Tormund had led Rick and Freyja to a small tent, no more than a modest shelter, tucked away not far from his own. It was the sort of place that could have been used by any of the Free Folk, unadorned and bare. There was nothing inside but cold, empty space. No furs to keep the chill at bay, no linen to soften the harshness of the earth beneath. It was just an open, waiting canvas—no warmth, no comfort. But Rick didn't mind. In fact, he was grateful for it. He didn't need luxury or even a semblance of coziness. All he wanted was a place to rest his body, to find a moment of peace after the endless days of travel and tension.
Without a second thought, he slumped down against Freyja's side, leaning into her, feeling the warmth of her thick fur against his skin. For a moment, the cold, the exhaustion, and the weight of everything that had come before slipped away. It was like sinking into a sanctuary, her presence calming something deep within him. That is, until she decided to lick his face.
"By the gods..." Rick grimaced, recoiling from the feeling of her rough tongue against his skin. The sheer absurdity of it made him want to laugh, but he was too tired to do anything but wipe his face in mock annoyance. Freyja, however, seemed entirely unbothered.
"What do you think?" Rick asked, his voice barely above a murmur as he leaned back against the cold, hard wall of the tent. His eyes followed the movement of Tormund, who was lingering by the entrance, seemingly caught in thought.
Tormund's lips curled into a wry grin. "That you're still alive. That means Mance is considering what you said."
Rick's reply came without hesitation. "He wouldn't have broken guest rights. He would've lost too much respect among his people."
"Aye," Tormund said, nodding gravely, "that's true enough."
Rick sighed, shifting slightly. He'd expected this conversation. The redhead had a way of playing things close to the chest, his thoughts a riddle wrapped in mystery. "I meant… what do you really think about all of it? We've traveled for days, met the children of the forest, and faced things no man should, yet you've kept silent. Never once have you voiced your opinion on any of it. What's on your mind?"
Tormund's gaze flickered to the ground for a long moment, then he met Rick's eyes. His expression was serious now, though tinged with that same hint of mischief. "...I think that when the messenger of the gods talks, you listen. Gods don't send messengers for nothing, especially not her." He paused, then added, the humor returning to his voice, "Though, I doubt you're fated to kill that Night King bastard with how much of a twig you are."
Rick let out a dry chuckle, the smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite the grimness of the situation. "Yeah, I'm with you on that one."
Tormund clapped Rick on the shoulder before turning and leaving the tent with a muttered, "Rest well. We'll talk more when the time's right."
Rick sank into the cold, empty space of the tent, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him as the distant sounds of the Free Folk's camp buzzed beyond the canvas walls. He didn't speak immediately, but when he did, the words seemed to spill from his mouth, heavy with the realization of how much had changed, how much was now expected of him.
"I'm just… me. A five-and-ten discarded prince who barely knows how to fight. And I'm supposed to kill the biggest son of a whore to walk the earth in eight thousand years? Alone?" His voice was barely a whisper, the absurdity of it all curling in his chest like a bad taste he couldn't get rid of.
"Not alone," the voice of the Old Gods' messenger murmured softly, the words imbued with a warmth and assurance that cut through Rick's doubt like a sword through fog.
Rick blinked in surprise, his mind racing to catch up with the unexpected change. In the span of a breath, Freyja had shifted, her towering form now that of a woman, her long white hair cascading like a river of snow. The space around them seemed to pulse with a quiet power, as if the world itself held its breath.
Before Rick could react, his body was gently pulled back, his legs giving way beneath him as her immense, silken warmth enveloped him. His head fell back, his skull making contact with the soft, yet firm swell of her chest. For a fleeting moment, he was suspended in that perfect stillness, the world outside falling away as he was cradled by her, her body a comforting sanctuary of strength and warmth.
Freyja's form, though human, radiated an ethereal, almost otherworldly presence. Her skin, pale as moonlight, seemed to glow in the dimness of the tent. Her dark blue eyes, deep as the northern sky, watched him with an unreadable expression, a mixture of concern and an ancient wisdom that spoke of ages beyond reckoning.
As she lay down beside him, her form was impossibly graceful, yet the weight of her body was undeniable. The curve of her body was like a shield around him, a protective fortress in the chaos of the world beyond. Her chest rose and fell with the gentle rhythm of her breathing, and the scent of the wild—earth, snow, and something ancient—clung to her, soothing the unease that had knotted itself in Rick's chest.
For a moment, he could do nothing but lie there, the rush of his thoughts slowly quieting, replaced by the steady thrum of her heartbeat beneath his ear. It was a strange, almost disorienting feeling, this closeness to something so vast and ancient. The warmth of her body pressed against his like a balm, chasing away the cold of the world outside.
And as her arms gently curled around him, pulling him closer, Rick realized that perhaps, for the first time in this wild, uncertain journey, he wasn't truly alone.
"You will lead men and women to battle. Yours is the fight against the Night King, but you need an army to fight his and get to him."
Freyja's voice was calm, unwavering, but Rick could hear the weight of her words. The magnitude of what she was asking him to do was almost too much to bear. His breath hitched as his mind struggled to process it.
"What army?" Rick scoffed, his voice bitter and tinged with disbelief. "Do you see anyone here who's ready to follow me? Willing to let me lead them into that fight? Get real, Freyja. I'm a prince of nothing, a nobody with barely enough experience to hold a sword properly. Who the hell would follow me?"
He threw up his hands, frustration boiling over, the absurdity of it all choking him. The words of prophecy and destiny felt like chains tightening around his chest. How was he supposed to carry the weight of it all?
"In time, you will," Freyja replied, her voice unshaken, as though she had known this moment would come. "You just need to prove yourself. You will lead them. They will follow, but only when they see the strength within you."
"How?" Rick's voice came out low, filled with disbelief. "How am I supposed to prove myself? You're asking me to lead men and women into the heart of death itself. How does that happen? With a wave of your hand?"
Freyja's eyes flickered with ancient wisdom, the weight of millennia evident in her gaze. "By bringing back the dragons, for starters. By finding Valyrian steel."
Rick's jaw tightened, and he stared at her, as though she'd lost her mind. "You're crazy. I'd need to go to Valyria, the ruins of that cursed place? Have you lost your sense? No sane person would venture there."
She did not flinch. She simply nodded. "Then going to Valyria, you will. You're not alone, Rick. The gods will help you. And you will find what you need."
Her words were like fire and ice at the same time—irresistibly true and terrifyingly impossible. He couldn't fathom the task she laid before him, but her certainty made him question his own doubts. Perhaps there was something more at play here, something beyond his understanding, but how could he trust in the unseen?
Rick ran a hand through his hair, his mind spinning with the weight of it all. The journey ahead seemed so daunting, so monumental, but the possibility of it—that glimmer of hope—was too tempting to ignore.
With a heavy sigh, Rick turned toward his gear. The cold of the night pressed in, reminding him that despite the gods' promises, the reality of what lay ahead was his to face alone. He opened one of his large bags, the one Freyja had carried for their journey, and pulled out the thick bear fur. His coat followed, heavy and worn, but comforting.
As he lay it all out, preparing to rest, his thoughts still swirled, but somewhere beneath the doubt, the exhaustion, and the terror, there was a flicker of resolve. He didn't know how it would all unfold, but the fire inside him—no matter how faint—was beginning to burn brighter. Maybe he could do it. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't as alone as he'd thought.
"Are you not turning back?" he asked his white haired companion. He really wished she would so he could keep warm thanks to her fur.
To his shock, Freyja silently removed her white clothes and joined him under the cover, her presence exuding both warmth and calm. Without saying a word, she pressed against his back, her body molding perfectly against his, offering comfort and reassurance in the cold darkness.
Rick froze for a moment, his mind spinning as the closeness took him by surprise. He had never been in such an intimate situation, and the warmth of her body was overwhelming. Freyja was not just a beautiful woman; she was a being of immense power, someone he had come to trust and depend on, and yet this sudden closeness stirred emotions he wasn't sure how to process.
His heart raced as he tried to control the waves of panic rising within him. He felt vulnerable in a way he had never experienced before. The sudden awareness of her presence was intoxicating, making it hard to think clearly. His thoughts were clouded by a mix of emotions—confusion, awe, and a deep sense of warmth—but he couldn't deny the deep connection he felt to her in that moment.
"W-Wh… What are you doing?" His voice cracked at first, caught off guard by her unexpected proximity, but he quickly regained control, his tone a mix of confusion and hesitation.
"Keeping my mate warm," she responded simply, her voice carrying an almost serene confidence, as if her words were not unusual in the slightest.
"Your mate?!" Rick's heart raced as he tried to twist around, but Freyja's strong hands held him in place, her grip firm but not cruel.
"Yes," she confirmed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her body radiated warmth against his, and despite the confusion, part of him found comfort in it. But his mind raced with a thousand questions, none of them making any sense.
"What the bloody seven hells?!" Rick blurted out, the surprise and shock slipping through despite his best efforts to stay composed.
Freyja's response was immediate and sharp, the growl in her voice enough to send a shiver down his spine. "Don't blaspheme!" she snarled, her words a vicious reprimand that sent a pang of fear straight to his chest. He instinctively recoiled, but her hold on him was unyielding, leaving him trapped between her warmth and the fear surging through his body.
"I... Hm... Sorry?" Rick stammered, his heart pounding. He didn't know if he was apologizing for the blasphemy or for being overwhelmed by her presence. Both seemed warranted.
"It's fine. I'm sorry too," Freyja's voice softened, the sharpness gone, replaced by something gentler—something almost apologetic. "I'm not used to this heretical idiom."
Rick nodded, swallowing hard. "...Okay. I'll... watch what I say from now on, but—what do you mean by mate?"
Her answer came with a calmness that contrasted the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind. "I was chosen to bear your children by the Old Gods. To be the mother of a new dynasty whose blood is strong in magic. Just as I was with Brandon the Stark."
Rick froze, his mind racing to process the words, his thoughts a tangled mess. "...You mean..." His voice trailed off as he tried to make sense of the impossible idea she'd just dropped on him.
"No," she interrupted gently but firmly. "I'm not your ancestor. What I meant was that I gave my blood to Bran the Stark. It was through my magic that his line gained the ability to warg and their affinity with direwolves and wolves. The first direwolves came from my womb, created by the magic of the Old Gods and the blood of your ancestors."
Rick exhaled in relief, the tension draining from his body as he processed her words. He had half-expected some horrific, incomprehensible revelation, but what she had said was not what he'd feared. He wasn't being pursued by some distant ancestor, some ancient bloodline haunting him with demands.
His heart slowed, and he let out a quiet laugh, the absurdity of it all finally sinking in. "Well... that's a relief," he muttered, more to himself than to her, his mind still trying to grasp the weight of her words.
"I'm not your mate, then. For a moment, I thought you meant… That we would…"
"We will."
"…WHAT?!"
"We will unite, Rick. Our bond is destined to bring forth a new generation—one that is stronger, imbued with the power of the old gods."
"But you just said…"
"Bran the Stark wasn't the one. I didn't love him as the gods intended. My connection to him was not one of the heart. The old gods never spoke of laying with him. I was only meant to bless him with my gifts. But with you…" She spoke softly, her voice filled with an ancient understanding. "With you, it is different. You are the one chosen to walk this path with me. Together, we will create new life—direwolves and humans, intertwined in strength and magic."
"Don't I have a say in this? What about love?"
"You do, Rick. You always have a choice. As for love, I do love you—more deeply than you may realize. This union, this bond, is not just about prophecy or destiny. It is about the strength we will share, the future we will build together."
Rick's thoughts raced. He tried to piece together the truth from the fragments of her words, but it all felt like a puzzle with too many pieces, each one leading him further into a maze. The way she spoke about their future—how she would give him both children and direwolves, how they were somehow tied by fate—left him reeling.
No matter how breathtaking she was, how stunning in her otherworldly beauty, Rick wasn't ready to simply embrace this strange, uncharted path. There was too much he didn't understand, too many questions clouding his mind. How could he simply accept such a claim? Was this truly his destiny? He didn't know. And the one thing he did know? He had a say in it, as she had said. And right now, that voice within him was screaming no. The flood of emotions, questions, and uncertainties overwhelmed him, and he wasn't ready to walk down a road he didn't fully comprehend—no matter how much it seemed to be carved by fate itself.
Why the sudden… intimacy?" Rick asked, trying to wrap his head around her words.
"Because there are only the two of us now," Freyja replied, her voice steady, though there was an unmistakable weight to her words.
"And before you saved Tormund and Ygritte?" Rick pressed, his curiosity growing as he tried to piece everything together.
"My magic couldn't allow me to take my human form," Freyja explained, her gaze distant, as though recalling ancient memories. "You have to understand, I awoke from my slumber mere days before we met. My rest and healing had been prolonged the more the heretics cut down the heart trees. The more they destroyed, the slower I healed. Had the Andals not invaded... I would have awoken two thousand years ago. By now, I would almost be at full power." She paused, looking down at her hands, a faint trace of sadness in her eyes. "As it is, I can freely shift between forms and warg a bit, but my magic is... low. It's fragile. And so is my strength."
"So more heart trees would help you recuperate faster?" Rick asked, trying to make sense of it all. He could feel the weight of her burden, the long centuries of healing and waiting.
"Yes," Freyja nodded, her voice soft but clear. "Heart trees are sacred. Their power feeds from the magic of the Old Gods. But there is another way… A faster way."
Rick raised an eyebrow. "Another way?" He felt a knot in his stomach form, sensing she was about to say something more.
"Through… mating," Freyja said, her words carefully chosen. "By absorbing your essence—your magic, in your seed—my power would replenish far quicker."
Rick blinked, a slow realization dawning on him. "Of course, it's through that. Couldn't be any other way," he muttered dryly, though a part of him was trying to hide his confusion and discomfort.
"I could drink your blood," she offered, but Rick's eyes widened at the thought. "It would be even faster, but it's too dangerous for you. You would become anemic, and we can't have that. Not when you need a strong, healthy body to face the Night King. Mating… is really the best way."
Rick's lips parted, but for a moment, he didn't have the words. He wasn't sure what to make of it. The idea of having any connection with Freyja was overwhelming, both for the weight of the responsibility and for the intimacy it suggested. But his curiosity couldn't be stilled.
"You do not seem enthusiastic about the idea," Freyja said, her tone soft but with an edge of sadness. "Do my appearance displease you?"
Rick, still caught in a swirl of thoughts, shook his head. "No. Why, can you alter it?"
"No," she said simply. "It is the form the Old Gods gave me. I cannot change it. Just like I cannot change my shape as a direwolf. I can only shift from one form to the other."
The revelation settled between them, and for a long moment, Rick sat there, taking it all in. The weight of Freyja's words wasn't lost on him. She was an ancient being, connected to powers older than the kingdoms of men, and she was choosing him as her mate to fulfill a prophecy, to restore her magic, to ensure the survival of something far greater than either of them.
Rick decided it was enough for the day and let his exhaustion pull him into sleep. His body ached, his mind swirled with confusion and uncertainty, but sleep, sweet sleep, took over. As he drifted off, he didn't dream of cold white winds, nor did he see the death-ridden visions of the Night King's rise. There were no dreams of the three-eyed raven either. Those had vanished the moment he killed it. It didn't matter now. That part of his life seemed to have faded, just like the raven's cryptic words.
What consumed his thoughts now was a new dream, one that he had never seen before but could feel in the very marrow of his bones. It was a vision of solid fire—a living, breathing thing of molten intensity—and of a brown-red mountain that loomed before him. The mountain was ancient, worn by time, its surface cracked and weathered, yet there was something undeniably imposing about it. He could make out faint carvings in the stone, but they were worn down by centuries, weathered beyond recognition by wind and rain, the etchings almost lost to time.
Still, Rick's gaze lingered on them, focusing with what little clarity he had. A shape began to form, a colossal figure emerging from the blur. It was the image of a dragon, but not just any dragon. This one was unlike any creature he had ever imagined. Its size was so vast, so incomprehensible, that Rick's mind simply couldn't grasp it. It was as if the dragon's size could swallow the very world around it. Even in the dream, he lacked the words to describe it—couldn't describe it. No language, no metaphor, no image could encompass its grandeur.
But there was more to the vision. As he tried to focus, he noticed that the dragon wasn't alone. Smaller dragons surrounded it, dwarfed by its presence, their forms barely visible in comparison. Humans were there too, figures small and insignificant in the shadow of this towering beast, standing in awe or fear—or perhaps both. The grandeur of the scene was so intense it seemed to burn through him like the flames of the dragon itself.
As he continued to study the carving, his attention was drawn to a structure in the distance. A tall, imposing tower made of stone, still standing despite the ravages of time. Some parts of it had collapsed, the wear of centuries visible in the cracks and the broken remnants scattered at its base, yet it remained. The tower stood as a silent sentinel to a forgotten age, holding the secrets of its past, enduring through the ages, untouched by the decays of history.
Rick's heart raced in the dream, but he wasn't sure if it was fear or awe that made it beat so fast. His hand reached out instinctively, as though trying to touch the mountain or the dragon, as though the dream was a reality he could somehow claim.
The Mother of Dragons is waiting, prince. You must awaken her from her prison of stone, the voice echoed in the depths of his mind, commanding and insistent. Find her where the first flame illuminated the world. She will aid you. Now wake up, or all will be lost.
Rick's brow furrowed in confusion as the words sank into his consciousness, but they made no sense. His mind was foggy, clouded by a haze of sleep and half-formed dreams. The dream he had just had—the one with the mountain, the dragon, the ancient tower—felt so close, but now this new voice, unfamiliar and urgent, ripped through it like a jagged storm, disturbing the quiet of his thoughts.
"I don't under—" he began, his voice slow, thick with the fog of sleep.
But before he could finish, the voice came again, louder this time, piercing through the stillness with raw power.
WAKE UP!
The command was like a physical blow, a shock that jolted Rick upright, his heart thundering in his chest. His body was drenched in cold sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps as his eyes snapped open, his surroundings coming into focus. But even as he awoke, the lingering feeling of the voice—the weight of its urgency—clung to him.
The Mother of Dragons. A prison of stone. The first flame.
He knew there was something important, something crucial hidden within those words, but in that moment, all he could do was feel the pressing weight of the dream and the knowledge that whatever lay ahead, it was something he couldn't ignore.
She will help you.
The words whispered through his mind again, this time softer, but no less insistent. And suddenly, Rick knew. This wasn't a dream. This was a call to action. A mission he couldn't turn away from.
He had to find her.
Rick opened his eyes and his body jolted up. The first thing that tore Rick from his sleep was the deafening screams, shrill and terrified, cutting through the night like the shriek of a dying animal. The second thing he recognized was the unmistakable growl of Freyja, her deep voice rumbling like distant thunder, ready to pounce. It wasn't the playful warning of the direwolf he'd come to know; this was a growl laced with pure, lethal intent. Instantly, adrenaline coursed through him as he scrambled to his feet.
His hand moved instinctively to Dark Sister, the cold steel comforting in his grip as he drew it from its scabbard with practiced ease.
"Let's see what is happening," Rick muttered to himself, his voice thick with urgency.
As he stepped outside, the world erupted into chaos. The first thing that hit him was the sickening stench of rot and decay. The sight that followed shocked him to his core: Tormund, wild-eyed and axe in hand, hacking into what could only be described as the reanimated corpses of the dead. They were everywhere, clawing their way through the camp like grotesque mockeries of life. Their decayed skin was stretched tight over bone, their hollow eyes empty and lifeless, and their movements jerky, like puppets on strings.
Rick's stomach churned as his mind struggled to process the scene. Seeing them in dreams, in the shadows of his mind, was one thing—but seeing them in the flesh was another entirely. The reality of it hit him harder than he could have imagined.
Tormund was holding his ground, but the sheer number of the wights was beginning to overwhelm him. Without hesitation, Rick surged forward, his mind snapping back into focus. Dark Sister cut through the air with a whisper of death. The first wight that came at him didn't stand a chance. With one smooth, practiced swing, Rick cleaved through its decayed flesh. The steel of the Valyrian blade didn't slow, didn't hesitate; it sliced through the wight like it was nothing more than warm butter.
But there was something unsettling about it. The corpse crumpled to the ground, inert, no longer moving as if it had been taken out of existence entirely.
Rick's thoughts flashed back to Freyja's words. Valyrian steel kills them for good—no coming back.
His heart raced as the realization settled into his bones. The wight had fallen, truly fallen. It wasn't rising again.
Tormund, on the other hand, was still struggling against the relentless tide of enemies, his axe flashing in the moonlight as he fought. Rick was by his side in a heartbeat, his blade flashing again as he cut down two more of the horrors. The heavy, sickly thud of their bodies hitting the ground was a grim reminder of what they faced.
"How do you do that?!" the redhead shouted, her voice strained but full of awe as she swung her short sword, splitting a wight's skull clean in half.
"Valyrian steel, I think," Rick replied with a casual shrug, his blade still dripping with the black ichor of the undead. "Quite the toothpick."
"Aye," Tormund added, a smirk flashing on his rugged face as he cleaved another wight in two with his axe. "Seems like the damn toothpicks work wonders."
But before they could laugh or celebrate their fleeting victory, a howl split the night air. It was the unmistakable sound of Freyja's voice, low and filled with menace. Without a word, Rick's heart hammered in his chest as he turned toward the great tent—the one where Mance Rayder had greeted him just hours before.
The two men didn't hesitate. They surged forward, running at full speed, leaving a trail of fallen wights in their wake. The night seemed to press in on them as they sprinted, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood and the foul odor of rotting flesh. Each step was a strike, each swing of their blades a punishment to the dead that dared to rise again.
Finally, they arrived.
What they saw froze them both in place.
There, standing in the clearing near the tent, was something neither of them had ever seen, nor ever wanted to. It was tall—unnaturally so—its gaunt, skeletal frame draped in armor that had been weathered by centuries of cold. The armor was ancient, covered in a sheen of ice that glittered faintly under the light of the pale moon. The chill in the air seemed to be drawn toward it, a suffocating cold that gnawed at the very bones.
Its skin was a deathly shade of frostbitten blue, stretched tight across its sharp, cruel features. The high cheekbones and hollowed eyesockets gave it a face that could belong to neither man nor beast. Where a living creature's breath would have clouded in the icy night, this thing exhaled nothing—its presence was colder than the air itself, as though the very essence of death clung to it, suffocating all warmth around.
But it was the eyes that truly stopped their hearts. Twin orbs of unnatural blue fire burned within the dark sockets. There was no life in them, no warmth. They were as cold as the dead world itself, and Rick could see that these eyes had witnessed the rise and fall of countless civilizations. Empires had crumbled beneath their gaze, and this creature, this monstrous being, had watched it all—patient, merciless, eternal.
In its long fingers, it held a blade that seemed as though it had been born of the very night itself. It was unlike anything forged by men. The blade was translucent, razor-thin, and it shimmered with a pale, spectral light. At first glance, it seemed sculpted from pure ice, yet it did not melt, not even in the heat of battle. In fact, the blade seemed to radiate cold—so much so that the air around it shimmered, and Rick could feel his heart skip a beat as he realized that this weapon was something entirely otherworldly.
It was no mere sword. It was a thing of absolute cold, a weapon that could shatter steel with a single touch. Flesh would blacken and wither in its presence, long before it ever struck. The very air around it seemed to freeze, the winds dying down as if the world itself had paused in reverence of this creature's power.
And Rick, for the first time since he'd begun this journey, felt the true weight of the darkness he faced.
This was no wight, no mindless reanimated corpse. This was something older, something that had been waiting, watching, biding its time.
A White Walker.
Rick recognized some of the faces from the tent earlier, their bodies now rushing to meet the Other in a desperate, futile charge. The ice spear met every blow—whether bronze, iron, or steel—and shattered each weapon with a violent explosion of shrapnel, sending jagged shards of metal scattering in all directions. The sight sent a chill through Rick's spine, knowing the odds they were up against.
As the Other raised its spear, preparing to impale the woman with the weirdwood mask—the one who had spoken for Freyja during their earlier talk—Rick's instincts kicked in. His body moved of its own accord, rushing forward with a speed he didn't fully register.
He arrived just in time to intercept the ice spear with Dark Sister. To everyone's shock, the sword didn't shatter. The clash was jarring, but the Valyrian steel held firm. Rick's foot pivoted as if guided by instinct, his body following in a fluid motion. Dark Sister scraped across the ice of the spear, sending a high-pitched screech through the air before it was swung in a wide, circular arc. The sword's tip met the side of the white walker with a sickening slice.
Time seemed to stop for the briefest of moments. The world held its breath. Then, in a sudden eruption of ice, the monstrous being crumbled to the ground in a burst of frozen fragments. Its body shattered like glass, leaving nothing but a cloud of frost in the air and its weapon clattering to the earth behind it.
All around him, the wights fell too. The pale blue lights that had burned with unnatural life in their eyes flickered and vanished, extinguished for good. The battle, for the moment, was over.
Rick's mind raced as the chaos of the battle began to fade into a strange, unnerving stillness. His body still hummed with the adrenaline of the fight, but his thoughts quickly turned to the next course of action. He wasn't a leader here, not truly—he was a guest among strangers. This wasn't his fight to command. The weight of that realization anchored him, but it didn't slow him down. He had a role to play, and it didn't involve standing idle.
Ignoring the curious stares and the subtle tension in the air, Rick turned around and extended a hand to the woman in the weirwood mask, the one he had just saved. She sat there for a brief moment, her eyes filled with a mixture of shock and gratitude. In that split second, she seemed to be processing the reality of what had just happened, unsure of how to react. But then, without a word, she reached out and gripped his forearm, her fingers trembling slightly.
Rick hauled her to her feet with surprising ease, offering a steadying hand. His next action came naturally: he unsheathed one of his daggers and pressed it into her hand, not wanting her to be left vulnerable should another wave of wights appear. The weapon was simple but deadly, and he needed to ensure she could defend herself. She hesitated for only a moment, before accepting the blade with a nod of silent thanks.
"I want to know who's dead and what was destroyed. Burn the bodies. Chieftains, we need to talk. Tormund, bring your friend." Mance Rayder's voice rang out, slicing through the heavy silence. His command was sharp, deliberate, and filled with a quiet authority. The moment the words left his mouth, the people around Rick sprang into motion once again, shifting from stunned stillness to an efficient, practiced urgency.
Rick caught Tormund's eye, a mixture of confusion and curiosity written on his face. Tormund shrugged nonchalantly, the grin on his face growing wider.
"You're the first man in eight thousand years to kill one of those fuckers," Tormund said, his tone thick with admiration. "'Course he wants to talk to you."
Before Rick could fully process the statement, Tormund slapped him on the back with a thud that nearly knocked the wind out of him, nudging him forward. "Now move, lad. They'll want to hear from you."
With a resigned sigh, Rick nodded and turned toward the tent where Mance Rayder had been speaking with him earlier. The man's words still lingered in his mind, but he had no choice but to follow. This wasn't over—not by a long shot. They would want answers. And for now, whether he liked it or not, he had become part of something much larger than himself.
When Rick entered the tent, once again, every pair of eyes turned to him. The atmosphere was different this time—less hostile, less full of suspicion. There was awe in some, wary interest in others, and a few still regarded him with distrust. He could understand the latter. After all, only hours ago, their camp had been attacked. His sudden arrival and the chaos that followed weren't the kind of omens that inspired trust. That he was the one to kill the White Walker, however, only made things more complicated. The most perceptive among them, the ones with sharp minds, might have started to wonder if perhaps he had orchestrated the entire thing.
"Valyrian steel, huh," Mance Rayder's voice broke through the tense silence, his gaze fixed on the pommel of Dark Sister at Rick's waist, an unmistakable recognition in his eyes.
"Valyrian steel, yes," Rick replied simply, feeling the weight of the moment settle on him.
Mance didn't immediately speak, his eyes flickering to the fire for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. Then, he exhaled sharply, the bitterness of his words cutting through the air. "Twenty years ago, I saw the signs. The Others were coming back. But the Watch... they didn't listen. Too content to freeze their balls off on the Wall and do a few raids on the Free Folk. I knew back then... If nothing was done, we would all die. That's why I broke my vows, went back to my people, and spent the last twenty years uniting the tribes."
Rick raised an eyebrow, his expression betraying his surprise. "Your people?" He hadn't expected that. He had heard the rumors, of course, but hearing it from Mance's mouth was different.
Mance's eyes met Rick's, his voice low but steady. "I was born on this side of the Wall, to a Free Woman and a black brother. I was given to the Watch to raise, and knew nothing else until my first ranging."
Rick let out a low whistle, the words sinking in. "Now, that's a dick move from the watch."
Mance ignored the comment, his mind too focused on the matter at hand. "My goal is to protect the living. And the only way to do that is to bring them beyond the Wall."
Rick shook his head slowly, crossing his arms as he thought it over. "Until a few moments ago," he muttered under his breath.
Mance nodded grimly, but the flicker of doubt in his eyes was brief. "Yes, but no. The children, the old, and most women... they can't fight. We can't let the Others turn them into wights. We need to protect them, keep them safe. And the fighters... If we all had Valyrian steel, we'd stand a chance. But we both know how rare that metal is. You, Rick, the gods have chosen you. The Mother of the North is with you..." He trailed off, his gaze moving to Freyja, now lying in her direwolf form beside Rick. "She said earlier that you could give us the tools to fight. How?"
Rick exhaled slowly, trying to sort the pieces in his mind. "Valyria," he began, his voice growing distant as he spoke. "Before I woke up to the screams, I had a dream... a vision of Valyria. Of a red mountain and a stone tower. I'm supposed to find the Mother of Dragons, free her from her prison. She will help us."
Mance raised an eyebrow, a flicker of skepticism crossing his face. "...Taking the Wall and going through it would be easier. And safer."
Freyja, who had been silent up until now, rose to her full height and shifted into her human form, her presence commanding the room. Her voice was steady and unwavering. "It would not be easier, nor safer." Her gaze swept over the assembled chieftains before resting on Mance. "The magic of the Wall is nearly gone. Soon it will be nothing but a wall of ice, easy for the Walkers to destroy. You won't be safe beyond it. Not for long."
Mance's face tightened, and he looked back at her, clearly puzzled. "How come? Can't we... put more magic into it? You said he has more magic in his blood than anyone else in history."
Freyja's expression didn't change, but there was a certain sadness in her eyes as she spoke. "He could bleed a thousand years on the Wall; it would change nothing. The Wall is powered by the Heart Trees. The Andals cut most of them for their false gods. That's why the Wall will fall."
The silence that followed her words was heavy, each person in the room digesting the gravity of her statement. Mance's brow furrowed, but Rick's mind raced with the implications of what she had said. The Wall, once thought to be impenetrable, would not hold for much longer. And if it fell, there would be no sanctuary left.
"We fight," Rick declared, his voice steady, cutting through the tension in the room. Every eye turned toward him, and Mance's sharp gaze flickered with curiosity, interest piqued.
"The Others will be ready in half a decade," Rick continued, his tone unwavering, every word measured. "I say we take the fight to them before that. Strike them when they're not expecting it, before they're at full strength."
"Aye, I like the idea. Kill those fuckers before they kill us," Tormund growled, his grin wide and full of savage satisfaction. The giant was practically chomping at the bit, eager for a fight.
"Of course you would, Tormund," Mance muttered, sighing with exasperation, clearly used to the redhead's bloodthirsty attitude. "I like the idea too, but there's still the problem of how to defeat them."
"I'll go to Valyria and come back with what we need or die trying," Rick said, his voice resolute, cutting through the air like a blade. "I succeed? Good, we have a chance. I fail? Then we're doomed anyway. But that's not the real problem."
Mance raised an eyebrow, intrigued but skeptical. "No?"
Rick's gaze hardened, his mind racing with the grim reality of the situation. "No. The Night King and the others are raising the dead. How many deaths do you think have been spilled on these lands over eight thousand years? I'm not just talking about men or giants. I'm talking about the beasts too—the wolves, the direwolves, the great beasts that once roamed these lands. They'll all be rising. And we need every body we can get to fight."
A long silence followed, the weight of Rick's words sinking in like a stone dropped into a deep well.
Mance's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he tried to process the implications of what Rick was saying. "...You want us to ally with the crows?" His voice was sharp, tinged with disbelief, the idea clearly repulsing him. For the first time since this conversation began, there was emotion in Mance's tone—a flicker of contempt. "The very people who've hunted us, who've kept us from the freedom we deserve?"
"I'd rather die!" a man from the back of the room spat vehemently, his face twisted with disgust. He shot Rick a venomous glare, hatred burning in his eyes like a fire stoked by years of suffering. His words were harsh, full of the bitter anger of a lifetime spent fighting against the wall and its keepers.
Rick didn't flinch. His stare was cold, unwavering. "Then die," he said flatly, his voice ice-cold, devoid of sympathy. "I don't care, and nobody else will. Not for a fucking prideful coward."
Rick's eyes locked onto the man who'd spoken, his voice cold as ice. "I said what needed to be said," he cut him off, his tone sharp and commanding. "Now be quiet. Smart people are talking." His gaze swept over the room, daring anyone to challenge him further. "Tormund? Mind punching his lights out if he opens his mouth again." The words were a challenge, and the promise of violence hung heavy in the air.
"Oh, I'd like that," Tormund chuckled, his voice dripping with eager malice. He stepped forward, cracking his neck with an exaggerated motion, his broad frame looming over the smaller man. "Come on, Alfyn, open your cunt mouth one more time. Let's see how well that pretty face holds up."
Alfyn Crowkiller's hands clenched into fists, but before anything could escalate, Mance's voice rang out like a whip crack, stopping the tension dead in its tracks.
"Enough!" Mance's command was firm, his eyes flashing with authority. He didn't care if Tormund knocked Alfyn's teeth out, but he didn't want the situation to devolve into chaos. The discussion at hand was far too important, and he could see Rick had already taken the reins.
Rick didn't flinch; he simply gave a nod of acknowledgment, his focus unwavering as he steered the conversation back to the matter at hand. For Rick, the petty squabbles of these men were irrelevant. The real battle loomed, and that was all that mattered.
"The Night's Watch won't be enough. Kneelers too will be needed," Rick declared, his voice unwavering, each word deliberate as he turned his gaze from one man to the next, ensuring they all heard the gravity of his statement.
"That is if you come back from Valyria." The voice came with a cynical edge, the implication clear that few believed in Rick's success—or in the idea that anyone could survive the cursed land of Valyria.
"Yes." Rick's response was simple, but there was no hesitation in it. No doubt. He'd made his choice, and nothing could sway him now.
"He will," Freyja assured them, her voice a calm certainty that filled the air like the stillness before a storm. She looked at Rick, her eyes unwavering, her faith in him absolute. Even the harshest skeptics couldn't dismiss the power of her belief.
Rick's focus didn't waver. He continued, his tone somber. "Peace needs to be achieved before we fight against the Others. Not some fleeting truce, hastily forged in desperation, but a peace that has been in place for time long enough to stand. If we don't have that… if there's no unity, it will be our doom." He let the words sink in. "Whatever happens after we win? It's up to the Free Folk and the Black Brothers."
A heavy silence settled over the group, the weight of Rick's words pressing down on them like the stillness before the storm. No one spoke at first, each man considering the implications of what Rick was proposing.
"You don't even have to fight side by side," Rick added, his voice softer, but with a razor's edge. There was no need for them to like each other, no need for the impossible dream of friendship. What mattered was survival. What mattered was unity in purpose.
"That I like better," Mance said, his voice low and gravelly, the corners of his lips twitching in the barest hint of approval. It was the most reluctant praise he'd given, but it was praise nonetheless. Mance knew the harsh truth of things—there were no easy alliances in this war.
"I can go back to the Wall," Rick continued, unfazed by Mance's tone. "I'll speak with Lord Commander Mormont. I'll negotiate a meeting, under the eyes of a Heart Tree. The old bear's stubborn, but I know how to talk to him." His eyes glinted with a quiet confidence that made it clear he wasn't bluffing.
"And how will you do that?" Mance's voice was skeptical, a brow arched in curiosity, but still, there was a guardedness in his tone.
Rick's eyes hardened, a shadow passing over his features. "I'll bring him the spear of the White Walker and a wight I'll capture. Proof that the Walkers are real. Proof that they're back." He paused, his words deliberate. "He believes it, but he needs the evidence. The last push to commit the Watch to war."
Mance held his gaze for a long moment, his steely eyes searching Rick's face for any sign of doubt, any hint of hesitation. But Rick didn't flinch. He stood firm, unwavering, his posture as resolute as the iron in his bones.
Mance finally broke the silence, a slight nod of recognition passing between them. The unspoken understanding was there. The war was coming. The battle would be fought. The question was no longer if they would unite—it was how they would survive.
"Tormund, Ygritte, Val, you will go with him," Mance commanded, his voice heavy with authority, cutting through the tension in the tent like a blade. His eyes, hard and calculating, flicked briefly to each of the named individuals. Without hesitation, they nodded, understanding the gravity of what lay ahead.
Then, with a sharp breath, Mance shifted into the old tongue, his voice low and deep, full of ancient weight. Rick wasn't fluent in the language, but the cadence of it felt like a distant echo from times long past. A bald man, his head marked with old battle scars and no ears to speak of, nodded in response. His face was a mask of quiet intensity, eyes like those of a wolf—keen, ever-watchful. He answered in the same language, his voice rough, almost as if it had been carved from stone.
"You will have Sigorn of the Thenns with you as well," Mance continued, his tone still unwavering. "Capture a wight and negotiate a meeting with Mormont, at a Heart Tree." His eyes narrowed as he spoke Mormont's name, the words laced with reluctant respect. It was clear to Rick that this wasn't a decision Mance made lightly.
"Mance!" A chieftain, his voice harsh and filled with distrust, spoke up. His face was twisted in open contempt. "You would have us make peace with the crows? Are you mad?!"
"I have spoken!" Mance's voice was a thunderclap in the tense air, silencing the dissenting voice immediately. His expression hardened, and the fire in his eyes flickered like a dying ember, but it was enough to send a chill through the room. "I do not like allying myself with the Watch. I have never been one to bow to their rules. But the time for blood feuds is over. It is no longer about old grudges—it is the living against the dead now, and if we are to have any chance at surviving, we must put aside our hatred."
His words, though cold and firm, carried the weight of someone who had come to terms with an ugly truth. There would be no glory in this war—only survival. And the survival of the Free Folk was tied now to a reluctant partnership with those they had long considered their enemies.
A heavy silence hung in the air, thick with the tension of old wounds and new alliances. But Freyja, standing near the entrance of the tent, spoke the words that Rick had been thinking but could not voice. Her voice was quiet, but it carried the certainty of a woman who had seen the world unfold in ways few could understand.
"You made the right choice, Mance Rayder," she said simply, her words a balm that, for a brief moment, soothed the tension that had gathered like a storm cloud. Her eyes, deep and unreadable, met Mance's, and in that moment, the leader of the Free Folk saw something he had long avoided: the painful truth of the world they were all facing. There would be no victory without sacrifice. No future without compromise.
That was all Freyja said—her words carrying the weight of silent understanding. She turned gracefully, her body shifting with the fluidity of a shadow, and in a heartbeat, the woman was gone. Where she had stood only moments before, there was now a towering, ethereal direwolf, her white fur shimmering like moonlight on snow. With a low growl, she padded silently after Rick, her massive paws making no sound on the cold ground. She was a presence both wild and ancient, the embodiment of the North itself.
Rick watched her for a moment, the bond between them unspoken but deep, then he turned his attention to the ice spear lying before him. He reached down, fingers brushing the cold, jagged shaft. The moment he touched it, a searing pain shot up his hand, as if the spear itself was imbued with the fury of the frozen dead. He hissed in pain, his skin burning with the bitter chill, but he didn't flinch. He released the spear immediately, his hand trembling from the unexpected torment.
His eyes briefly scanned the dead wights littered around the tent. Without thinking, he tore a strip of cloth from one of their stiffened forms, his fingers working quickly and methodically. He wrapped the cloth around his hand, wincing as the touch of the fabric brought a fleeting memory of the burning pain. The spear, now carefully picked up with the cloth, felt different—no longer biting, no longer tormenting him.
"Good," he muttered to himself, the weight of the spear now nothing more than a cold reminder of the battle to come.
"We're leaving at dawn, tomorrow. Warn our companions." His voice was steady, but the gravity of his words hung thick in the air, heavy with the knowledge of what lay ahead.
Tormund, ever the stoic warrior, nodded without a word. There was no need for further conversation, for they all understood the urgency. In silence, Tormund turned and left, his footsteps echoing briefly before fading into the night.
Rick didn't move immediately. Instead, he stood there, the spear in his hand, his mind racing through the details of their plan, the weight of it pressing on his chest like a stone. He had said the words, but even now, he wasn't sure if they would be enough. The weight of leadership was a burden, one he had not sought but had been forced into, and the uncertainty gnawed at him.
With a resigned sigh, Rick finally made his way back to his tent. Inside, it was quiet, save for the faint crackle of a distant fire. He dropped the spear carelessly to the side, its cold touch still lingering on his skin. Without a second thought, he lay down, the exhaustion of the day settling into his bones like the chill of the night. His thoughts briefly drifted to the journey ahead, to the faces of those who depended on him, and to the countless uncertainties they would face.
But sleep claimed him swiftly, dragging him into the blackness of dreams where only the sound of the wind in the trees and the howls of wolves could be heard. There was nothing more to do tonight. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges.