Updated Jon Snow

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***

The retreating northerners had to stop, sheltering behind the walls of Kailin's Moat, but many continued on their way, trying to get as far away as possible from the Wycht army that was following at the heels of the fugitives. But fatigue and cold did their worst, and many fell to the frozen ground without strength, falling into the snowdrifts, never to get up again.

The track was constantly covered with snow, and some of those who continued their journey day and night often did not realise that they had gone off the road and into the swamps to meet their death, and if it had not been for the help of the natives who knew every bump, many of the refugees would have remained in the land forever.

Tormund fell to the ground, catching his breath and giving his muscles a welcome rest. The wildling realised that delay was fatal, but he could go no further. Tiredness pressed him to the ground like a slab of granite, preventing him from taking even one extra step, and his strength was gone. His gaze wandered absent-mindedly around his surroundings, but every now and then he looked up at the sky, which was darkening faster and faster every day. Here, on the very border of the kingdom, the winter night had not yet ruled undividedly, but soon enough the darkness would fall upon these lands and then move further south.

- Tired? - Beric sat down beside Tormund, and the latter could only nod in response. - So am I. But we can't delay, the dead are closing in on us.

- Spirit... I'll translate...' Even the words were difficult for the wildling. - And then...

- Rest,' Dondarrion adjusted his eye patch. - I can hardly stand on my own two feet.

After a few minutes of silence, Tormund asked in a normal voice:

- You still haven't found your own?

Beric shook his head without saying a word. After they had been forced to abandon Winterfell and retreat to the South, Thoros and Clegane had disappeared, and no one could tell if they were alive or dead. Every time they met another group of refugees that joined them, Beric asked them about their friends, but no one had heard anything about the Red Priest or the Hound. The belief that the two warriors had survived the battle was becoming less and less. There was no news of Lady Melisandre either. The Red Priestess had vanished.

Beric himself swore that he had last seen Clegane fighting a very tall wyht who had previously thrown aside the castle defenders with ease.

- Any word of the Starks? - Dondarrion asked.

- They were last seen heading for the Old Castle,' Tormund replied. - I don't know where the hell that is. But there's an interesting rumour that a large Wycht army was defeated there. Allegedly a dragon flew in and killed the attackers.

- A dragon? - Beric asked.

- Yeah,' the wildling nodded.

- Has Daenerys Targaryen decided to help us?

- I don't know, but they say Jon sent the dragon.

- Jon Stark?! - exclaimed Dondarrion. - But where did he find it?!

- How should I know? - Tormund shrugged. - I told you, it's just a rumour. Perhaps there was no battle, and if there was, the Old Castle has fallen.

- I see,' Beric stood up and held out his hand to the wildling. - All right, get up, it's time to move on.

Reluctantly, Tormund rose and, leaning on his axe as a staff, followed Dondarrion. They had to travel the hard way along the Kingsroad, into lands where none of the wildlings born beyond the Wall had ever been. Tormund did not know how many of the wildlings were alive at the moment, nor did he know which of his friends had survived and which had died. He did not know what had happened to Vel, but since Tormund had not seen her among those who had fled Winterfell, it was safe to assume that the woman had died.

The men continued south, but few of them believed they would get help there. Each of them knew that Sansa Stark had begged the Southerners for help, but they had ignored all her pleas. The Mother of Dragons, who was tirelessly praised by her supporters for her supposed kindness and justice, simply remained silent, apparently deciding that the problems of the Northerners did not concern her. The people were marching into the unknown, driven in the back by the tireless army of the Viht, and in this desperate situation the northerners were only happy that very soon the whole of Westeros would experience the horror and despair that the people of the North had learnt.

- Is it true what they say about the dragon coming to the North? - Tormund heard it. A young man, a mere boy, was asking the men walking beside them.

- It is true,' replied an old peasant sitting on the edge of a creaking wagon rolling slowly along the track. - A huge, fierce one flew to the Old Castle and killed all the dead.

- So the Mother of Dragons helped us! - exclaimed some woman whose face was beaten with smallpox. - And they said that she was as mad as her father and did not care about the troubles of the Northmen! They're lying!

- Don't talk rubbish, you fool! - Grandfather frowned. - You'd think the Targaryensha had nothing better to do than help us! Jon Stark sent the dragon, and he is our only hope.

- He's been dead a long time.

- You're a fool. Even little children know the King of the North is alive. He's going north to the Land of Eternal Winter, for only there can the White Walkers be defeated. And if you don't know anything, then keep your mouth shut.

- But you know a lot of things, I see, and you're talking like a magpie! Where would a dragon come from if there's never been a dragon in the North and the Targaryens have three of them? She must have sent one!

The argument grew more and more heated, but Tormund would not listen. His thoughts turned to Jon, who Bran Stark had said was travelling further north. Whether he was still alive was anyone's guess, but what the talkative old man was right about was that there was really no other hope for the Northmen.

***

White Harbour was long gone, but as much as Thoros wanted to, the Hound would not let him enter the city. The warriors had learnt the tactics of the White Walkers, so there was no doubt that there were no survivors. The Wychs methodically searched every town, village or castle they captured, checking every dark corner and nook for those who tried to hide from them in the hope of waiting out the invasion. As a rule, the unfortunates soon regretted their decision.

The travellers took great care to avoid large clusters of Wychs who could stand motionless for hours or even days, waiting for orders, but on the approach to the Old Castle these groups disappeared, and only the remains of the dead could be seen from beneath the snow, as if some force had torn from their desiccated bodies the semblance of life that the Walkers had breathed into them.

- What the hell happened here? - Clegane wheezed, settling the emotionless body on his shoulder.

- I wish I knew,' Thoros replied, examining the remains. The first inspection showed that the ground beneath the snow was badly burnt, and much of the remains looked as if they had been in a fire. - But it looks like a battle was fought here.

- I can see that,' said the Hound. - But who fought here?

- We'll find out when we get to the castle,' Thoros said, coming closer and looking at the girl. It was the second day that Vel hadn't come to her senses. - She didn't look so good.

- We wouldn't look any better if we were her,' the Dog said indifferently. If it hadn't been for Thoros, he would have left her for dead, but the Red Priest had warned him that if he did, Clegane would go on alone. Swearing through his teeth, Sandor continued on his way, forced to drag the wildling on his back. It didn't make him feel any better.

- Why do we need her, Seven, anyway? - Clegane asked until he finally got an answer.

- Because she carries the future king in her womb.

***

Daenerys stepped into the vast hall, lit by the sunlight streaming in through the narrow windows and the burning oil lamps. She did not remember such halls in the Red Castle, so the queen quickly realised that she was not in the capital. She walked slowly between the wide oak tables, darkened by time, where strangers sat. Heavy cloaks rested on their shoulders, and everyone, including the women, was armed. The men, for the most part, wore thick beards.

They were not like the Westerosi the Queen had seen. They reeked of a defiance and unyielding stubbornness that could be used to break through fortress walls, and Daenerys realised that they could only be ruled by a man with a truly iron hand. When she looked around and saw the banners hanging on the walls of the hall, the queen realised that the Lords of the North were before her.

The Karstarks and the Ambers, the Lockes and the Flints, the Manderleys and the Glovers, and many others. Among the crests, the queen recognised, among others, the Mormont bear. Despite the fact that Daenerys was walking very close to them, none of the northerners paid the slightest attention to her, as if she were not even here. All the attention of the lords and their retinue was focused on the high-backed throne, which was made of iron and shiny pieces of black stone that the queen recognised as dragon glass.

The throne was not empty.

A broad-shouldered man looked down upon the Lords of the North from the dais on which the throne was placed, a short black beard framing his face and long curly hair falling to his shoulders. On his head rested a crown, an open hoop of hammered bronze, covered with the runes of the First Men, crowned with nine black iron prongs shaped like swords. There was no gold, silver, or precious stones. Bronze and iron were the metals of winter, dark and suitable for fighting the cold. In the man's grey eyes raged a flame, fierce and indomitable, and whoever dared look into the eyes of the King of the North risked burning in its fire.

- These southern sissies demand-' the man on the throne opened his mouth, and the air rumbled with his words. - DEMAND THAT WE!!! demand that we Nords swear to their Iron Throne and embrace their Faith!!!!

He was answered by a roar of anger that burst from the throats of the Norse.

- They threaten us with the spears of their summer knights! - continued the King of the North. - But where were these Warriors of Summer when the creatures of Cold came to our House?! Where were their Gods when the dead came against the living?! Where were their much-praised Greatness and Mercy of Dragons, when our desperate ancestors, piled with corpses, were ready to swear an oath to them to save their lives and souls?!

The walls of the hall shook with every word the speaker spoke, and those present became increasingly enraged. It seemed that if the King of the North pointed to Daenerys, the invisible ghost watching, her fate would be sealed in an instant.

- We stood our ground! Where others preferred the truth to the words of children's fairy tales, we took the blow of the Creatures on our spears, shields and axes! And after the Creatures of the Cold, those summer sissies can't frighten us.

- Robb! - chanted the Lords of the North. - Robb! Robb!

- Will they rain dragon flames upon us?! - The King of the North asked his subjects, leaping from his throne and baring a sword and a half with a wolf's head at its tip. - Then we will cast their dragons from Heaven to the Solid, and the halls of Winterfell will be filled with new trophies!

The Northmen leapt up, swords, axes, and maces above their heads. There was so much rage and anger in them that Daenerys felt a chill of fear run down her spine.

- The ambers are ready to fight!

- The Karstarks are here!

- The Mormonts will kill anyone the Starks point at!

- Remember Isthmus! - shouted a young lord whose chest bore the image of a leaping silver trout among red and blue waves. The crest of Tully, lords of the Riverlands. - Death to the Dragons!

At these words, the Northmen literally howled, their cries filled with pain and hatred.

- The North remembers! - King Robb thundered. - House Stark remembers! We will never forgive! We will never forget!

It was only at that moment that Daenerys looked up and saw the object that adorned the hall, and the sight of it made her more afraid than she had ever been in her life. Above the throne of the Kings of the North, a dragon's skull hung on chains, its jaws aflame. At that moment Robb Stark turned to stare at her, a wolfish growl coming from his lips. He raised his hand, pointing the tip of his sword at Daenerys, and as if on cue, the other lords turned towards her. Breathless with fear, the Mother of Dragons began to retreat, and the men around her threw off their robes and armour, turning into huge beasts, each ready to tear her apart.

Glancing again at the King of the North, Daenerys saw a huge wolf whose yellow eyes were bared into her soul and whose sharp fangs were bared in a deadly grin. The beast tensed its powerful paws, and then in one long leap it swooped toward Daenerys, digging into her neck. A sharp pain shot through her entire body and her eyes went black.

As Daenerys jumped up on her bed, she couldn't catch her breath, her gaze drifting to the window where the snow was falling. Every now and then she heard the shrill commands announcing the changing of the guard, and the wind carried the roar of dragons. The queen collapsed back onto the pillows, while her heart beat hard against her ribs, as if trying to jump out of her chest. A single word rattled in the Mother of Dragons' head.

Isthmus.