TGW: Chapter Ten (pt. 1)

Chapter Ten (pt. 1)

"You could see it from miles off, a pale blue line across the northern horizon, stretching away to the east and west and vanishing in the far distance, immense and unbroken. This is the end of the world, it seemed to say."

―thoughts of Jon Snow

…

The cold cut through the furs as if they were nought but summer linen, and the wind was howling like a chorus of lost souls. Cregan Stark tightened the scarf around his neck, his breath misting before him, and nudged his horse forward. The old grey mare picked her way across the icy trail, her breath steaming in the cold. Behind him, the men of Winterfell followed—Karl Tanner and Roderick Slate among them, both thickly wrapped in the grey cloaks of House Stark. None of them spoke, but Cregan could feel their shared thought as clearly as if they had shouted it to the heavens: what sort of madness brought princes of the realm to the Wall in the dead of winter?

The message had been vague, half-panicked and half-admiring, about dragons landing near Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. One was massive, bronze and ancient, the other smaller, blue as the winter sky. Vhagar and Tessarion, the ravens had said. And with them, Prince Aemond and Prince Daeron, both bound for the Wall, with no intention of stopping at the Nightfort or Castle Black. Straight into the Haunted Forest, of all the cursed places they could choose. It was that detail that spurred Cregan to saddle his horse and gather his men without delay.

“Young fools,” he muttered under his breath, his voice muffled by the scarf. Roderick Slate gave a snort of agreement, his breath a cloud in the wind. “Dragons can only take them so far, beyond that it’s all snow and death.”

When they reached the Wall, it loomed above them, a sheer white face, monumental, timeless, and uncaring. And there, half-buried beneath a mound of fresh snow, lay Vhagar and Tessarion. They were coiled like cats by a hearth—great, terrible cats—their sides rising and falling with each breath. The dragons paid little mind to the approaching party, Vhagar’s great eye sliding open for a heartbeat before closing once more, a rumbling sigh escaping her. Tessarion’s tail flicked once, snow dusting up in its wake, but she remained at rest.

Cregan marvelled at them a moment longer before dismounting, handing his reins to Karl Tanner. “Stay here,” he ordered. “If they stir, call to me.” He eyed the dragons, and then the Wall. “I’ll have a word with the old bear.”

It took time for the winch to lift them up, the cage rattling as it climbed higher and higher. The wind was fierce this far above the world, biting, screaming in his ears. Castle Black lay below like a child’s toy fortress. Finally, they reached the top, the wall of ice spreading before him, endless and barren. The Night’s Watch were there, hooded in black, dark shapes against the white.

Derrin Stonehand, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, stood waiting at the edge of the Wall, as gruff and unmoving as the frozen Wall itself. He was grey-bearded, thick as an oak, and his eyes were sharp beneath the bushy brows that framed his stern face.

“Lord Stark,” he rumbled in greeting, his breath misting as he spoke. “You come for the princes, I presume?”

“Aye,” Cregan replied, stepping off the platform, his boots crunching against the snow-covered ice. “Where are they, Stonehand? The Night’s Watch should have kept them here.”

The old man grunted, his eyes narrowing. “They came, aye. But they went beyond the Wall, into the Haunted Forest. Two days past now. The elder spoke of visiting the woods, whatever that means. Young men, thinking themselves invincible, dragon riders or no.” He spat onto the ice, a dark stain on the frozen white.

Cregan felt his frown deepen, a weight of worry settling in his chest. Two days in the Haunted Forest—even as Targaryens, with fire in their blood—it was madness. He turned to Roderick, who stood at his shoulder. “We’ll need to send a party after them, rangers, anyone who—”

Before he could finish, a shout echoed across the Wall, one of the watchmen raising his hand and pointing beyond the ice. “Movement!” the cry carried on the wind, followed by a sudden rush of figures to the edge of the Wall.

Cregan moved swiftly, his long legs eating up the distance. He squinted northward, shielding his eyes against the glare of the snow. There, emerging from the shadow of the Haunted Forest, he saw them—two figures, heads of white hair shining like beacon fires in the wilderness, making their way through the snow. They moved unhurriedly, confidently, despite the endless sea of ice before them.

And trailing behind them, black shapes, hulking and sleek, the size of ponies. Cregan felt his breath catch, the sight both strange and strangely beautiful. He knew what they were; tales told around the hearth of Winterfell had given them a name.

“Direwolves,” he murmured, the word a whisper on the wind. His men exchanged uneasy glances, awe mixing with fear. The beasts moved with the princes like shadows, silent and watchful. An omen. The young lord of Winterfell felt something stir within him.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Roderick Slate breathed beside him. “They found the wolves, or the wolves found them.”

Cregan did not answer. He watched as Aemond and Daeron strode towards the Wall, the direwolves in their wake, and in that moment he wondered if perhaps, just perhaps, these princes might know something the rest of them did not.