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Jon Snow did not remember the first league of his return towards the wall nor really his whole journey back. He remembered falling. He remembered running. He remembered the sound of muttering and arms carrying him.
After that, the world blurred into white and black and breath that burned like knives in his lungs. When he reached the Wall, he did not arrive as a person. He arrived as something broken.
The rangers on the gate thought him a wight at first. His face was hollowed, beard rimed with ice, eyes wide and unfocused. He was muttering under his breath, repeating the same words over and over: "Cities. They have cities. A kingdom. A king." They had to carry him through the tunnel.
It took days before he spoke clearly. The wildlings who had bent the knee under his pact were already settled in the New Gift, lands granted by King Stannis in a rare moment of pragmatic foresight. Tormund Giantsbane held authority among them, grudging but loyal to Jon's promise.
The Wall was quieter now. Fewer raids. Fewer skirmishes. But Jon knew peace had been an illusion. In the solar, beneath the cold stone walls, Maester Aemon listened as Jon finally told his tale. Not embellishment. Not fear-riddled fancy. Facts.
Ice cities larger than Oldtown. An army beyond counting. Dragons of frost. A king that bent the Others to its will. When Jon finished, the chamber was silent. Sam broke it first. "An army of millions?"
"Yes," Jon said hoarsely.
Master Aemon sadly shook his head, "If what you say is true then we stand no chance. These are things of legends and myths. We are not the same men of the stature of our forefathers. Forget about the great feats they accomplished and powers they had, we don't have dragons anymore."
Jon was silent, the old man was correct, this was not the Age of Heroes anymore. The time of myths and great tales. They were diminished folks who had long forgotten about their true might but their enemies have never relented their powers and they stood as strong and as numerous as before.
"Sadly the Seven Kingdoms don't seem to want to reunite even with one king sitting on the throne," Sam remarked.
Jon looked up, bracing for the bad news.
Ravens had come during Jon's absence. The realm was at war still not one but on many fronts. For the North, with their lands secured, Robb had embarked on his camping on the Iron Islands. He struck west across the Bite and the Sunset Sea and he achieved his breachhead into the iron shores.
Northern forces landed on Great Wyk and Harlaw with support from dissident Ironborn houses weary of chaos. Rodrik Harlaw had thrown his weight behind Robb. Supply bases were established. The Starks now had footholds among the Iron Islands themselves.
For a moment, it had looked like the krakens would be strangled in their own waters. Then Euron returned. The Crow's Eye did not send warning. He arrived like a storm on the horizon.
His fleet, black-sailed, silent, unnatural fell upon the combined armada coming in from the south in a night assault so precise it felt preordained. Royal ships burned along with the Redwyne fleet, the pride of the Reach torn apart.
So were the Velaryon warships long masters of naval warfare were caught off guard by tactics no sane admiral would attempt. Ships from the Sisters vanished entirely. Manderly vessels sank in clusters, their crews dragged screaming into dark water.
Survivors swore the sea itself rose to aid Euron. Some survivors whispered something enormous moved in the waters. Already tales had spread that the Crow Eye commanded a kraken. A true leviathan of the deep.
Sailors told of black tentacles thicker than masts crushing hulls like kindling. Of ships pulled whole beneath the waves without debris. Of a horn that echoed across the sea before the attack began, a sound so deep it vibrated in bone. The fleets shattered.
What ships escaped limped north to join Robb's foothold. Robb Stark now stood on hostile shores with fewer ships than he had expected to come to crush the ironborn. And now Euron with his fleet was raiding up and down the Reach shores, sacking castles, burning villages, looting chapels, and more vile deeds.
…
Elsewhere, the war burned differently. The Golden Tooth had stood for months under siege. The banners of House Tyrell and House Martell flew together, roses and suns united by hatred of the lion. The pass was choked with siege towers, trebuchets, corpses. The Lannisters fought savagely. But starvation does not respect pride.
When the Golden Tooth fell, it fell hard. The allied armies surged through the breach, pushing the Westerlands back in disarray. Jaime Lannister held the rearguard himself. He fought Oberyn Martell in single combat amidst the carnage.
It was a battle of the ages already whispered about in every tavern and keep. Steel rang against steel. The Red Viper was faster. Jaime was stronger. Witnesses said Oberyn wounded him thrice before Jaime drove his blade through the Dornishman's heart.
But as the saying goes, a dornish always poisons his blade before a battle. The Martell spear's was tipped with poison Jaime returned to Casterly Rock victorious. He did not leave it again.
Tywin Lannister, old lion of the Rock, watched his last son waste away. Maesters tried everything. Nothing stopped the rot. The Young Lion was dying.
The Westerlands pulled back entirely to Casterly Rock. All its bannermen lands were under siege, getting looted and burned as the dornish took special pleasure and destroying everything in revenge.
The allied armies now prepared for a siege that could last years. The war in the west would not end quickly.
Jon took it all in, the seven kingdoms never stopped fighting. They were so busy killing each other they did not realize their true enemy was upon them. Still Jon had a duty, he must warn them all. They must prepare and make their stand. Whatever it was worth.
He tired to stand up but he was so exhausted from his journey and the injuries he got unknowingly he fell back down.
"Rest for now, child," Maester Aemon placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I will prepare the messages for the great lords and king."
"Thank you," Jon nodded as he laid back on his bed.
…
The ravens never stopped. Day and night, their black wings beat against the pale northern sky, carrying warnings inked in Jon Snow's own hand. He wrote until his fingers cramped. Until the quill felt like a blade carving the same words into parchment again and again.
Maester Aemon sat beside him through it all, frail hands steady as he sealed letters with wax and pressed the sigil of the Night's Watch into each one. Samwell Tarly catalogued recipients: great lords, lesser lords, landed knights, septons, maesters, commanders of city watches. Even hedge knights and sworn swords with keeps barely larger than a hall received warning.
"Send it to Oldtown," Jon ordered.
"It has been sent," Sam replied.
"Send again."
"To Sunspear?"
"Yes."
"To Riverrun?"
"Yes."
"To the Eyrie. To Bear Island. To the Arbor. To the Twins. To every holdfast between here and Dorne."
He also wrote to his brother, knowing he was busy fighting on the shores of the iron islands but still they had their true enemy coming at any time.
The most important one he sent south was to King's Landing where King Stannis Baratheon now sat the Iron Throne after bitter war and harder compromise.
Sleep abandoned him. When it did take him, it dragged him back to that ridge. He saw the city again, the impossible spires, the rivers of glowing frost, the legions like ants in the crevices of a kingdom not meant for men. He heard the deep resonant tone that vibrated in bone. He saw the fissure split the earth.
And the King. The crowned silhouette rising from blue light. He would wake gasping, clawing at his palm where the scar burned with phantom fire.
Responses to his warnings came in fits and starts. Some were polite dismissals. Some were curt acknowledgments. Some were demands. Looking at the letters, Jon felt like tossing them into the fire. It was not enough. If they dragged every man and woman up north to the wall it was not enough.
And now the realms gave him a pittance. He felt like abandoning it all. To just leave and let them continue with their petty feuds and self-serving interests until the enemy came for them. However he never forgot the sense of duty his lord father instilled in him.
He was a Stark bastard or not. He had a duty and would see to it till the end no matter how the odds were stacked against him and them all.
Weeks passed in a fever of preparation. He remembered there was one weakness to the dead, one way to put them down for good, Dragonglass.
The obsidian material was hauled from caches long buried in the wall's forts. It was like the old occupants knew as well what could take down a wight. Old blades were reshaped into arrowheads and daggers. Smiths worked day and night.
Wildlings trained beside black brothers. Old hatreds dulled in the face of a larger one. And still, the ravens flew. Jon's voice grew hoarse from dictation. His hands stained permanently with ink. He had become less a man than a warning bell.
It was near dusk when the red banners appeared on the horizon. Crimson against snow. At first the brothers manning the Wall thought them refugees. Then they saw the sigil, heart aflame. Melisandre of Asshai had come.
She did not come alone. A procession climbed the icy switchback road beneath the Wall: red-robed priests and priestesses chanting low in a tongue that seemed to hum beneath hearing. Soldiers bearing torches that burned unnaturally bright despite the wind. At their center, bound and gagged, dragged in chains… was a prisoner.
A young man with golden hair matted to his face. Even from above, Jon recognized him. Joffrey Baratheon. Or what remained of him. He was thinner than Jon remembered. Eyes wild. Lips cracked and bleeding where he had bitten them raw. He screamed through the gag as they hauled him upward.
Jon stared in disbelief. When Melisandre reached the courtyard, she did not bow. Her red eyes fixed on him immediately. "So you are the one that the King tells me has seen the Great Enemy," she said softly. It was not a question.
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The Red witch had indeed grown in power, watching all the apostles with her. He had heard that her faith in Essos has pushed its full weight behind her to convert as many as possible and establish a base on westeros.
There was grumbling from the Faith of the Seven with the High Septon toying with the thought of calling upon a crusade in pushing out the heretics from the continent. This was also another front in which something was bubbling up to the surface and could explode at any moment.
"I have," Jon replied. Knowing it was not best to get on this woman's bad side. She did after all have the King's ear and controlled much of his court. If he wanted more aid in holding the wall, he would need her.
She studied him, head tilting slightly. "You have done a great service, child. Let it be known our Lord blesses you!"
He gestured toward the prisoner. "Why is he here?" The former boy-king spat through the gag, thrashing uselessly against his bindings.
Melisandre's voice remained calm. "A king's blood burns bright. The Lord of Light has shown me a great darkness rising. A sacrifice of this magnitude will stem the tide."
Jon barked a harsh laugh. It startled even him. It sounded wrong. "You think burning him will stop what I saw?"
She did not flinch. "The flames show victory bought in blood."
"The flames lie." Jon did not know what false visions she was getting but it was a whole lot of nonsense. And he had to be frank with her. There was no way they could win this.
Her eyes sharpened. "They do not lie."
"They show you what you want."
A murmur ran through her followers. Melisandre stepped closer. "You speak with certainty."
"I have seen them and their King!"
Her gaze flicked to his scarred palm. Then she did something unexpected. She reached out and seized his arm. Her grip was iron. "Show me."
Jon tried to pull away. Her fingers tightened painfully. "Show me what you saw."
For a moment he considered resisting. But a part of him, the broken part wanted someone else to bear it. To understand. To be his companion in all this madness. He closed his eyes. And he let her in.
…
The courtyard vanished. Snow became endless plains. The Wall disappeared beneath her feet. She saw the palaces, impossible spires rising from glacial seas. The ice forests chiming like shattered glass. The statues kneeling in worship.
Her breath quickened. She saw the city. The legions. The dragons of frost wheeling overhead. She staggered back in fright and terror, and he did not release her as there was more a lot more.
Then the fissure opened. Blue light erupted upward. The King rose. Its crown of branching crystal flared like frozen lightning. Its eyes, void and depthless turned. Toward her. Toward Jon. Toward them all at the wall.
Melisandre screamed. One so shrill and filled with absolute horror the vision shattered. They came back to the here and now. She tore her hand away, clawing at her face. "No—no—no—"
Her voice rose higher, splintering into hysteria. "It cannot, this is not…this is not the war I saw—"
She fell to her knees, fingers digging into her eyes. Blood welled between them. Her followers rushed forward. She struck them away with shocking strength. "I was wrong," she whispered. Over and over. "I was wrong."
Jon stepped toward her. "Melisandre—"
She laughed. A broken, childlike sound. "They are not shadows. They are not demons of smoke. They are kings."
She looked up at him then. And in her eyes he saw something he had not thought possible. The abandonment of all hope and fanaticism. All certainty and zeal was gone. "They do not burn," she whispered.
Her fingers pressed harder into her eyes. "I saw no fire. Only cold. Only—" She screamed again, a raw, animal sound. And before anyone could reach her…She ran and jumped off the wall they were upon. Her crimson robes vanished into white. The Wall swallowed her.
Silence followed. Even the wind seemed stunned. Her followers wailed. Joffrey shrieked hysterically in joy in his chains. He could not stop laughing with glee.
Jon stood at the edge, staring down into the endless drop. He felt nothing. No triumph. No horror. If even she, who claimed to see destiny in fire could not comprehend what he had shown her…Then they truly stood alone.
Behind him, Maester Aemon's frail voice rose softly. "What did she see?"
Jon did not turn. "The truth."
Far to the north, beyond sight, beyond hope, something ancient continued to move. And for the first time, Jon wondered whether warning the realm was pointless.
-
The first banners appeared at dawn.
Northmen, hard-eyed and silent, arrived in clusters. Men of White Harbor bearing the merman of House Manderly. Tall warriors from the Rills. Stony-faced clansmen from the mountains who remembered old tales and had not needed convincing.
Wildlings swelled the ranks as well, answering Tormund Giantsbane's roaring summons. They came with furs and axes and scarred hands, ready to fight the only enemy that had ever truly frightened them.
Then came in fragments at first, three falcons snapping in the cold wind, their sky-blue field bright against the endless white. Beneath them rode armored knights in polished steel, cloaks of cream and blue flowing behind them like banners of summer invading winter.
The Vale had answered. Hundreds of knights under the sigil of House Arryn marched beneath the command of grim-faced lords sworn to defend the realm, though their eyes betrayed unease as they looked upon the Wall for the first time. They were not mountain men now. They were men at the edge of the world.
More came in the following days and weeks.
From the south, forced by royal command, marched contingents of Reachmen. Their armor was ornate and gleaming, their banners heavy with gold and green. Many looked as though they expected this to be some exaggerated northern superstition.
Stormlanders came grim and resolute men hardened by war under King Stannis. Riverlanders followed, honoring old bonds with the North. A small Dornish host rode in silence, their eyes dark beneath sun-scorched brows, Oberyn's death still raw in their hearts.
There also came Green Men from the campaign of Robb in the Iron Island, the very few he could spare. The Crow Eye proved to be very adept at magic and the Green Men were held up countering him.
They came in hundreds. Then in thousands. The Wall had not seen such a gathering in centuries. And still Jon felt cold.
The preparations never ceased. Dragonglass was forged into spearheads, arrow tips, daggers, crude blades strapped to wooden shafts. Piles of obsidian weapons filled armories that had stood empty for generations.
Black brothers drilled beside southern knights who had never before stood upon snow deeper than their ankles. The clang of steel rang constantly. Men laughed too loudly. Drank too often. Or did not practice at all.
The first sighting came from Eastwatch. A raven arrived at midday, wings ragged from frantic flight. Sam read the message aloud in the Lord Commander's chamber, his voice trembling. "Movement beyond the treeline. Numbers… numbers beyond reckoning."
"How far?" Jon demanded.
"Three months' march. Perhaps less." The chamber fell silent. Jon felt no surprise. Only inevitability.
Soon there were more ravens. Hardhome reported shadows in the fog. The Shadow Tower sent word of tremors beneath the ice. Rangers posted along the heights claimed they saw lights flickering beyond the frozen valleys, like stars walking across the earth.
Then the dead came into view for the whole world to witness for the very first time in thousands of years. They emerged from the Lands of Always Winter as though crossing an invisible threshold, a break in the world where myth ended and nightmare began.
A black line on the horizon with no end in sight. At first it resembled a low fog bank rolling over distant hills. Then the fog resolved into shapes. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. The army of the dead advanced in dreadful order.
Wights of every shape imaginable filled the slopes and horizons, men in rusted mail, women in tattered gowns, children with hollow eyes. Giants reanimated, their vast forms lumbering with unnatural steadiness. Dead horses pulling shattered wagons that rolled without drivers. Shadowcats, polar bears, and direwolves long decayed loped alongside frozen riders. Even mammoths, their flesh sloughing in pale sheets, moved within the ranks.
And they did not moan. They did not shamble. They marched. Behind them, rising above the sea of corpses like pale shepherds among sheep, stood the Others. Hundreds of them if not a thousand.
Young ones, slender and sharp, their armor flowing like frozen water, eyes burning cold blue. They moved with precise, almost elegant gestures, directing the mass below with slight tilts of spears carved from ice.
Then came the elder Others. Larger. Their armor jagged like broken glaciers. Helms crowned with branching ridges of ice. They did not walk so much as glide. The very air around them shimmered.
And they rode or commanded their terrible creatures. Giant ice spiders skittered across the snow, larger than barns. Snow wyverns descended from the cloud cover, wings vast and pale, membranes stretched between skeletal fingers of frost.
The ice wyrms tunneled through the ground like living avalanches, reshaping the battlefield before the battle had even begun. Then came the ice demons, large behemeths, formed of layered shards that shifted and reformed with each movement.
A ripple of terror spread along the Wall as word reached them. Men began whispering prayers in a dozen dialects. Some dropped their weapons as if they were ready to run. Others could only vomit over the parapet. Some began laughing hysterically. While a few said nothing, but their knuckles whitened around spear shafts.
Even this far from the army coming towards them, Jon could feel the earth trembling. Ravens flew south before the battle had even fully begun. From Eastwatch. From Castle Black. From every tower that still stood.
The messages spread like wildfire through the Seven Kingdoms. In King's Landing, courtiers laughed at first until a second raven arrived, and a third, each bearing the seal of different castles along the Wall. King Stannis reportedly ordered the Iron Throne room cleared and read the accounts alone before summoning his war council.
In Oldtown, maesters convened emergency conclaves beneath the Hightower, ancient texts of the Long Night dragged from dust-choked vaults.
In the Reach, septons proclaimed days of fasting as rumors of ice demons spread through villages already scarred by war.
In Dorne, riders were dispatched north without waiting for formal summons. In the Vale, more knights began the march. And in the Iron Islands, even the most hardened reavers paused at tales of ice wyrms splitting the earth.
For the first time in thousands of years…the Great Enemy was no longer myth. No longer nursery tale. It had stepped beyond the Lands of Always Winter. And the realm trembled.