Dragonstone
Daenerys stood her ground as Caraxes' molten gaze lingered on her small form. For a few heartbeats, she held herself straight, chin lifted, defiance written plainly across her face. Then even her bravado faltered. She realised, fully and finally, that the dragon before her was not her own—and nothing like her dragons.
Daeron did not know what she saw in Caraxes's burning, molten-gold eyes, but whatever it was, it made her shift uneasily. She glanced over her shoulder, just once, as if to confirm that Drogon was still behind her, that her own dragon was close enough to answer her call should things turn dire.
"What is your intent, Daeron?" Daenerys demanded. Anger rushed to her face, staining her cheeks red. "Do you want me to step aside from the succession? To become a princess again, and support you with my dragons and my army for nothing in return?"
"When did I propose anything of the sort?" Daeron replied evenly. "I did not call you princess as a jab—it was not meant as one. But it was you who asserted yourself as a queen before me, and that is what I found inappropriate." He paused, then continued calmly. "If I wished you harm, why would I have come here with Caraxes? Why push my dragon to exhaustion, why risk placing myself between a dragon fight that would surely have happened had I not intervened?"
As if to punctuate his words, Caraxes pulled away from Daeron's side and lowered his massive head to the stone with a heavy thump. His long neck coiled, resting, though his molten gaze never left Viserion and Rhaegal in the distance, watchful and alert.
Daenerys fell silent. She studied Daeron for a long moment, measuring his words, weighing his intent. Slowly, Drogon eased as well—though the smaller dragon remained tense, wings slightly raised, nostrils flaring as he stood ready to shield his rider at the first sign of danger.
"We will speak of this later," Daenerys said at last. "After Viserion and Rhaegal are free of whatever spell that horn has bound them with." She turned her gaze toward the distant dragons, concern no longer hidden in her eyes.
Daeron took a slow step closer—not enough to provoke Drogon, but enough to be heard clearly. "I have heard that you regard them as your children," he said quietly.
"I do," Daenerys replied, just as softly. "They are the only children I will ever have."
"As their mother, your concern is warranted," Daeron said, a faint smile touching his lips. "But you must also understand—there is no danger to them. They are the danger."
The dragons' fire had begun to weaken; their breathing came shorter now, the flames less fierce. Their roars shifted in tone—not rage, but something closer to grim satisfaction. Whatever the horn had compelled them to do was done. Soon, they would land and rest.
"I know," Daenerys whispered.
"It is over," Daeron said. "They will rest now. And if you will take my advice—do not go near them yet. Let the spell woven into that horn fade completely before you approach. Going near them too soon could end… badly."
He did not say fatally, but the word lingered unspoken.
[You are right to think so, Master,] came the calm female voice in his mind. [I did not see your dream myself, but you said you witnessed many silver-haired men and women sacrifice themselves to sound the horn. They bore no rider's title, but dragonlord blood still flowed in their veins. If my assessment is correct, Victarion selected them deliberately. With sacrifices of that magnitude, approaching the dragons now would indeed be unwise.]
"I don't think she cares much for our advice," Daeron replied mentally.
From her posture alone, he could tell Daenerys was already preparing to mount Drogon the moment she deemed it safe.
[She cares deeply for them,] Aether replied. [But she will not ignore everything we have said.]
Daeron exhaled slowly. We shall see, he thought.
Viserion and Rhaegal soon descended, landing not far from where they had scorched the land and sea alike. Whether it was truly the coast or simply blackened stone, Daeron could not tell. The air still shimmered with heat.
Almost immediately, Daenerys moved. She climbed onto Drogon's back, settling into the saddle with practiced ease. Before taking off, she looked back at Daeron.
"I will not go near them," she called. "I'll fly a few circles—only to be sure they are unharmed, and to see if any Ironborn remain. In the meantime, I ask that you remain here as my guest at Dragonstone. We will speak when I return, nephew."
Daeron nodded. Drogon leapt skyward at her command.
He watched as she kept her word, circling wide, never approaching the resting dragons too closely. Only then did Daeron allow himself to relax.
Turning, he found Caraxes still staring skyward, coiled and restless, sulking in silence. A faint, amused smile touched Daeron's face. He walked over and placed a steady hand against the Blood Wyrm's snout.
"The future holds plenty of bloodshed and chaos, my friend," Daeron murmured. "You need not mourn missing today."
Caraxes snorted, a hot, angry plume of smoke bursting from his nostrils as he slowly rose to his feet. Yet Daeron did not miss the unmistakable gleam of anticipation in his dragon's golden eyes.
With a final pat, Daeron grasped the saddle and began to mount, the promise of what was yet to come heavy in the air.
Beyond the wall, Val POV
The dead came on in numbers now—dozens, then more—pouring out of the storm in a crawling tide of frozen limbs and empty eyes. Their numbers grew with every passing night. It felt to Val as if she and her party were no longer merely surviving, but being hunted, chased with cold patience by something that did not tire. Whatever it was, it was not good. Val wanted to push them faster, to force the pace, but the children in their party could not march endlessly without proper rest and food—both of which were scarce. There was nothing left to hunt, but a few scrawny foxes and the occasional wandering deer, and even those had begun to thin out, as if the land itself sensed what was coming. At least none of them had blue eyes yet.
Val felt the shift immediately. There had been too many attacks in the past few days for her to miss that familiar, bone-rattling chill that crept through the air whenever the dead drew close. It crawled over her skin like frost beneath fur, whispering of danger before it arrived.
"Circle!" she shouted. "Protect the young!"
At the center of the coming chaos, the children were already moving, huddling together by instinct. They were wrapped in furs far too big for them, small faces pressed into one another's shoulders for warmth and courage. They did not scream. They had seen too much already, learned too quickly what to do and—more importantly—what not to do. Their small hands clutched at belts, cloaks, and sleeves as a knot of Free Folk women formed a living wall around them—backs together, boots planted firm in the snow, weapons raised, eyes sharp and alert despite the exhaustion etched into their faces.
A wight broke through first, arms flailing in a mockery of life.
A woman with a dragonglass axe met it head-on. A clawed hand tore into her shoulder, drawing a grunt of pain, but she did not falter. She brought her blade down into its skull with a savage cry. The axe stuck fast. She kicked the corpse away and wrenched the weapon free, frozen black blood spraying across her sleeve and hardening instantly in the cold.
Then more came.
Another horde of wights poured out of the storm, their soundless screams tearing at the night, blue eyes burning in the darkness beneath a sky stripped bare of stars and moon alike. They rushed forward in a staggering wave, bodies colliding, limbs tangling.
Val moved like a blade through cloth.
Step. Slash. Twist.
Another wight burst apart. Then another.
Her long bone knife was lighter than steel, quicker in her grip, an extension of her arm rather than a tool. She struck where the dead were weakest—joints, spine, the soft place beneath the chin. Every kill was close, intimate, close enough that she could smell them: old rot, frozen earth, the foul stench of death denied rest and peace.
A scream split the storm—not fear, but fury.
The ground trembled beneath their feet.
Out of the white came the mammoth.
It was a mountain of fur and muscle, its massive tusks wrapped in leather and carved with crude runes worn smooth by age and war. Snow exploded beneath its thunderous steps as it barreled forward, crushing wights underfoot like brittle toys. Atop it, the giantess rose to her full height and lifted her weapon—a massive hammer of bronze and stone, its head cracked and scarred from older wars. She had once said she took it from her dead chieftain's body. It was heavy even for her, yet she swung it two-handed without hesitation.
Each stroke of her hammer came down like the wrath of the old gods.
Three wights were flattened into the ice, shattered so completely that nothing recognizable remained. She swung again, sideways this time, and bodies flew—broken dolls flung screaming into the storm. Each impact rang out like thunder, dull, heavy, and final.
The mammoth bellowed and stamped, crushing limbs, skulls, and torsos beneath its massive weight. The dead clawed desperately at its legs, fingers scrabbling for purchase, but dragonglass blades flashed from above and below, cutting them away before they could slow the beast.
Still, the wights pressed in.
One reached the circle.
Val saw it too late—its fingers brushing a child's fur—
A dragonglass spear punched through its chest from behind, followed by another, then a third. The women guarding the children did not break formation. They stabbed until the corpse fell apart, then closed ranks again, breathing hard, eyes never leaving the dark beyond the storm.
Slowly, the storm began to thin.
The wights came slower now. Fewer. Clumsier. Their movements lacked the earlier frenzy, limbs stiffening, balance failing. Their numbers dwindled as blackened shards littered the ground, half-buried in fresh snow.
Val drove her knife into the last one herself, straight through the eye. It froze, trembled, and collapsed into pieces at her feet.
Silence followed—but no one relaxed. The wind howled, and the sound of ragged breathing filled the space where screams had been moments before.
The mammoth snorted, steam billowing from its nostrils. The giantess rested her hammer against her shoulder and scanned the white horizon, waiting. Nothing came.
Val wiped her blade clean on the snow and turned.
"Count heads," she ordered. "Now."
The children were pulled closer and counted—once, then again. All alive. Shaken. Wide-eyed. One of them clutched Val's cloak as she passed, and she rested a blood-wet hand briefly on the child's head before moving on.
The Free Folk women regrouped, wounded but standing. No one was left behind. No one was dead this time—good. Too many already lay burned or frozen along their path north.
Val looked southward, where the land rose faintly through the storm.
"The Fist of the First Men," she said. "We don't linger. The dead never walk alone for long. And we're close now—once we pass the Fist, the Wall won't be far."
The giantess grunted her agreement and kicked the mammoth forward. The women tightened their grips on dragonglass weapons, the children were shepherded back into the middle, and the small column began to move once more.
Behind them, the shattered remains of the wights were already being swallowed by snow.
Ahead lay the Fist—and whatever waited there.
Val hoped, fiercely, that it would not be more of the dead.