

“Where to, now?” she asked.

“The map doesn’t show a way out,” Aemond said, taking another look at the piece of paper Maester Duncan had given him. “Can you try to find them?” he asked Thoren, and the raven took flight. “What a terrible place,” he said as they waited. “Tell me a nice story.”

She thought of one, her mind scrambling to— “Thousands of years ago, the youngest son of Lord Ryswell and seventy-eight of his companions deserted the Watch. They made it to the Rills, thinking Lord Ryswell would shelter them. Instead of letting the men escape, he had them captured and returned here. The Brothers of the time dug holes onto the Wall, one for each deserter, and buried them inside with weapons and a hunting horn, then sealed the holes shut. Years later, when he felt his own death was near, Lord Ryswell gave up leadership of his House and took the Black, occupying an empty hole next to that of his son.”

“How is that a nice story?” he snorted.

“I find it soothing that a person I couldn’t be with in life stands beside me in death. Don’t you?”

Aemond shook his head, a faint smile on his lips as he kissed her hand. “Being with you would make death bearable, my love,” he said.

Though they were alone — she, Aemond and the raven —, she felt eyes on them. Not the eyes of rats, but… others. The ghosts. The Nightfort was haunted, she’d known even before Rickard said it. It was impossible for a place to be as old, to have seen as much history, and be unscathed. That horrible thing Harrenhal was proof of it. Its past inhabitants were long gone, but their history was still very much alive.

“What are you doing?” Aemond asked, glancing down.

“You’re a knight going to face a foe,” she said, wrapping the piece of silk around his biceps. “Your lady is giving you her favor. Now I can make justice to that crown you gave me — the Queen of Air and Darkness, isn’t it?”

He smiled. Their moment was cut short when Thoren’s raven came back, frantic as it guided them through a maze of empty, rat- and plant-filled corridors.

The first thing she saw when they reached the kitchen was the weirwood. She couldn’t help but say a quick, simple prayer to the withering tree, “Help us,” her blood warming beneath the many layers of clothes. They heard her, she was certain.

But what really deserved attention was Black Emmett. Steffon Connington had entered the well and was disappearing from view, but the wights — the fallen crow and the hounds — were still there. Emmett’s eyes gleamed blue, an inhuman intelligence behind them, watching. Aemond pushed her away, “Connington’s alive. You must try to reach him,” he instructed. “Or kill him.”

Raising his sword up, he took a step forward. Both hounds circled him. The dead animals jumped on him at the same time, and though he cut them, they didn’t register the pain of the wounds, not even when he managed to cut off the muzzle of one and the front left paw of another.

Breath foaming in front of her, Ravella realized Black Emmett was directing the dogs. It was he — or the Other guiding him — making one attack Aemond while he fought the other. “Use the staff!” she screamed, but even before the first word had left her lips, he was doing just that.

The floor was littered by pieces of the hounds. The sudden redness on Aemond’s hair was the only indication he was bleeding.

Desperate, she looked around, kept her back pressed against the wall. Black Emmett’s gaze snapped to her, and her blood froze upon becoming the focus of an Other’s attention… but he went back to watching Aemond, considering him the greatest foe. Her husband roared when a hound clamped its teeth shut on his shoulder, and thrust in a sharp end of the staff on its eye, but the wights kept coming.

With a roar of her own, Ravella picked up his sword, swaying it madly in an arch. Half the dog fell on the ground, its limbs twisting, still animated. Not thinking clearly, she raised it over her head and brought it down over Emmett’s. She squished his skull, pieces of his brain leaking down his head. She swallowed the gorge and flew down the stairs built into the well, leaving his twitching body there. A raven landed on top of her head, while the other flew beside her. To her luck, the steps were stable and dry, so she didn’t lose her footing. Not too long after that, she was standing on the ground again, and once more, the raven took off.

“I have the feeling this isn’t a well,” she whispered to the one she felt was Thoren. The bottom was so cold and windy, the fire died, leaving ember behind. She put it on the ground and thanked the gods for the quickness her eyes adjusted to the dark.

Connington was several feet ahead of her, and she hushed after him. She managed to grip his forearm, trying to stall him. He turned around sharply, and backhanded her. His hands, so cold they might as well as be blocks of ice, stopped a few inches away from her throat, and lucidity flashed in his eyes, before they became distant again. He left her alone on the ground, and continued walking to the end of the corridor, toward a great double door of carved weirwood.

Steffon stopped in front of the old carved face, and it opened its blind white eyes. The face that stared back at her was as detailed as the one she’d carved in King’s Landing. Every hair on her body rose up.

“Who are you?” the face asked.

“I am the sword in the darkness,” he said, voice small. “I am...”

Ravella shook her head. “Connington!” she shouted. The redhead stopped, glancing back at her. His lips were purple, and his face was gray. The man was barely alive, but he had enough lifeforce to continue to recite the vows. “It’s a spell, Connington! Stop! Keep fighting!” she hushed toward the man’s direction.

She was so concentrated on trying to find a weapon, she didn’t notice the wight creeping in behind her.

***

Aemond had spent years training. The blood was humming in his veins, warmer and readier than ever. His brain was signaling this was bigger than anything he might’ve prepared for. He remembered the night he lost his eye vividly; first, Jace threw sand at him, blinding him, and Luke used that moment of confusion and pain to slice at his eye. Once he was healed enough, he had the Kingsguard and the master-at-arms of the Red Keep do the same, until he could adjust to fighting virtually blind.

His eye adapted to the virtual darkness ahead, but if necessary, he could fight with his eye closed, as long as he could save Ravella. Whatever was happening, she was trapped between a wight and a soon-to-be dead man who was doing only gods knew what.

When he reached the bottom of the well, he saw a gate at the end of the corridor, facing north. A bright, wide gate, carved from pure weirwood. There was a strange gleam to it, as if it could illuminate the entire world — the same gleam to be found to the north, past the snow-covered landscape, though it didn’t seem to spread.

He didn’t have time to consider what it meant, because he found Ravella; she was pressed against the wall, Black Emmett’s hands trying to dig a hole on her belly. He means to pull her innards out, he thought, momentarily startled.

“Thoren, bite off Connington’s tongue!” he ordered. The man was past hearing, so enthralled by whatever was being done to him.

The raven took flight, but Aemond knew it was too late. Connington fell down on his face, just as the carved door began to open, revealing… Ravella screamed. He touched Emmett’s shoulder and the wight turned to him; Aemond didn’t give him time to react, just hurled the torch at his face. The wight screeched and fell, the flames licking at his body and leaving nothing but ashes.

“Are you fine?” he asked his wife, helping her up.

“No,” she was pointing ahead. “Aemond!”

He snapped his head to see what had her so frightened. Maybe it was the blood trickling out of him making him lose his mind, but he saw… people. Several, too many to count. “Help,” Ravella pleaded. If to Aemond or Thoren, she couldn’t say, but it was despairing.

Not as much as the small contingent of Others and wights on the other side as the gate fully opened. One of them stepped in, making the place twice as colder, sword in hand.

“Go up,” he ordered.

“I—”

“You could be pregnant with our child, Ravella. Go now!” he barked. “Run!”

Her hand flew to her belly, a choked sob leaving her mouth. She scrambled to her feet, then held his face between her hands, “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now go,” he tasted the salt of her tears, the iron of her blood, but never had a kiss been as sweet.

He could die. He would die. He couldn’t fight against an Other and win. He couldn’t fight against the other five and the dozens of wights with them, no matter how relentlessly he’d trained. But he could give the woman he loved time to save her own life.

Aemond tilted his head. The Other across from him stayed unmoving, his hold on his sword almost neglectful. It wasn’t made of metal, but of a single sharp piece of ice. Perhaps crystal or glass, but he had the feeling it was ice, as was the Others’ armor.

He rolled his shoulders, and shouted again, “Run, Ravella! Go!”

There had to be a reason the Other hadn’t attacked him. Its blue eyes concentrated on his sword. Its face twisted, and though there was nothing human to it, Aemond could identify pleasure — wrong weapon. Not obsidian, he thought, looking down at himself. Dressed all in black and defending the realms of Men, he looked like a man of the Night’s Watch… at least, that’s what the Other would think of him. He unclasped his cloak — but kept on the light-gray piece of silk that was Ravella’s scarf —, moved his wrist, and took a step forward.

The Other’s accepted the challenge; its sword met his, and a sharp, ear-piercing sound echoed. Aemond broke their contact, ignoring the way his blade frosted over. The Other’s was like a piece of diamond glinting under the sun. In a way, it reminded him of the obsidian, but he doubted it’d break.

It was amazing, the way he and the Other parried, as if they were friends training together. The Other opened its mouth and said something aimed at his companions, his voice making Aemond think of walking over a frozen lake, the ice threatening to break under his weight. It was oddly musical and darkly beautiful, as only a twisting of nature could be.

The Other smirked, and that annoyed him. As he thought of how to wipe that little smirk off— Aemond burst out laughing. The Other watched, curious, as he raised his left hand and yanked the eyepatch off, revealing the sapphire. The Other stood straighter, and Aemond’s heart weighted in his chest, for he wouldn’t have the chance to tell Ravella that Symeon Star-Eyes had fought against the Others.

As their blades met again, his sword shattered, exploding into little pieces, not unlike the obsidian he’d got from Maester Duncan. He roared and threw it away. He’d fight with his bare hands if needed, but as the Other spoke again — his voice was coarser now, like an iceberg breaking the underside of a ship —, he remembered the staff and retrieved it from the sheath built on his back. As he adjusted his grip, a sudden light flashed around him, coloring the sky beyond in a strange way and making him blink.

The Other took a step forward, but halted. His skin creaked when he frowned, staring down at the staff, his mouth parted in surprise. Aemond couldn’t help it — he followed the Other’s gaze, and laughed again. Both blades were different; instead of the metal, they were two light pieces of obsidian. The old gods’ gift, he concluded, remembering the Isle of Faces.

The other five stepped in, swords in hands. Breathing became agony, but he persevered. There was a chance he might die, and be turned, but… “The ring,” he thought. That small distraction allowed the one he was fighting to cut him, but it didn’t matter. He let the Other come closer, press him against the Wall. To his right, several wights scrambled past, chasing after Ravella. It was despair, and not the sharp pain that came from his glove freezing and falling to pieces, that made him scream.

It wasn’t anger, but fear for his wife’s life, for the idea of her smile no longer lighting up the world, that made Aemond raise his right hand, and backhand the Other — crack! —, before he thrust the staff into his side.

The Other stopped when he laughed, head lowering to see what had Aemond in such a state. Blue blood trickled down its side, hissing and steaming. A small wound formed on its cheek, though the bleeding was contained by the ring, which was coming loose little by little. The thing frowned and registered only then that Aemond had somehow wounded it. He lifted its arm to deliver a killing blow Aemond would’ve welcomed, but his sword was melting, as if Vhagar herself had unleashed fire upon it.

Aemond screamed again when he gripped his staff; it was so cold, as if the Others’ very blood ran inside it. A second Other advanced, his friend having become a steaming puddle on the ground, the ring floating over it. Aemond didn’t try to retrieve it. Instead, he waited. The Other tried to circle him, but Aemond wouldn’t let himself be trapped; the other four would stab at him, knowing he wouldn’t be able to see or avoid their blows.

So, he waited.

But it took too long. He shook his head, realizing the Other meant to kill him with the cold — breathing was already difficult, and his limbs were weakening, dormant, though pain shot up his right hand, which was covered with dripping blue blood. The gold band around his finger was intact, but the skin the Other’s blood touched, burned and peeled off.

A hand touched his shoulder. He focused his gaze to find a white-haired, dark-eyed man, obviously from the Night’s Watch, standing in front of him, shielding him with his own body, while other Brothers fought the wights and Others. His Brothers were dying, but the older man touching him didn’t seem to mind, as he ordered, “Go, dragon prince.”

“My wife—”

“She called us, and we’ve come. Your part here is done.”

Aemond nodded. “The wights—”

“My brothers shall take care of them. Go now,” he ordered again, his voice firm, and Aemond obeyed, running after… dozens of Black Brothers, if his eye wasn’t deceiving him.

***

“Run, Ravella!” Aemond shouted in the darkness, from the bottom of the well. “Go!”

It took all her strength, but she was able to stand and run. Tears blinded her, and she was angry at herself for giving in so easily. But Aemond was right. She’d prayed for a child, and she felt the old gods and… she’d left the man she loved behind, swarmed by wights and Others — the tall, gaunt, strangely graceful creatures had to be them.

She hoped Vhagar was close, and that the dragon remembered the bond she’d shared with Aemond. That she realized there was something wrong about the things scurrying upstairs after Ravella. Aemond would’ve liked her to.

The two ravens accompanied her, but when the wights got too close, they left to slow them down. She ran, though everything in her protested against it. It was cowardly, she thought. She hurt. She wanted to die with Aemond, there was no way her husband had survived that.

At the same time, she owed it to him to make his sacrifice worthy. First, because she might be carrying his child. Secondly, because he clearly valued her life above his own. Trying to survive was the best way to repay him. And she had to make it back to Castle Black, then warn his family and the Seven Kingdoms of what she’d learned.

Steps sounded behind her, and she glanced back, to find a wight closing in on her. There were empty holes on his face where his eyes had been, but he didn’t seem to care — the twin blue flames still burned in their depths, and the ravens literally devouring him didn’t seem to hurt. At least, he’d slowed down.

It was then that she looked down and saw it — the white hair, gleaming in the depths of the well. At least one Other had broken through Aemond’s defense, and was coming up after them, guiding the screeching wights.

She quickened her step. She didn’t care about dying. A life without Aemond was meaningless. But she wouldn’t be turned into a wight. Somehow, she’d find a way to have Vhagar burn her to death like she had burned Laena Velaryon. She wouldn’t be a shambling husk of herself, one who killed instead of trying to protect. No power on this world would make her a monster, she thought, finding the strength to go on.

The dragon was waiting just outside the castle. Ravella ran straight to her, not registering the presence of several Black Brothers, including Thoren himself and the Lord Commander. Her last reasonable thought as she looked back and saw the wight in hot pursuit was the relief of knowing that Vhagar wouldn’t mind killing her with Aemond gone.

It would be fast. With luck, Vhagar would burn the wights, too.

She wasn’t expecting the dragon to lower her head suddenly, and close her jaws around her. Her scream echoed in the dark, hot depths of Vhagar’s mouth.

***

The first thing he saw upon leaving the Nightfort was Vhagar swallowing Ravella and a good chunk of snow beneath her feet, before lifting up a foot over the wight running after Ravella. Aemond laughed, shouting in High Valyrian, “Well done, Vhagar!”

He shouldn’t be laughing, not with the Black Brothers and wights fighting around him, but he couldn’t help it — his wife was safe and that was all that mattered. “Prince Aemond!” Rhysling’s voice.

He dropped to the ground and felt the fiery spears cut the air above him. He looked back, saw some wights emerging from the Nightfort burning. He stood up, and wiped at the snow. Approaching Vhagar, he ordered her to open her mouth, and grinned madly when he saw Ravella sitting on her tongue, dripping wet.

“Come, my love,” he took a step forward, arms spread.

She was crying. As he held her, he realized the water dripping from her wasn’t from the melted snow, but Vhagar’s drool. “I thought you were dead,” she held his face, and made him bend so she could kiss him.

He kissed her back, not minding Vhagar’s slobber, or even Vhagar poking at them with her snout and hissing at the cold stench of wight. “I killed two Others before the seventy-nine sentinels appeared. They won, but the wights were on top of me. We must go back and see if the gate’s shut. Come. What’s wrong?”

“Steffon slapped me and Black Emmett tossed me around. I think I have a broken rib.”

Thoren approached, Rickard in tow. “We can carry her,” they had a litter with them, but Aemond shook his head.

“If she has a broken bone, she needs immediate care. Can you climb Vhagar?”

“I ran up the stairs. I can do anything,” she gritted out.

“Can you wait a second? We must go back.”

Lord Commander Rhysling shook his head. “Leave it to us. That’s our duty, my prince. You’ve done more than what was expected. Take care of your lady.”

Aemond nodded. Leaving the men alone now wasn’t right, but Ravella came first. The gate was shut and the Others and wights disposed of, so there was nothing he could do. In the end, he had Vhagar hold still so Ravella could walk up her muzzle. It was easier than climbing.

There were tears running down her cheeks as she got to the ground in Castle Black’s yard, also walking down Vhagar’s muzzle. The dragon stayed dutifully quiet, even letting two Black Brothers get close enough to hold Ravella’s forearms to steady her while Aemond used the ropes. He patted the dragon’s side and allowed her to lift off, to hunt, but the only thing she did was stay there, head resting on her front paws, eyes fixed on Ravella.

“You’re wounded,” the man, the same one who’d told him the Hightower’s location, stared at them. Aemond nodded, but glanced at Ravella. He didn’t want to startle her.

Maester Duncan was waiting for them in the King’s Tower. He took a look at Ravella’s ribs and bandaged them, determining they weren’t broken, but still advising Aemond to keep her on bedrest for at least two days. It was proof of how much pain she was in that she didn’t argue with the maester’s suggestion or the cup of sweetsleep-enhanced wine he offered.

Then came his turn to be examined, and he held her hand while she sobbed, taking in the damage. He had a bite on his shoulder, several scratches on his back, the cut from the Other’s blade — halfway healed, to their astonishment —, and a burn on the base of the finger he’d worn the ring, but the maester deemed him lucky. He didn’t need stitches, and the wounds were cleaned and bandaged up as well. The maester had some water boiled on Vhagar’s fire, and had Aemond wrap a towel around his hand, which was dormant from the Other’s cold. He was also prescribed rest, so he took the man up on his word and asked that they be roused as soon as the men were back.

***

Two days later, Ravella was able to walk. The pain was fading. She could only hope Maester Duncan was right and she had nothing broken, despite the ugly purplish-green bruise on her side, or the cut over her right eyelid, courtesy of poor Ser Steffon.

Prince Daemon arrived before the Lord Commander’s party, but it didn’t matter. Aemond’s uncle inclined his head to look at her. “Reading doesn’t do this,” he said.

“No, but fighting does. Come on, uncle,” Aemond said, his voice husky, taking his uncle to the training yard. “Ravella and I found nothing of use for Father—”

“The suggestion to burn him helped. He’s feeling better,” the Rogue Prince said. “Didn’t it come from a book?”

“A book called Ravella,” Aemond replied.

“That’s very good to hear,” she pressed her side with a grimace.

“Why are we here?” Daemon looked around, frowning when he saw Cregan Stark. The Lord of Winterfell had arrived yesterday, in response to the raven Aemond had had sent.

“Unsheathe Dark Sister and Ice,” she heard Aemond say, drawing his own sword and assuming a fighting position. He stood between his uncle and Cregan. Both men glanced at him, and unsheathed their blades, assuming the same stance. He nodded at the Brothers across the field, and they let go of the ropes they held.

The wight that was Garin Sand broke through the casket, running toward them. “Is that—?” Cregan asked.

“A wight, yes.” Aemond confirmed.

She leaned forward to tell Daemon, “That’s what almost killed me. Well, not that one, but something similar. And these things are coming for us.”

Daemon blinked at her.

“We’re hoping you could take it back to King’s Landing, since I’ll stay here until Ravella’s healed,” Aemond crossed his arms.

“What do you suggest I do with it?” his uncle snapped.

“Show it to my father, of course. I’ve written a rather long letter explaining everything, and as soon as I can return, I’ll answer any questions he has. To the best of my abilities, I mean.” He turned to Cregan, “And you, I wanted you to know there’s a reason the Night’s Watch has had some deserters. Your people would be the first to suffer if the Wall… you know.”

The Lord of Winterfell nodded. “I must tell them to burn our dead.” Winterfell’s crypts were brimming with dead Starks. She didn’t envy Cregan.

“That’s a good idea,” Aemond agreed, glancing at his uncle. “You should urge Father to do the same. In fact, you should have him show this thing to everyone. People shouldn’t be allowed to forget what’s coming. There’s one for you, as well, Lord Stark, though it’s a dog.”

The Rogue Prince stood stupefied, watching as the rangers forced the wight into another casket.

Both men stayed until the Lord Commander returned. She stood leaning against the wall of the great hall while they made sense of their story: after she and Aemond left, Maester Duncan — as pragmatic as any maester — assembled the books they had been reading and found their annotations. He read them, and upon finding the part, which she’d written in red ink, about the Watch of old fighting with obsidian, and hearing the Lord Commander relay Ravella’s comment about not having any, assembled as many pieces as they could find. Leo Rhysling reunited a group — which included a skinchanging Thoren —, and they set out to follow not too long after, using the fastest horses at their disposal. Unsure of what to do, and delayed by a blizzard, they took the sudden red clearing of the sky to mean they should go on, and rode towards the Nightfort, arriving just as Ravella was running out.

As for Aemond, he’d ripped the hounds to shreds, though their limbs continued to move on the ground around him. Poor Ser Steffon was dead, his eyes and tongue destroyed by the ravens under Ravella’s orders, though Maester Duncan assured her he was already dead when she gave the order. Aemond, now fully rested, had explained a contingent of rangers, possibly from the Shadow Tower, saved him from the wights and Others, though the Lord Commander was skeptical, as there had been no way to inform them of it, and no man left behind when he and his men went down the well.

The seventy-nine sentinels, they agreed, were an assumption brought on by blood loss and heat of battle. That made her sad — she wanted them to be real. The Others and the Children were. Symeon had been. Why not the sentinels?

“I’m sorry about your father’s ring, butterfly,” Aemond said.

“It saved your life, and that’s all that matters. We can get a new one,” she said, brushing their lips together. Now that she was also rested, she couldn’t bring herself to be angry at his lie — in light of everything happening, she’d forgotten she couldn’t be pregnant, being in the first days of her menses.

“My wetnurse used to say the Wall was more than ice and stone,” Cregan mumbled, deep in thought, “She was right. Rhysling, I’ll have men dispatched here. Either to seal that gate shut forever or to watch it.”

“That gate must be how the Watch used to travel north. Before there was a Wall,” Ravella suggested, sitting on Aemond’s lap. “You can’t shut it forever, Lord Stark. Might be there’ll be need of it. The Nightfort must be preserved.”

Daemon agreed, “It’s too early to make a decision. Have the castle patrolled. Warn your people of it. I’ll do the same down south, although my brother will want your opinion on it,” he looked at Aemond, then took his leave, the box with the wight secured on Caraxes’ talons.

Ravella didn’t want to think where Daemon would display the wight. She could just picture poor Alicent.

“Prince Daemon is right,” Cregan acknowledged. “And to think we had no idea of it. You and Lady Whitmore have avoided a catastrophe. We can’t thank you enough, my prince.”

Aemond shook his head. “We’re glad to be of help, my lord. We’re in this together,” he offered Lord Stark a hand, which Cregan shook.

She smiled, paying attention to the way the Brothers watched him. Even if protecting the gate was the duty of anyone who didn’t want to be turned into a wight, Aemond fighting them was honorable and brave. She hoped he’d see it that way, too. She knew what she’d tell everyone when they got back.

***

“Can you take me to the Nightfort again? I’d like to take a look at the weirwood,” she asked, and he agreed.

This time, they needn’t fear what was inside. They went straight to the kitchen. Ravella rested her hand on the white bark, pressing her forehead against it, “I thought you were withering. I was half right — protecting the world is too great a weight, isn’t it?” she said out loud, caressing the trunk and its worn-out carving.

“Yes. Made much easier with help,” an old voice said. They turned around to look at the white-haired man coming up the well.

“Lord Ryswell,” Aemond said, seemingly recognizing the man.

“Excuse me?” Ravella asked.

“You called us, and we came,” Lord Ryswell answered.

“I… did?”

“When you saw the tree, and then when the wight was choking you,” he reminded her. “You looked at the gate and asked it to help. You aren’t a man of the Watch, my lady, but you were a warrior protecting the realms of Men then. That was enough. The gods woke us up.”

“I did, didn’t I?” she smiled, glancing at Aemond. There was a faint smirk on his face. “The seventy-nine sentinels are real,” she said, as if that weren’t obvious. “What happens to you now?”

“We resume our duty. That’s what we do. The others are down there, waiting for me.”

“I didn’t mean to disturb your rest.”

“Our rest?” Lord Ryswell tilted his head, and his white hair covered his dark eyes from view. “No, you did not. We do not rest. We stand vigil, trapped in the ice. You released us. We lived for a moment thanks to you.”

“Does it mean you fell?” Aemond asked.

“Some of us did. But rose again. They died when they were dug into the Wall. It was necessary.”

“How come you’re here now?” he inquired.

“You and the lady had questions, and the old gods allowed me to answer some of them. The trees know, Lady Whitmore. Dragon Prince. They saw you, a butterfly and a dragon locked in battle. The dragon could burn the world to the ground, but it was the fluttering of the butterfly’s wings that could decide its fate.”

“My sister’s dream,” Aemond guessed.

“And much more than that. I’m not at liberty to tell you everything. Humans have a way of harming themselves when they know their futures.”

She wanted to ask… but she couldn’t. Instead, she said, “We’ve come here to find a cure for King Viserys. Is there one?”

“No. Diseases have cures, but your king isn’t sick.”

“My father is rotting alive,” Aemond crossed his arms.

“So is he. People like him are uncommonly frail and sickly — you can ameliorate his symptoms, if that helps, but you can’t stop their progress. Everything that happens under the sun has a good reason, as your wife can tell. The magic loves her.”

“Why? Magic isn’t safe,” that much she knew.

“Because you tamed a dragon. The one you married and the one he rides. How many people can say that?” the old man inhaled, taking in her expression. His brown eyes were warm as he said, “He went into the tree thinking of you, child.”

“Did he?” she asked in a thin voice. So much for not asking.

“Of course he did. Your father loved you,” Aemond said, pinching her chin. “He’d be proud of you.”

“I know,” she thought of Onyx, of how familiar he felt even though her father had faded, his second life expired years ago. Then, she faced Lord Ryswell again, “What’s left of him… my mother?” she forced the words out, unable to complete the thought.

“The fallen star’s light dimmed, but it burns bright in her offspring. Your mother comes from a long line of heroes. Her traditions were different from ours, but her soul shall live on. Your prayers will be answered.”

“They always are,” she let out in a shaky breath. “I just… don’t want to wait.”

She saw Aemond glancing from one to the other, though he didn’t ask his questions.

“We never do,” the dead sentinel smiled. “But there was a reason she had to wait. The gods bestow gifts upon the favorites, and you’d need each other,” he spread his hands to encompass both her and Aemond. “You’re one another’s gift. But your dragon wasn’t about to hatch, and his butterfly couldn’t emerge out of her chrysalis alone.”

“It isn’t just a symbol,” she wiped at her tears, a weight lifted off her heart.

“No. The gods don’t often reveal themselves in ways we can understand, but you and your prince are a butterfly and a dragon.”

“I understand I’m ferocious, but what is she?” Aemond grinned, throwing his arm around her.

“Transformation. Change. Incomparable beauty. Nature,” Lord Ryswell made a gesture. “You were right when you told the Brothers that she grew on you — butterflies do just that. This one isn’t any different. It just took you a while to see and act on it.”

“Act on it?” Ravella asked.

“The weirwood stump in the kingswood,” Aemond guessed.

Lord Ryswell nodded, solemn. “You wanted someone to love and build a family with,” he told her, “and you,” he addressed Aemond, “wanted to be someone’s hero, so the gods put you together. Your love has brought some extended safety to the world. Not many people can say that.”

“An eyeless hero,” he shook his head.

“Symeon was fully blind and half-turned when he fought the Others. That brother of mine was luckier than the one your butterfly killed. You sacrificed an eye to get your dragon, however, if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have had her,” he gestured at Ravella.

“I’d gladly sacrifice the other, too,” he smiled.

“Good,” Lord Ryswell said with a smile. “It won’t come down to this, though. You’ve earned your happiness. Enjoy it.”

“But you said… you’re going to stand vigil. For how long?” she asked.

“For as long as it takes, until the Others are defeated once and for all.”

“But—” she glanced at Aemond.

Her husband’s hand closed around her chin, “He’s cursed, my love. He can’t rest.”

“No man’s as accursed as the kinslayer,” Lord Ryswell quoted the old adage.

“But you didn’t—”

“Oh, child, I did,” he shook his head, guilt etched on his face. “If you think hard on it, you’ll realize the truth. I could’ve let my son and his friends flee. I returned them to the Watch, there was no difference between that or digging up his grave myself. He died by my hand all the same. At least I can keep him company in death. That’s more than what I did in life. Your father knows that, too,” he told Aemond.

She held his hand. “I wish I could help him, Aemond.”

“I know,” he sighed, shaking his head. “When does it stop?”

“Ask your sister. She’ll be better able to tell you.”

“Well, since we can’t help the king… can we help Vhagar?”

The dead lord smirked. “Your dragon doesn’t think she needs help. In this, I can’t help — your family’s magic is much different from what I know. Everything your House has was bought at a very dear cost.”

“Blood magic,” Aemond said. Glancing down at her, “We can’t pay this price. It isn’t worth it.”

Lord Ryswell agreed, seemingly approving his conclusion, “No. Blood magic usually isn’t. Remember my mistake and don’t make it. I think that should suffice.”

Aemond nodded. Clearly, he understood exactly what Lord Ryswell meant, though Ravella didn’t.

“Will we see you again?” she asked.

“If the Others breach the Wall while you still live, we will fight side by side. If not, I don’t think so.”

“Do you know what comes next?” she looked at Aemond. “I don’t want to be separated from him by death.”

“I don’t. I haven’t crossed that line. But if it helps, I believe he’ll find his way back to you. He did it once, he can do it again,” he grinned. “Your parents are together. A moth attracted by the flame of a star, trying to reach it,” his gaze became lost, a sigh made it past his lips. “Yes, they are together. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be, unless you want to.”

“We don’t,” they answered together.

“That’s settled then.” The crow said. “Anything else?”

“Yes — only obsidian kills the Others?” Aemond asked.

“Only obsidian. You can use a lot of things to kill wights. They’re the result of necromancy, so those Valyrian steel blades you covet should do the trick and release them from the Others’ spell. But you shouldn’t make new ones, because blood magic.”

A nod. “We must mine Dragonstone then.”

Ravella wouldn’t argue. “What about the king? Since I can’t heal him, how can I help him?”

“Tell me — why is it so important to help him? He neglected the man you love.”

Ravella glanced at Aemond, before facing Lord Ryswell again. “I don’t think King Viserys is evil. I think… he doesn’t realize how badly he’s hurt his children, but he isn’t a bad person. In fact, I believe he’d change if he knew how his children feel. Moreover, Aemond and his siblings should have the time to enjoy their father’s company. And… I can’t shake off the feeling that his death would be tragic in a lot of different ways, because he’s the only thing holding Aemond’s family together and… well, your grandfather is power-hungry. I’m sorry.”

He nodded, grim.

“Ah, that,” the dead lord nodded. “Yes, good reasons to help. Your husband knows what to do. I hope he follows through, at least for your sake. In the meantime, you can make his father better with obsidian. That’s what their people used to make wounds better. The dragon blood flowing in their veins and all that.”

“I thought that was just a boast,” Ravella told Aemond.

“So did I,” he shrugged.

“It is a boast, but not only that,” Lord Ryswell said. “There’s a reason you didn’t lose your hand, though you touched both the Other’s sword and his blood. You do have dragon blood, and dragons like volcanoes. They feel right at home. So, obsidian kept them strong. It’d help your father, too, boy, but I can’t say how much. He’s fading.”

“I understand. It’s fine,” he told Ravella.

“Before I forget,” Lord Ryswell said, reaching into his pocket. He held something out to Aemond. “You’ll have to fix it, but one of my brothers savaged it.”

Ravella’s eyes teared up when she saw the signet ring. The black gold foundation was gone, but the obsidian was perfect. Aemond held it, saying, “Thank you, my lord.”

Lord Ryswell bowed. “The gods have deemed it fitting. A hero should have a reminder of their deeds, and this ring has more importance than all the world’s riches.”

Aemond smiled, glancing at her. “You know, it was given to me by the greatest treasure in my hoard. You’re absolutely right.”

The dead ranger laughed. “And you worry you’ll be apart,” he told Ravella with a shake of his head, before disappearing back down the well.

“Do you see now?” Berry asked, coming from behind the weirwood.

“A little. Not enough,” Aemond admitted. “What do you want from us, Berry?”

“The dreamer and the greenseer,” the child of the forest answered. Aemond groaned, making Ravella laugh.