126: The Son of Ice and Fire, Before the Night Pt.4

Ned Stark stood at the head of the table in the Lord Commander’s chambers of Castle Black. The air in the chamber was frigid, their every breath clouding before their faces, the fire in the hearth doing little to chase away the creeping chill that had taken root within the very stones.

Around him sat a grim company—commanders of the Watch and the lords of the North. The long table groaned under the weight of maps and steaming mugs.

“Good,” Ned said quietly. “The new flaming scorpions are functioning well?”

“Yes, Lord Stark,” replied a Night’s Watch officer, standing to attention. “The men have been drilling day and night. Targets struck clean through, even in the wind.”

“Then we drill again tomorrow,” Ned said, his voice resolute.

Murmurs of assent followed—heavy nods, faces tight with sleeplessness and dread.

Lord Umber leaned forward, slamming a heavy hand on the table. “Aye, but what if they don’t come?” he growled. “It’s been a week. Not a whisper from beyond the Wall—no sightings, no movement. What if they tricked us? What if it’s all some cursed ruse to make us rot up here?”

“That’s foolishness,” Lord Karstark snapped from across the table, his grey-streaked beard bristling with frost. “Their attacks were increasing by the day until just before the snow swallowed the forest. The last rangers saw them—a horde, Lord Umber. Not dozens. Thousands. Tens of thousands. You think that storm is natural? You think winter came early just to inconvenience your ale stock?”

The room tensed. Men muttered. A few averted their eyes.

Lord Umber said no more.

Ned stayed silent, listening—considering.

Karstark was right. The reports had been clear. Their enemy was no phantom, and the winter had grown cruel beyond reason. Even the Watch, hardened to hardship, struggled now to patrol beyond the Wall. It was as if the world itself was dying, breath by icy breath.

Ned’s thoughts turned to one person.

Benjen.

His jaw clenched. His gaze drifted to the icy window beyond the table, where the storm howled like wolves.

Benjen was gone, lost beyond the Wall.

Even Brandon believed him dead, as did everyone else.

But Ned…

He felt Benjen still lived. His brother could not simply die this way, disappearing without a trace.

He rubbed a hand over his face, the lines deep beneath his eyes. The realm was mustering—northern houses arriving in force—and soon his brother Brandon would come as well, leading the vanguard of the royal army to the edge of the world.

The arguing swelled again—Karstark, Umber, Dustin, Ryswell—their voices echoing through the Lord Commander’s chamber like clashing steel.

“Enough,” Ned said.

He didn’t raise his voice, but it cut through the noise like a blade. The lords fell silent, each settling back into their seats, eyes turning toward the head of the table.

Ned stood straighter, his voice calm but iron-edged.

“Lord Dustin, take your men to Greyguard. You’ll receive the first wave of the southern army within the week. Brandon will bring the Stark men as well.”

Dustin nodded stiffly.

“Lord Ryswell, ride for Deep Lake. Help reinforce and organize the wildling camps. Make sure the peace is kept.”

“Aye, Lord Stark,” Ryswell replied.

“Karstark,” Ned continued, “you’re on occult duty. There have been reports of suspicious activity in the Nightfort—I need you to investigate.”

Karstark gave a tight nod. “The starry bastards won’t find much comfort in this cold, my lord.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Ned said. “They thrive in darkness.”

He looked to Umber last.

“Your men are to go to Eastwatch and continue drills with the new wildfire weapons. Work with the Targaryen engineers, and keep them from freezing to death.”

Umber grunted. “As you say.”

Ned swept his gaze across the room. “We don’t know when the next move will come, but it will come. This is not the calm of peace—it is the breath before the storm. Be ready.”

No one argued.

Ned nodded once. “You’re dismissed.”

Chairs scraped back as the northern lords filed out one by one. The room emptied until only the Lord Commander remained.

“Meet me at the top of the Wall. I want to test the new scorpions,” Ned said.

The Lord Commander nodded. “Aye, Lord Stark. I’d like to see them tested as well.”

He turned and left.

Ned followed, but more slowly. He didn’t take the usual path, choosing a longer route instead. He emerged into the yard and paused, watching the training grounds from a distance.

Edmure stood there, tall in a thick grey cloak, barking orders at a line of fresh recruits. Some were too young, others too old, but none hesitated. They trained like men who expected to die. The North had come—every last house.

And that, Ned knew, was both a gift and a curse.

They would not retreat, not one step; that was their way. But if things went wrong—if the Wall fell—the North would die first, and even victory might cost them decades of rebuilding.

He turned and climbed again.

Soon he stood before the rookery. The ravens shuffled and cawed softly, black eyes glinting in the pale light.

Ned stood in silence, snow dusting his shoulders. His mind was scattered—battle plans, southern reinforcements, supply lines. Benjen. Brandon. Maekar.

He closed his eyes.

For now there was only cold wind and the sound of wings.

“You look troubled, Lord Eddard.”

Ned turned at the voice—ancient, soft, weathered like old bark. Maester Aemon stood behind him, swaddled in black furs, the cold nipping at his breath. Beside him, Samwell Tarly waited silently, eyes flicking between them.

Aemon tilted his head toward Sam. “Tarly, leave us a moment, if you would.”

Sam nodded quickly. “Yes, Maester,” he said, then turned and disappeared down the icy stairs, his steps echoing faintly in the still air.

Ned remained by the rookery, the ravens fluttering softly behind him. Aemon shuffled forward.

“Well?” Aemon asked, lips curved in a wry smile. “Tell me what troubles you.”

Ned chuckled, though there was no humour in it. “The dead are nearly upon us, and you ask me that.”

Aemon tilted his head again. “I don’t see any dead,” he said lightly. “Are they on the Wall now? Have they stormed the gates while I wasn’t looking?”

Ned said nothing.

“Please,” Aemon added gently, “do tell me—as you can see, I am blind.”

That drew a small smile from Ned.

“I fear for my family,” he admitted. “I’ve already lost one brother to the cold beyond this Wall. I—” He paused. “I asked my lady wife to take our children south, to Starfall, to keep them safe.”

“And she refused,” Aemon said simply.

“Yes.”

“Understandable.”

Ned turned to face him fully, eyes narrowed. “Understandable? She puts herself and our children at risk. Every night I dream of them—” His voice broke. “Every night I see them standing before me… pale and empty-eyed. Wights.”

Aemon listened without judgment.

“You could order her to go,” the old maester said softly. “You are a lord. Your word is law.”

But Ned merely shook his head and looked away toward the northern horizon.

Aemon stepped beside him, placing a thin hand on the railing. “We live in extraordinary times, Lord Eddard. Your love for your family will see you through—it will be the guiding light in the dark times to come.

“Perhaps I can write to your wife. We are kin, after all; she may listen to her old uncle.”

Ned realized Aemon was correct: Ashara was a Dayne, and Aemon’s mother had been a Dayne as well, though nearly a century separated them.

“King Maekar will save us all,” Aemon added after a pause. “In him we must place our strength and faith.”

“I know,” Ned said quietly. “He will.”

They talked for some time with Ned sharing his troubles with the old dragon in a way after they were done Ned felt lighter.

Aemon turned his head slightly. “Tarly!”

A soft scuffle of boots announced Samwell’s return as he hurried up the stairs to his mentor.

Aemon reached out. “Come, lad. Let’s get these old bones somewhere warm.”

Sam nodded, steadying the maester. He offered Ned a respectful glance before guiding Aemon away.

Ned lingered a moment longer, then turned and began the trek toward the Wall.

====

Ned emerged onto the top of the Wall from the lift; its creaks made him uneasy, but he had been told it worked perfectly.

On the Wall, rows of gleaming steel lined the battlements.

Scorpions—dozens upon dozens of them—sleek, black-painted, mounted on reinforced platforms that bit into the Wall’s icy surface. Their limbs were forged of steel, each mechanism so well-oiled that even in the frost they moved without a hitch. Long bolts rested in racks beside each one, their tips glowing green, ready to burst with wildfire on impact.

What stunned Ned most was how quickly the men re-loaded: a hiss of ropes, a clank of the crank, and the next bolt was already in place.

The Lord Commander, wrapped in a thick bearskin cloak, stepped beside him. “Lord Eddard,” he said, something like awe in his voice. “These new ones are a marvel—half the reload time. And the fire—”

He never finished.

A bell rang out.

Then again.

And again.

Three times.

Every head turned.

Three bells that meant …

“Wights!” a voice cried, hoarse and panicked.

Ned strode to the edge of the Wall, leaning over the icy rim.

From the heart of the endless snow-storm that had shrouded the far side for weeks, they came.

First shadows.

Then bodies.

And then a tide.

Tens of thousands of them—dead men, women, and children. Skin stretched taut, eyes empty blue, they moved faster than they should, some loping, others jerking into an uneven run.

And leading them were the Others: pale riders atop monstrous beasts—ice spiders, undead horses and bears, even a few skeletal shadowcats. The storm rolled with them, a wall of white, wind, and death.

The Lord Commander muttered, “By the gods … there have to be tens of thousands of them.”

Ned turned, voice rising over the howling wind.

“TO ARMS!”

The Wall burst into motion.

The Night’s Watch rushed to their positions. Crossbows were loaded, oil was poured, sentries bellowed orders.

Scorpion crews scrambled to their machines, cranking ropes and preparing the wildfire payloads.

Drums began to beat.

The dead were coming.

“STEADY!” Ned shouted.

The horde drew closer—seven hundred feet below, massing at the foot of the Wall.

“WAIT FOR MY ORDER!”

A single breath.

The first line of wights came into range.

“LOOSE!”

The opening volley soared into the sky—dozens of bolts shrieking through the frozen air.

And when they landed—

The world erupted.

Bolts slammed into the horde and burst into emerald flame. Wildfire exploded in waves, catching skin and bone, engulfing whole swaths of dead in a roaring sea of green fire. Limbs flew. Many wights didn’t even scream—they simply collapsed into ash and shards of bone.

Men on the Wall roared.

Again and again, Ned commanded, “LOOSE!”

The crews obeyed with disciplined precision. Ropes cranked, bolts were lit with wildfire, and launched in ruthless succession. As one wave of emerald fire faded, another surged forward. Archers backed up the machines, nocking special arrows tipped with wildfire and loosing volley after volley into the throng below.

A sea of fire churned at the base of the Wall—green flames devouring snow, bone, and flesh. Wights crumbled, bodies erupting into showers of sparks and ash. A bone-chilling screech echoed upward:

“HHRRRIIIIIIIIIIII! KKRYYYYEEE—HHHHRRRAAAAGH!”

An unholy chorus of death and flame, the sound hammered at their souls.

For half an hour the barrage continued—fire wave after fire wave. Bolts and arrows fell like rain. It was a one-sided slaughter.

When the last screech faded and the wildfire guttered to glowing embers, nothing remained but smoke and charred corpses.

A cheer rose—raw, triumphant, relieved.

Ned allowed himself a rare, full smile.

The Lord Commander, voice thick with wonder, said, “If this is the whole war, Lord Eddard— we’ve won already.”

Ned opened his mouth to reply, but then, all at once, the Wall was swallowed by a new sound:

A roar thundered across the Wall—louder, deeper, shaking the very ice beneath their feet.

The men fell silent; even the wind seemed to still.

“Is… is the king coming?” the Lord Commander whispered, his voice pale with dread.

Ned’s mouth went dry.

He remembered Maekar’s warning—and Benjen’s as well—about the ice dragon the Others possessed.

He looked skyward.

High above the Wall, a dragon emerged, wrought of jagged ice and churning snow. Its scales glowed pale blue; each wing-stroke whipped up gusts that tasted of winter’s breath. Snow streamed behind it like a comet’s tail.

It was smaller than Neferion—yet far more horrifying.

A scream tore from every throat on the Wall as the creature hurtled toward them.

Ned could only whisper, “Oh gods…”

The dragon bellowed. A blast of icy blue radiance poured from its maw, freezing the very air as it advanced like midnight frost. Men were encased from head to toe in crystalline ice in an instant—statues of terror and cold.

Ned dove with the Lord Commander behind a stack of wooden crates, both gasping as the dragon’s assault raged on. Another cone of frostfire slammed into the ramparts; the Wall shuddered beneath each icy roar. The cold pressed against Ned’s armor, limbs locking, breath turning to shards in his chest.

He could do nothing but watch as the dragon continued its relentless barrage, wings beating massive currents of frigid wind.

Then—sudden silence.

Beside him, the Lord Commander stood frozen mid-breath.

Everything went eerily still.

BAM.

Something struck the Wall. Ice and stone splintered, the crates around them exploding into flying shards. Snow whirled through the breach.

Ned whipped his head up.

Perched beside the beast, a figure stepped forward—tall, statuesque, the very image of lethal grace. Armor of living ice clung to its frame, the surface shifting and gleaming like carved frost. Its skin was blue-white, its face almost human—save for eyes that glowed blue there was now mercy in them.

It paused, as though testing some invisible barrier—then began to walk, its cold gaze fixed on Ned.

His heart hammered in his chest as the creature closed the distance.

He felt his hands move of their own accord, unfastening his sword.

“Lord Commander,” Ned hissed, “we have to fight. He’s coming.”

The Commander, shocked into silence, managed only a nod before raising his blade.

They lunged together.

Steel clashed against the icy weapon of their foe. Ned swung high, but the creature blocked with a single forearm, sparks flaring at the point of contact. The Lord Commander slashed from the side, his blade cleaving nothing but air as the creature spun away.

A foot swept the Commander’s legs from beneath him. He fell face-first into the frost, and cold metal flashed. Ned’s scream froze in his throat as he watched the Lord Commander’s head detach and tumble with a faint thud into the snow.

Ned tried to rise as the creature’s gaze locked onto him.

“Ah, a Stark. Only one more needed,” it said in the Old Tongue.

Ned steadied himself and charged; their blades met once more.

Each strike from Ned was furious and desperate. The creature fought back with chilling patience, studying Ned’s swing. Then—crack—an elbow hammered into Ned’s ribs, driving the wind from his lungs. He doubled over, staggering, breath whistling through clenched teeth.

The creature stepped forward and kicked Ned’s knee—crack. The bone bent unnaturally. Ned collapsed, hot pain exploding through his leg. He tried to rise, only to receive a punch to the face—teeth rattled, vision blurring.

The creature loomed above him. It gripped his collar and hoisted him toward the Wall’s edge.

Ned tasted blood. His shattered leg screamed with every shift. The creature studied him with icy curiosity, as though weighing his worth—or savoring his last spark of hope.

Ned’s mind drifted. Ashara’s face appeared—her pale smile, their children’s laughter, their warm innocence.

A single tear rolled down his cheek.

The creature tilted its head.

Then Ned plummeted.

He felt no weight, only wind. The world inverted.

The Wall rushed past like a raging river.

And then it stopped—he was being lifted.

By what, he could not tell, for consciousness was already slipping away.