They spent three more days traveling, the winds biting at their faces, the cold biting deeper than any sword ever could. The wilderness was eerily quiet as they moved through the desolate landscape. Though they hadn't been attacked, the quiet tension between them hinted that danger could strike at any moment. Their destination loomed ahead.
The vast land seemed endless, stretching as far as the eye could see, and Rick wondered if they would even find the place. Yet, to his surprise, Freyja seemed to know exactly where to go. With her nose to the wind and her stride unwavering, she led them down a small rocky incline. The air grew colder as they descended, and an unsettling stillness enveloped them.
At a crossroads in the terrain, Freyja stopped and nudged the ground with her snout. Hidden beneath a layer of snow and tangled white roots was a path, so narrow and concealed that it almost looked like an accident of nature. Without hesitation, the trio followed Freyja, crawling on their hands and knees for several feet. The snow crunched under their weight, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and pine.
When they finally stood, Rick's eyes fell upon the entrance—the mouth of the cave. It was no grand opening; in fact, it was barely three feet tall and only two feet wide. Yet, to Rick, it was a symbol of something far more significant. A way forward. His heart raced with anticipation as he exchanged a glance with his companions.
Tormund shrugged, offering little more than a grunt of indifference, while Ygritte gave him a subtle nod, her chin lifting toward the entrance in silent agreement. Rick turned toward the cave and pulled out the torches he'd prepared earlier—careful, methodical, as always. The flames danced to life quickly as he shared one with each of his companions, the light flickering off their faces and casting long shadows against the rocky walls.
They stepped inside. What they thought would be an easy trek quickly proved otherwise. The cave was not the simple hideaway they imagined. It was, in fact, a long, winding tunnel that seemed to twist downward, stretching further into the dark earth than any of them had anticipated. They trudged through it in silence, the faint echo of their footsteps mingling with the quiet crackle of the torches.
After what felt like an eternity, the tunnel stretched on, showing no signs of stopping. But Rick had no doubts now. They were closer, even if they couldn't see it yet. And after twenty long minutes of walking, they reached the bottom, the distant sound of dripping water the only indication that they had finally arrived.
"Welcome, child of ice and fire," a voice, timeless and ethereal, echoed around them. It was impossible to discern the gender, as it seemed to come from the very air itself, wrapping around them like a whisper carried by the wind.
The words sent a shiver down Rick's spine, and instinctively, all three of them reached for their weapons, pulling them from their sheaths in a fluid, practiced motion. The heavy tension of the moment was palpable, and they all prepared for whatever threat might emerge.
"This is a sacred place, put that away," the voice spoke again, but this time, it came from directly ahead of them, as though the words had been spoken by a presence that had been standing there all along.
The trio froze, their weapons held in midair, eyes scanning the darkness for the source. And then, there it was. A figure, no taller than Rick's waist, stood before them. Its skin was a brownish-green, a mottled blend of bark and earth. Its pointed ears twitched as it moved, and sharp teeth gleamed from beneath its lips. Leaves, moss, and tiny flowers sprouted from its hair, as if it were part of the forest itself, woven into the very fabric of the land. It was a creature of nature, a child of the forest.
Rick's hand instinctively moved to his sword, but after a beat of hesitation, he slowly sheathed it, feeling the weight of the situation. Ygritte, still uneasy, followed his lead, reluctantly slipping her dagger back into its sheath, though her fingers lingered near the hilt, ready to draw it at a moment's notice. Tormund, on the other hand, simply lowered his arm with a grunt, keeping his gaze fixed on the small, strange being.
"You're a child of the forest," Rick stated, his voice a mixture of awe and wariness.
The child's head tilted, as if considering the words carefully. "That's how you humans call us, yes," it replied, the cadence of its voice light and musical, as if the very sound of it was woven with nature's song.
"Us humans? What's the true name of your people, then?" Rick pressed, his curiosity growing. This was a being older than time itself, one who could very well hold the answers to the ancient mysteries of the world.
"In the true tongue, it's 'those who sing the song of earth,'" the child said, its eyes gleaming with an ancient wisdom. The words sounded melodic, flowing like a gentle stream through a forest.
"Prettier, but a mouthful," Rick muttered with a small smile. He then cleared his throat and continued, "I'm here to…"
The child interrupted, its voice no longer light, but urgent, as though it were speaking to him directly from the depths of time. "Meet the Three-Eyed Raven. He's been waiting for you. Follow me."
Without waiting for a response, it began to turn, its footsteps silent on the earth, its movement graceful and swift as if it was one with the land.
Rick exchanged a quick glance with Ygritte and Tormund. "Alright... My friends are here for you, though," he said, his voice edged with uncertainty, still trying to understand the weight of their presence in this sacred place.
The child of the forest didn't pause. "Why?" it asked, its voice full of quiet curiosity, but it didn't break its stride.
"Fight the Others," Rick answered, the words heavy with meaning. "We're here to prepare for the coming darkness. We need your help."
TThey didn't get any answer, but they didn't utter another word either. The only sounds were the faint crunch of their boots on the ancient earth and the soft rustle of leaves, as the child of the forest led them deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels. They came to several more intersections, each one leading them further into the heart of the earth, the sense of something ancient, something powerful, growing with each step. The silence between them was filled only with the steady echo of their footfalls.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly as they followed the small figure. Eventually, the air grew heavy, and the tunnel began to widen. It was as if they had entered another world entirely. The ground beneath their feet softened, the scent of earth and moss filling their senses. The temperature dropped, and the hairs on the back of Rick's neck stood on end. He could feel it—something primal, something ancient, just ahead.
Then, they emerged into a vast cavern, far grander than anything they had ever imagined. The size of it was overwhelming, a place that felt timeless, as though the world itself had been born in this space. It was exactly like the cavern Rick had seen in his dreams—the roots of the Heart Tree twisted and knotted, reaching into the very stone beneath their feet. The gnarled bark of the tree seemed to pulse with an eerie energy, as if it were alive, breathing with the rhythm of the earth itself.
But there was something more—someone, in fact. A figure was bound to the tree, limbs outstretched and fused to the ancient bark. At first, Rick thought he was seeing things, but as they drew closer, the reality became clear. The man had a face—though it was not the face of the raven he had imagined. No, it was a man's face, worn by age, marked by the passage of time. The figure's single, unblinking eye stared forward, the missing left eye a striking, unmistakable feature. Rick's heart skipped a beat as recognition flooded his mind.
"Brynden Rivers," he said aloud, his voice thick with shock and disbelief. The figure before him was more than three hundred name days old, far older than any living man Rick had ever known.
The figure's lips barely moved as it answered, its voice both distant and immediate, as though it was coming from within the very tree itself. "I am, Aemon."
Rick stepped closer, his breath catching in his throat. "Uncle Aemon is going to be jealous," he muttered with a half-smile, despite the gravity of the situation. "You're even older than he is."
"Aemon?" Ygritte's voice was laced with confusion. "Who is that?"
Rick's gaze never left the bound man. "It's my birth name," he explained, his tone distant as memories began to surface. "The name I discarded long ago. I was named after my great-great-great-uncle. He's still alive, and he's nine and ninety this year."
"Nine and ninety?" Tormund asked, his voice filled with surprise. "How much is that?"
Rick turned to look at him, his eyes narrowing with a wry smile. "How old are you?"
"Three and thirty," Tormund grunted, the answer sounding as rough as his voice.
"Well, he's exactly thrice your age," Rick replied, a hint of amusement in his words, though the situation was far from light. The enormity of what they were witnessing seemed to grow heavier with every passing moment.
Tormund whistled low in admiration. "Thrice my age? That's impressive. People north of the Wall rarely live to see fifty name days. If the cold doesn't get 'em, it's a raid, or hunger, or disease that finishes the job."
Rick nodded solemnly, his gaze returning to Brynden Rivers, or rather, the man who had been reduced to something far more ancient and inhuman. He had always heard stories of those who lived beyond the reach of time, those who had sacrificed their humanity for power, for knowledge. But standing before him now, in the depths of this sacred place, it all felt too real, too visceral. This man, this figure who had once walked the world of men, was now bound to the very roots of the earth, his soul tied to the Heart Tree itself.
"Anyway. I dreamed of this place. Of you." Rick addressed Brynden. "But you're the one that gave me the dream."
"Correct, I did."
"Why?"
"To be my successor."
"Successor of what?"
"The Three-Eyed raven. It's the oldest greenseer that ever lived. The most powerful Warg too. He was there eight thousand years ago when the Others were defeated and went to their long slumber. Its role is to watch the past, present and future. To record history."
"... You're speaking as if you were two different people."
"I used to be Brynden Rivers before becoming the Three-Eyed raven. Now I… am more."
Turning around, Rick looked at his friends.
"Anyway. I dreamed of this place. Of you," Rick addressed the figure bound to the Heart Tree. "But you're the one who gave me the dream."
"Correct, I did," Brynden Rivers replied, his voice low, almost blending with the rustling of the roots around them.
"Why?" Rick's voice was sharp, laced with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity. This place, this man—no, whatever he had become—was more than he had ever imagined. The weight of it all pressed on him.
"To be my successor," Brynden answered, the words hanging in the air like the heavy scent of the earth itself.
"Successor of what?" Rick's brow furrowed, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword, though the blade was sheathed.
"The Three-Eyed Raven. It's the oldest greenseer that ever lived. The most powerful Warg too. He was there eight thousand years ago when the Others were defeated and went to their long slumber. His role is to watch the past, present, and future. To record history."
Rick's mind raced. He had heard of the Three-Eyed Raven before, in hushed whispers around campfires, from travelers, from old songs. But hearing it from the mouth of the very man who had once been that being—was something else entirely.
"… You're speaking as if you were two different people," Rick said, the disbelief thick in his voice. He took a cautious step forward, his eyes fixed on Brynden. The silence that followed was heavy, the shadows around them growing deeper.
"I used to be Brynden Rivers before becoming the Three-Eyed Raven. Now I… am more," Brynden's voice trailed off, as though the words themselves had become too difficult to grasp. There was something in his eyes—a depth that went far beyond the man he had once been.
Turning away from Brynden, Rick looked at his companions, the air thick with confusion and a growing sense of dread. He felt like he was standing on the edge of something vast, something impossible to understand.
"I heard bullshit, did you hear it too?" Rick's words were a bit too loud, his frustration bubbling over.
"Aye," Tormund replied, his voice rough with the same confusion Rick felt. His hand was instinctively hovering near his axe, though he made no move to draw it. Ygritte, ever the silent observer, simply nodded, her eyes narrowed in thought.
Rick's voice grew firmer as he looked back at Brynden, his gaze steely. "Sounds to me like you warged into one successor, then another, then another, until you finally landed in Brynden Rivers' body. And now you want me. Well, sorry to say this, but it's not going to happen."
Brynden's gaze, if anything, became even more intense, though his voice remained calm, almost detached. "You have no choice."
"He does! For he is the Old Gods' chosen!"
"He does! For he is the Old Gods' chosen!"
The words rang out in a voice that was both commanding and filled with an undeniable certainty. But it was not the voice that caught everyone off guard; it was the sight that followed.
From behind them, the voice seemed to carry on the air like a gentle breeze. Rick's eyes snapped to the source, his heart skipping a beat. There, standing with an otherworldly grace, was a figure so striking, so impossibly beautiful, that the very sight of her took his breath away.
A seven-foot-tall woman, draped in white furs that shimmered faintly, like snow in the moonlight. Her hair was a brilliant white, cascading down her back in waves that seemed to glow with an ethereal light, each strand seemingly alive with a purity that no mortal hair could ever possess. Her skin was the soft, pale pink of freshly fallen snow, smooth and flawless, accentuating the delicate yet powerful presence she exuded. But it was her eyes—those eyes—that commanded every ounce of his attention. Deep, dark blue, as if they held the very depths of the oceans within them. They gleamed with a knowing wisdom, a beauty so profound that it felt as though they had seen the rise and fall of ages, and yet, they were filled with warmth, understanding, and something even more—a bond.
Her lips were full and rosy, naturally curved into a soft, kind smile that held more warmth than a thousand suns. It was a smile that seemed to radiate life, a smile that could melt the coldest heart and lift the heaviest spirit. Every inch of her was captivating, her presence commanding, and yet there was something incredibly soothing about her, as if her very essence belonged to this world but was not of it.
"Freyja?" His voice trembled, the question barely escaping his lips, as though saying her name would somehow shatter the world around him.
"What?!" Tormund and Ygritte exclaimed in disbelief, their voices overlapping in shocked astonishment. Both of them took a step back, their eyes wide as they struggled to comprehend the sight before them.
The towering woman, with her flawless beauty and presence that seemed to bend the very air around her, seemed too otherworldly to be real. They had heard stories of beings like her—tales passed down by the Free Folk, of gods and spirits who walked in mortal forms—but to see it before their very eyes, standing in front of them in the flesh, was something beyond their wildest imaginings.
But Rick's focus was solely on her. As the shock began to wear off, he was drawn to the way she looked at him—those deep, dark blue eyes that seemed to hold more wisdom and understanding than a lifetime could offer. When she smiled, it was like the sun breaking through a storm, warm and gentle, as if offering him reassurance. Her kindness, her warmth, wrapped around him like a comforting embrace, even though they were separated by the cold, harsh landscape.
It was that smile—the way it softened her features and filled the space around them with a gentle, undeniable warmth—that confirmed everything Rick had been trying to deny. The affection in her expression, the trust and power radiating from her, and the undeniable connection he felt in his chest were all signs he could no longer ignore. She was the same Freyja—the primal, untamed spirit who had guided him, and yet here she stood before him, tangible and real in a form he had never expected.
"He is to be my successor! The Old Gods—"
"Allow you to live, Raven," Freyja interrupted, her voice calm yet carrying an unmistakable authority that echoed through the cavern. "Make no mistake—your existence is permitted, not ordained. Should you so much as lay a single finger on their chosen one, they will erase you."
Brynden Rivers stiffened, his single red eye blazing with fury, but he did not dare speak over her.
"Remember this well," Freyja continued, stepping forward, the very air around her charged with something ancient and undeniable. "You live only because you are fused with the heart tree—their vessel. But that link is not unbreakable. The Old Gods can cast you out, just as easily as they allowed you in." She tilted her head slightly, her deep blue eyes glinting like ice. "And when that happens, the singers will not save you."
A tense silence settled in the cavern, thick with unseen forces pressing down upon them. The children of the forest, lingering in the shadows, remained still—watchful, yet making no move to intervene.
Brynden's expression twisted in barely restrained rage. He clenched his jaw, his gnarled fingers curling like talons against the weirwood bark. Finally, through gritted teeth, he spat out, "FINE!" The word reverberated through the cavern, laced with frustration and bitter defeat.
Ygritte, who had been observing the exchange with increasing bewilderment, finally found her voice. She turned to Rick, her brows furrowed, her fiery hair catching the flickering torchlight.
"What chosen one?" she demanded. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Walking toward Rick with an almost ethereal grace, Freyja stopped only when she was right in front of him—closer than anyone else would dare. Her presence was overwhelming, a force of nature in human form. The difference in height between them was stark, yet she didn't seem to care in the slightest. Raising one delicate yet undeniably strong hand, she cupped his cheek with a warmth that sent an unexpected shiver down his spine. Her touch was soft, reverent, as if she had known him far longer than was possible.
"The chosen one is the one who will bring the dawn—by defeating the Others once and for all."
The weight of her words crashed over them like a tidal wave. Ygritte and Tormund's eyes went impossibly wide, staring at Rick as if he had suddenly grown a second head. Ygritte's mouth opened and closed, lost for words, while Tormund just gawked.
Rick, however, scowled. A deep frown creased his brow, and he took a step back, pulling away from her touch.
"I'm no chosen one," he shot back, his voice sharp with disbelief. "I'm five and ten, for fuck's sake!"
Freyja tilted her head slightly, her snowy locks cascading over her shoulders like silk spun from moonlight. "But you won't always be."
His frustration flared. "And what the hell are you? How are you human now? Are you a witch? A direwolf with magic? What are you?"
"She's the Mother," came the quiet voice of the child who had led them there.
Rick's head snapped toward them. "Mother of what?"
The child met his gaze solemnly. "Of the North. Of the direwolves. I was the first, created by the Old Gods," Freyja explained, her voice steady, unwavering. "While the heart trees are their eyes and ears, I am their hands. I act on their wishes and their wishes alone."
Ygritte still looked skeptical, her brows furrowed. "And what exactly do you do?"
"I once guided the animals, keeping the balance—ensuring they were never too many nor too few. But my duty was not only to the wild. I led the singers when they were lost, and later, the First Men when they strayed too far."
"Used to?" Rick echoed, raising an eyebrow.
A shadow passed over Freyja's stunning features, and for the first time, her expression darkened. She turned her gaze toward the child of the forest, her deep blue eyes narrowing. The small creature lowered its head, shame clear in its stance.
"The actions of the singers during the war against the First Men drained me of much of my power," she admitted, her voice heavy with something close to sorrow. "I was forced into slumber for thousands of years just to survive."
Rick's confusion only deepened. "What do you mean?"
Freyja shook her head slightly. "I don't know, Leaf." Then, turning her attention back to the child, she said, "What do I mean?"
The child hesitated, shifting uneasily before finally speaking.
"During the war against the First Men… we were losing. Badly." Their voice wavered, thick with old guilt. "We were overwhelmed by their sheer numbers. Breaking the Arm of Dorne and flooding the Neck had not been enough to stop them. In desperation, we… we captured one of them. And then we used magic to… to change him."
"Into what?" Rick demanded, his voice sharp with disbelief.
"The Night King," Leaf answered, the weight of history pressing into their small frame.
"The Night King?" Rick repeated, as if saying it out loud would make it less real.
"The very first of the Others."
"What?!" the trio exclaimed in unison, their voices echoing in the cavern.
"At first, he was under our control," Leaf continued, their tone heavy with regret. "For every enemy he slew, his strength grew. At first, a small army. Then a larger one. Then larger still…" Their gaze flickered downward. "Until his power outgrew ours. He broke free of our hold. He turned on us. He turned on everything that lived."
Rick clenched his jaw, his mind reeling. "And so, what? You just lost control of your own creation and watched him slaughter everything in his path?"
"No," Leaf said solemnly. "We fought. We all fought. We set aside our hatred of the First Men and forged an alliance, knowing that if we didn't, we would all perish. Thus began the War for the Dawn."
"The Night King's power was immense," they went on. "So great that he plunged the world into an eternal night. The sun did not rise. Without its warmth, the world began to die."
Silence settled heavily over the group.
"And?" Freyja pressed, her voice calm but insistent, her dark blue eyes boring into Leaf.
Leaf swallowed hard. "And you, Mother, used nearly all of your magic to counter the Night King's power—fighting back the endless night, ensuring that the land did not freeze beyond saving. You made sure we had food, that we could survive and continue the fight."
Rick, Ygritte, and Tormund turned to Freyja, stunned. She had been that instrumental in the survival of the living?
Leaf's voice was barely above a whisper now. "And we fought on until Azor Ahai finally defeated the Night King—wounding him so grievously that he was forced into slumber."
"Yes," Freyja murmured, nodding slightly, her expression unreadable.
The revelation was staggering.
The Children of the Forest had created the Others.The Long Night had not simply been an invasion—it had been a catastrophe of their own making.
And Freyja…
She wasn't just some powerful being. She wasn't just an ancient direwolf with magic. She was something far greater.She had shaped history.She was an avatar of the Old Gods themselves.
The trio stood in stunned silence, their minds whirling.None of them knew quite what to think.
Tormund stepped forward, hope burning in his eyes. "Can you help us then? Fight them back?"
Freyja's expression softened, but her voice was tinged with sorrow. "Not anymore. My strength comes from the weirwood trees—the heart trees. But with the invasion of the Andals and their accursed false gods, they were cut down. Every last one south of the Neck." She exhaled, her gaze distant, haunted by centuries of loss. "Those fools may have doomed us all."
The weight of her words settled heavily on them. But then, she smiled—calm, assured, knowing.
"But there is still hope."
Ygritte's sharp eyes flicked to Rick. "… Him."
"Yes."
Rick stiffened. "Why me?"
Freyja's deep, dark blue eyes seemed to pierce through him, seeing beyond flesh and bone, into something more. "Because in your veins flows ice and fire—two of the most powerful bloodlines that have ever existed. Just like Azor Ahai. Just like the Last Hero." She tilted her head slightly. "No, even they did not possess the magic you do."
Rick scoffed, his jaw tightening. "I'm not special."
Freyja's lips curled into a faint, almost sad smile. "Your little sister does not have even a tenth of your power."
His stomach twisted. "… Why?"
"Because you were conceived on the Isle of Faces, surrounded by heart trees. The Old Gods ensured that you would be the one."
Rick's breath hitched. His pulse thundered in his ears. "And my sister wasn't."
"No."
"So what?" His voice was low, dangerous. "They made me? Like some kind of clay puppet, flesh and bone instead of mud? To do their bidding, like a slave?" His fingers curled into fists. "Isn't that hypocritical when they preach that slavery is forbidden?"
Freyja met his fury with unshaken calm. "You are free to do whatever you wish. Fight the Others, or don't. The choice is yours."
Rick let out a bitter laugh, the weight of destiny pressing down on his shoulders like a mountain. "And what a choice it is!" he snapped, his voice raw with frustration. "Damn it all!"
Brynden's voice slithered through the air, smooth and insidious. "You could always become my—"
"Shut the fuck up!"
Before anyone could react, Rick's arm moved on instinct. His dagger flashed in the torchlight, spinning through the air with deadly precision.
It buried itself in Brynden Rivers' throat.
The Three-Eyed Raven's single eye went wide, a choked gurgle escaping his lips as black blood bubbled from the wound. He clutched at his throat, fingers twitching uselessly, his form jerking violently against the heart tree.
His rasping breaths turned to wet, strangled gasps.
And then—
Silence.
Brynden Rivers—the spymaster, the sorcerer, the greenseer who had lived beyond a mortal span—slumped against the weirwood. His body stilled.
And the last breath of the Three-Eyed Raven left his lips.
The child's voice rang with horror. "What did you do?!"
Other children of the forest emerged from the shadows, their wide, glowing eyes fixed on Brynden Rivers' lifeless body. Their tiny faces were masks of shock and fear.
Rick turned to them, utterly unfazed. "I killed a cunt. Won't be missed."
"You doomed us all!" one of the singers cried. "He was protecting us!"
"From what?" Rick shot back, his voice sharp with disdain. "The Others? Did you really think you could just hide while men and women bled and died fighting your creation? Did you think they wouldn't find you? That they wouldn't slaughter you all the moment they did?" His gaze swept over the small, trembling creatures. "No. You were never safe."
A ripple of silence followed.
Then, a slow, satisfied hum left Freyja's lips. Her dark blue eyes gleamed with something close to pride. "He's correct."
The children turned to her, desperate. "But, Mother! There are so few of us left!" one of the newcomers pleaded.
"For now," Freyja said, her voice steady, eternal. "But one day… there will be more."
Rick's mind raced. His thoughts strung themselves together like pieces of an ancient puzzle suddenly falling into place. He whispered, "The heart trees…"
Freyja nodded. "Yes."
"The more heart trees there are, the more power you have. The stronger the Old Gods become. And the more children are born." His voice grew stronger. "That's what they meant when they spoke to me—'Spread our word. Give us eyes. Give us ears.'"
Freyja's lips curved into a pleased smile. "They want you to grow heart trees."
Rick's hands curled into fists. The weight of the revelation settled in his chest. "Then I have to do it."
Tormund, who had been silent up until now, let out a bitter scoff. "But you said you couldn't help! And it would take decades to grow even one tree!"
Freyja turned her gaze to him, unshaken. "I can help. I can guide their growth. But yes, it will take time." Then she looked back at Rick, her expression softer. "My role this time is different. I am to protect you. To guide you. Until you are ready."
Rick exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "The Old Gods told me to learn. What will you teach me?"
Freyja's voice became solemn, a voice of ages long past. "Wights can be destroyed for good with fire, dragonglass, or dragon steel—what you now call Valyrian steel. The Others, however, can only be slain by dragonglass or Valyrian steel."
Tormund, ever the optimist, grinned. "Well, that's good news. Where can we find some?"
Freyja shook her head. "Valyrian steel… is the finest steel ever forged. It is said to be imbued with magic, stronger than any blade made since." She hesitated. "It was created by my ancestors—the Valyrians."
Ygritte crossed her arms. "Good. Let's make some."
Rick let out a hollow laugh. "It's impossible. The secret of forging Valyrian steel was lost in the Doom."
Ygritte frowned. "The Doom of what?"
Rick sighed, rubbing his temples. "Valyria. The Valyrians lived on a peninsula. Four hundred years ago, the entire land was destroyed. Everything. The cities, the people—gone. It's a wasteland now. A cursed ruin." His voice dropped lower. "Many have tried to go there. Hundreds, thousands even. Only one person ever made it back… and they died within the day from atrocious wounds and monsters parasitizing their body."
Tormund groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. "We're fucked then." His usual bravado was dimmed by the weight of their predicament.
"No." Ygritte's voice was firm. "We can still find this dragonglass."
Rick's brow furrowed as he turned to Freyja. "Maybe it's known by another name?"
Freyja nodded, her dark blue eyes thoughtful. "It is called obsidian or frozen fire. It is found in volcanic regions."
Rick's heart stuttered. A cold realization spread through his chest like ice cracking over a frozen river.
"Fuuuuuck." The word escaped him in a sharp breath.
Ygritte tensed. "What?"
Rick met her gaze. "Ygritte… Valyria. That's where the volcanoes are."
A heavy silence followed. Then—
"… Damn!"
Tormund let out a bitter chuckle. "Well, there's a whole cursed place we can't go. That's helpful."
Freyja, however, remained composed. "It might not be the only place. We must search." Her voice was steady, unwavering. "Either way, we have nothing more to do here. And even though we have, at best, a decade before the Others are ready… we must prepare."
Ygritte glanced at Rick. "Go? Go where?"
Rick's expression hardened with resolve. "To make alliances."
Ygritte's eyes narrowed. "You mean unifying the Free Folk."
Tormund exhaled slowly, studying Rick. "… You want to meet with Mance."
Rick nodded. "Yes. I want to meet him."
Tormund held his gaze for a long moment before he spoke.
"… Can be done," he admitted, but there was a warning in his tone. "Can't promise you'll get what you want. Or that you'll keep your life."
Rick smirked, dark and knowing. "Not much of a choice now, is there?"
Tormund let out a low chuckle. "… No."
As they made their final preparations to leave, Freyja shifted.
One moment, she stood before them as a breathtaking woman—tall, ethereal, her pale skin almost glowing in the dim light, her silver-white hair cascading over her shoulders. Then, as if melting like candle wax, her form began to shift. Her bones crackled, muscles reknit, and flesh reshaped, flowing seamlessly from woman to beast.
In the span of a breath, the transformation was complete. Where she once stood, now crouched the enormous direwolf—her thick white fur rippling with power, dark blue eyes gleaming with something ancient and knowing.
Tormund and Ygritte gawked, their mouths hanging open. Even after all they had seen, witnessing Freyja's unnatural fluidity between her forms was something that defied all reason.
A sharp bark from her jolted them back to reality.
Rick, shaking off his own lingering astonishment, stepped forward without hesitation. He secured their packs to the straps on either side of her broad frame, giving her a firm pat when he was done. She huffed in approval.
They turned to leave, but just as they reached the entrance, a voice stopped them.
"Wait."
Rick turned back.
One of the children—her small, delicate frame half-hidden in the flickering light—had stepped forward. Without another word, she moved toward the heart tree, its red leaves rustling in the cavern's still air. She knelt beside the gnarled roots, right where the blood of the Three-Eyed Raven had soaked into the earth.
Her small hands pressed between the twisted roots, searching, feeling. Then, with a grunt of effort, she pulled something free.
A bow.
Rick's breath caught in his throat.The bow was long and white, carved from ancient weirwood. A quiver followed, filled with arrows fletched with dark feathers.
Brynden Rivers' own bow.
But the child wasn't done. Without hesitation, she plunged her hands back into the roots. This time, she didn't struggle. It was as if whatever lay hidden there wanted to be found. When she finally drew her hands back, they carried something far heavier.
A sword.
Rick's heart pounded as he stepped forward. The weapon was sheathed in a worn black scabbard, but the moment he saw it, he knew.
"Fuck me." The curse slipped out before he could stop it.
Tormund frowned. "What is it?"
The child stepped closer and extended the sword toward him. Rick took it with steady hands, his fingers curling around the hilt. He could feel the weight of history in its grip.
With a slow, measured breath, he drew the blade.The moment it left its scabbard, the air seemed to shift. The steel was black as night, but along its surface ran ripples of deep crimson, like veins of frozen fire. Smoke-like patterns coiled in the metal, shifting as the light caught them.
"Dark Sister."
Ygritte tilted her head. "Dark Sister?"
Rick nodded, his voice steady. "An ancestral sword of my family. Lost for generations." He ran his fingers over the rippling steel, feeling the ancient magic thrumming beneath the surface. "See these veins? The way the red looks like moving smoke?"
Ygritte stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. "Yeah?"
"That's the mark of Valyrian steel."
It was unlike any sword Rick had ever seen—elegant and deadly in its slender, almost delicate design. The blade was impossibly thin, finer than a regular longsword, yet somehow radiated an aura of power that belied its size. The steel was so finely crafted, it looked like it could slice through the air with barely a whisper. The hilt was equally as refined, long and slender, the guard forming a flame-like curve that seemed to dance in the light. The pommel was no less striking, shaped into a small, flickering fire, as if the weapon itself had been forged in the heart of a dragon's breath.
On either side of the crossguard, two large dark rubies were set into the metal, each one reflecting the dim glow of the cavern with an ominous gleam. They were as black as the night sky and as red as blood, sending a shiver down Rick's spine as he examined them. The weight of history was evident in every inch of the blade, and Rick could feel it—the power that had once belonged to some of the greatest warriors of the Targaryen bloodline.
There was no mistaking it. This was the famous sword, the one that had been wielded by the legendary warriors of House Targaryen—Visenya Targaryen, the Warrior Queen; Aemon Targaryen, the DragonKnight; Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince. Rick's breath caught in his throat as he realized the significance of what he held in his hands. This was no ordinary weapon. This was a blade forged for the gods themselves.
Tormund, ever the skeptic, was less impressed. He squinted at the weapon, his expression one of bemusement. "It looks like a toothpick."
Rick chuckled, the tension easing from his shoulders as he gave the sword a fond look. "That's because it was made for the hand of a woman. The first recorded to wield it was my many-times-great aunt, Visenya Targaryen. They called her the Warrior Queen. Don't be deceived, though—it may look light, but it's almost indestructible. No man—or monster—could ever break it."
The words lingered in the air, heavy with the weight of legacy. The blade was more than just a weapon—it was a symbol, a piece of history that had cut through the pages of time, surviving wars, betrayals, and the fall of entire dynasties. As Rick ran his fingers over the hilt, he could almost hear the echoes of those who had wielded it before him, each strike they had made carving a path into legend.
With a careful, almost reverent motion, Rick slid the sword back into its scabbard, the blade fitting perfectly as if it had been made just for him. The weight of the weapon, though light, seemed to hum with an ancient power, a reminder of the countless hands that had once held it. He fastened the scabbard around his waist with practiced ease, the leather straps tightening securely against his side.
Next, Rick took the weirwood bow, feeling the smooth, cool surface of the wood against his palm. It was lighter than he expected, its fine craftsmanship unmistakable. The quiver, filled with arrows, was fastened across his back, its weight comforting in its familiarity. He could feel the pull of his family's history in every inch of the bow, a connection to those who had wielded it before him. He looked over at Freyja, who stood patiently, awaiting the next move. With a swift motion, he secured both the bow and quiver onto her back, knowing that their journey ahead would require every weapon they had.
Ygritte, her eyes lingering on the bow, stepped forward, a glint of longing in her gaze. "Can I have it?" she asked, her voice soft but hopeful.
Rick glanced at her, his expression unreadable, before shaking his head firmly. "This too is an heirloom of my family," he explained, his tone steady. "It's been passed down through the generations. I can't give it up. You can keep the one I give you though."
Ygritte's face darkened slightly, but she didn't press further. Her eyes shifted to the ground, her disappointment barely hidden behind a mask of indifference. She had learned long ago that there were some things you didn't push—some things that, no matter how much you wanted them, were out of reach. It wasn't like she hadn't got a better bow than she had before she met Rick.
With a final nod, the group began their trek back to the surface. The silence that followed felt heavier than before, the weight of their shared history and the weapons now on their backs making the air feel thick. The sunlight above them beckoned, but the path ahead would not be so easily navigated. As they emerged from the cave, the world outside felt different—sharper, more urgent. Every step they took, every moment, seemed to lead them closer to something far greater than any of them had anticipated. And still, Rick knew that this was only the beginning.