Rick and his group made their way back to the Free Folk camp, where Mance awaited their report. The journey had been tense, and the Free Folk chieftains were already on edge. Some voiced their objections to Mance's willingness to entertain an alliance with the Night's Watch, but Mance silenced them with a sharp word, understanding the importance of the fragile peace.
"We will hear the terms," Mance declared firmly. "No more protesting. The time for that has passed."
A week later, the meeting was set in front of the Heart Tree near Castle Black. The air was thick with anticipation, the whispers of impending war hanging heavy. Mance, along with his chieftains, stood opposite Mormont and his black brothers. The tension was palpable, but both sides understood that this parley might be the only thing standing between them and the darkness beyond the Wall.
Mance made his demands clear: "The Night's Watch must refrain from attacking us, and in turn, we will not strike against you. If either side breaks this truce, the other will be free to retaliate. No more parleying, no more diplomacy. If you attack us, we will defend ourselves."
Mormont's fists clenched at Mance's words. He wanted nothing more than to kill this deserter—this oathbreaker—but he knew the consequences would be dire. If Mance were slain here, it would break the truce and cause the Free Folk to scatter, making them vulnerable to the approaching horrors of the Walkers. He could not afford that.
Rick, sensing the tension between Mance and Mormont, stepped forward, his voice cutting through the silence.
"We can't trust each other yet," he began, his eyes flicking between Mance and Mormont. "That's why I propose a compromise." He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. "The Free Folk will settle at Hardhome, build their defenses there. The Night's Watch will avoid that area. No one crosses into each other's territories. At first, we exchange information. The Watch scouts one area, the Free Folk scout another. Slowly, we begin to build trust."
Mance considered the proposal carefully. It wasn't an ideal solution, but it was practical. For now, it would have to do. He nodded in agreement, though his gaze never left Mormont.
Once the terms were set, Rick wasted no time in asking the question that had been burning in him for weeks. "I need a boat," he said, his tone even. "To go to Valyria."
Mance, who had been aware of Rick's intentions, gave a quiet sigh. "You are determined, aren't you?"
Mormont didn't flinch, but he was clearly pondering the request. "Valyria," he muttered under his breath, as if testing the idea. "You really intend to go there?" His gaze was steady, but his thoughts were clearly churning. Mormont had been aware of Rick's determination to reach the Ruins of Valyria—the land of fire and death—but hearing it again, so plainly, left him more unsettled than he cared to admit.
"I have to," Rick answered, unwavering. "There's no choice in the matter. You know as well as I do that what lies there could be the key to surviving what's coming."
Mormont took a moment, considering the weight of Rick's words. "You know what awaits in Valyria. Death, madness, destruction... but perhaps, as you say, there's a need for it. What you seek, whatever it is, could help us, but it could also kill you."
Rick didn't flinch at the harsh reality. "I know. But it's not just for me. It's for everyone. For all of us."
Benjen, who had been listening quietly to the exchange, finally spoke up. His voice was low but firm. "You want to risk your life for something as foolhardy as Valyria?" He frowned, his gaze sharp. "I've just met you, Aemon, and you want to throw it all away."
Rick blinked, hearing the name, but it was nothing more than a passing word to him. He didn't know who Benjen Stark was—not yet. The connection was lost on him. He turned his gaze to the man and spoke coolly. "Blood means nothing to me. Stark or Targaryen, I don't care. I could do without any of it. The only person I care about is my great uncle, Maester Aemon. Anyone else can go burn in hell."
Benjen's frown deepened at the mention of Aemon's name, but there was something in Rick's tone that made him pause. A mix of confusion and instinct. His eyes narrowed. "You're risking your life for something that may very well be a dead man's dream. I don't want to watch you throw it all away."
Rick stood tall. "If no one else wants to come, I'll go alone."
Tormund, ever the loud and brash one, stepped forward first, grinning. "You're not going alone, boy. I've followed you this far, and I'll follow you all the way to the end."
Ygritte's voice was a teasing lilt. "Aye, someone's got to make sure you don't get yourself killed. I'm in."
Sigorn, who had been quiet up until now, gave a slow, calculating nod. "I will go with you. What else can we do?"
Val, silent as always, spoke softly but decisively. "I will go too."
Benjen turned his gaze toward Mormont, his face grim. "If I'm going to let him do this, I'm going with him."
Rick's eyes sharpened. He didn't like what he just heard. "Let me? I'm a free man. Nobody let me do anything."
Mormont's gaze lingered on Benjen for a moment, considering. He had wanted Benjen close by for when his brother arrived, but he also knew Rick's importance, even if he didn't understand the full extent of it. Benjen would be usual when his brother arrived at Castle Black but Rick... Rick had an aura that told Mormont he had a role to play in what was coming. Benjen would be more motivated than anyone to keep his nephew alive. In that, Jeor Mormont trusted above all.
After a long moment, Mormont sighed. "Fine, Stark. Go with him. But keep him alive. That's more important than anything else right now."
Rick looked at his group of volunteers, his expression unreadable. "We leave as soon as possible. Whatever happens, we have no time to waste."
The meeting between the Night's Watch and the Free Folk ended in a fragile peace. There was tension, thick enough to choke on, and no trust to be found between them—but no blood was spilled, and that, for now, was enough. The two sides parted warily, retreating to their respective camps, both knowing that this truce was held together by little more than necessity and a thin strand of hope.
Rick, Freyja, and his companions left with the Night's Watch, their path leading them east. As they prepared to depart, Rick turned to Maester Aemon, the one man at Castle Black who truly understood the weight of prophecy.
"I'll be back," Rick promised. "With the Mother of Dragons. And when I do, I'll take you flying."
Aemon turned his blind eyes toward him, as if looking straight into Rick's soul. His wrinkled lips curled into a faint smile, one touched with both sadness and faith. He said nothing, but Rick knew that the old maester believed him.
Rick then turned to Jeor Mormont. "If your sister comes to the Wall," he said, "tell her I still meant the last words I gave her."
Mormont studied him, frowning. "You're certain about this?"
Rick didn't answer with words—he simply nodded.
Mormont let out a slow breath before nodding back. "Then go. And come back alive."
There was no more time for talk. They reached Eastwatch swiftly, and with little delay, they boarded a Night's Watch vessel bound for Braavos. The voyage was cold and rough, the sea as merciless as the lands they had left behind.
Their first destination was the free city of Braavos, the closest port city in Essos from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Its towering walls, glittering canals, and reputation as a hub of wealth and power loomed large on the horizon, promising an entirely different world from the frozen wasteland they had left behind.
Benjen Stark, ever the family man, made several attempts to speak with Rick, but the younger man remained distant, a wall of cold resolve that Benjen could not breach. Every time Benjen tried to start a conversation, Rick's responses were curt—nothing more than a grunt, a quick glance, or a dismissive word that made it clear his interest lay elsewhere. Benjen was patient, though, watching Rick carefully, trying to catch glimpses of the boy he had never really known, but Rick made it unmistakably clear—he had no need for the kinship Benjen was trying to offer. There was no room for a bond between them, not now.
Instead, Rick focused his attention on other things, like the strange dynamics of the Free Folk and their peculiar customs. He tried to immerse himself in learning the Old Tongue, with Sigorn—who had his own reasons for wanting to master the Common Tongue—serving as a fellow student. Val, ever the pragmatic one, took it upon herself to help both of them.
The lessons were often frustrating, the words stubbornly refusing to come together in a way that felt right. Still, the effort to understand one another, to bridge the gap between their different worlds, was there. Rick's frustration was apparent at times, and Sigorn's growls of irritation echoed when they stumbled over difficult phrases. But Val's teasing banter, her sharp wit, kept the mood light and made the learning process tolerable, even if they didn't always succeed.
When the lessons weren't happening, Rick would take the time to sharpen his swordsmanship, each stroke of the blade an effort to perfect his skills. The freezing cold wind seemed to bite harder when he trained, but Rick refused to let it stop him. His sword was his companion, his lifeline. But there was also something new that he'd begun to enjoy—learning the art of spearmanship under Val's watchful eye. She was skilled with the spear, her movements graceful and precise, and Rick quickly learned the value of the long weapon. It was a weapon of distance, of control, and Val's teaching made him realize there was an elegance to it that matched her fierce and measured nature.
In exchange for their lessons, Rick shared what he knew about Braavos, about the city they were headed to. It wasn't much, but it was enough to offer them an advantage when they arrived. He told them how coin worked, how the merchants of Braavos didn't trade in the same way the Free Folk did—no raiding, no bartering for blood or goods. Instead, it was all about gold, silver, and trust. And how even the most insignificant-looking coins could buy a world of possibilities if you knew how to use them. He warned them about the dangers of underestimating the city—its politics, its intrigue, its quiet power—and how one wrong move could have disastrous consequences.
Rick also gave them advice on the culture of the city, the mannerisms that would keep them from looking like complete outsiders. He wasn't sure how much they would remember, but he saw the interest in their eyes. Val especially was focused, absorbing every detail like a hawk watching its prey. She'd need the knowledge, especially if they were to interact with the mercenaries, sailors, and the mysterious figures who seemed to rule the shadowy corners of the city.
In return for his lessons, Sigorn and Val offered their own. Sigorn had a particular focus on the practical—how to handle oneself in a city full of intrigue, how to pick up on the small signals people give off. Val, though, taught him something different: how to survive when the world was far more dangerous than he'd ever realized, and how to always be aware of what was happening around you, whether it was a trap or an opportunity. It was clear that the Free Folk, for all their wildness, had lessons to offer that no one in the South could ever have taught him.
On the fifth night at sea, Rick had a green dream. A vast shadow loomed over the world, icy and impenetrable, stretching beyond sight. A fire flickered in the dark, weak at first but growing, defiant against the cold. The fire took the shape of a blade in his own hand, burning bright as the wind howled around him. He stood alone in a storm of white and shadows.
He woke up with a start, heart hammering in his chest.
Braavos came into view at dawn, its Titan rising from the mist, towering over the waves. The great colossus stood with its legs apart, watching over the entrance to the lagoon. Beyond it lay a sprawling city of canals and towering buildings, the waters crowded with ships of every size and origin. Fog curled over the rooftops, and the air smelled of salt and spice, a stark contrast to the frozen lands they had left behind.
Navigating the narrow waterways, they saw the great domes of the Iron Bank, the long bridges connecting different districts, and the shadowed entrance of the House of Black and White—silent, foreboding. Rick had his sights set on that place. The Faceless Men served death, and death had been twisted by the White Walkers. He hoped they would listen.
The free city was unlike anything Rick had ever seen, not like he had seen much in his life but it was an impressive sight. The canals wove through the city like veins, feeding its heart with the wealth of a thousand nations. The air was thick with the scent of brine, roasted fish, and foreign spices, blending into something strange but not unpleasant. Merchant ships crowded the harbor, their sails bearing sigils of distant lands. The towering Titan loomed behind them, its unseeing gaze ever watchful.
As soon as they docked, his companions scattered into the city. Tormund and Sigorn went in search of ale and meat, eager to taste what Braavosi taverns had to offer. Val and Ygritte wandered off toward the markets, eyes sharp for anything that might be useful for their journey. Benjen remained behind to see to the ship, and Rick was glad to leave him there.
He took Freyja and set off on his own, weaving through the narrow streets. He had no real destination in mind—only the need to breathe, to think.
The weight of his dreams pressed against him. The storm, the fire in his hand, the shadows clawing at him. Every night it came, relentless. He needed answers. The House of Black and White was his goal, but even if the Faceless Men agreed to help, it wouldn't be enough. The war that was coming was bigger than him, bigger than all of them.
As he passed beneath an archway, Freyja suddenly stopped, her ears pricked forward. Her blue eyes locked onto something in the crowd.
Rick turned, following her gaze.
A woman stood at the edge of the Moon Pool, clad in deep red, her hair the color of burning embers. She was speaking with a merchant, her expression calm but searching. There was something about her—an unnatural stillness, a presence that made the air around her feel heavier.
Freyja let out a low rumble, more curiosity than warning.
As if sensing it, the woman turned. Her eyes met Rick's, and she went completely still. For a long moment, she simply stared. Then she moved toward him, her steps unhurried but certain, as if she had just found what she had been searching for.
Rick didn't move. He let her come.
When she was close enough to touch him, she stopped and tilted her head, studying him the way one might study a rare, dangerous animal.
"You," she breathed, almost in awe. "I have seen you."
Rick tensed, his hand drifting toward Dark Sister. "Have you, now?"
She didn't seem threatened. If anything, his reaction only deepened her interest. "In the flames. A young man standing in the storm, fire in his hand, fighting against the white winds and the shadows."
Rick's fingers tightened around his sword hilt. "Who are you?"
She placed a hand over her heart, bowing her head slightly. "I am Melisandre of Asshai, a servant of the Lord of Light."
Rick had heard of R'hllor before, but he had little patience for priests and their gods. The Old Gods spoke in the wind and trees, in the whispers of the Heart Tree, not through fire and prophecy. But something in her gaze made his skin prickle.
Freyja moved between them, her massive head lowering as she sniffed the woman's scent. Melisandre didn't flinch. Instead, she reached out a hand, as if to touch the direwolf. Freyja allowed it.
Melisandre smiled faintly. "Yes," she murmured. "You are exactly as the flames foretold."
Rick scowled. "I don't care what your flames showed you." He turned to leave.
But she said something then, something that made his blood run cold.
"The darkness is coming, and you will burn against it."
He stopped. Slowly, he looked back at her.
Melisandre's lips curled slightly. Not quite a smile, but close. "You may not believe in my god, but he believes in you."
Rick crossed his arms, eyes sharp as he studied the red woman. "What does your god want with me?"
Melisandre met his gaze without hesitation. "The Lord of Light wages war against the Great Other, the god of darkness and death. The one who commands the cold winds and raises the dead to walk again. You stand in opposition to that darkness, whether you claim R'hllor or not."
Rick scoffed. "I don't serve your god."
"You do not need to," Melisandre said smoothly. "The flames do not only burn for the faithful. They burn for all who stand against the cold."
Rick clenched his jaw. "If your god is so powerful, why doesn't he deal with the Others himself? Why does he need me?"
Melisandre took a slow step closer, the scent of spice and smoke clinging to her. "Because men must be the ones to act. Gods do not swing swords, nor loose arrows, nor lead men into battle. That is the burden of mortals."
Rick narrowed his eyes. "And what makes you think I'm the one to lead?"
"The fire has shown me," she said simply. "You will stand at the heart of the storm. You will face the darkness when it comes."
Rick exhaled through his nose, frustrated but unwilling to outright dismiss her. He had seen too much, lived too much, to ignore warnings of the Others. If this woman had knowledge—real knowledge—he would listen.
"And if I refuse?" he asked, testing her.
Melisandre's lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "Then you refuse. The river does not change its course because a man denies its current. You will walk the path before you, whether you accept it or not."
Rick didn't like that answer. He didn't like being told what he would or would not do. But he also couldn't ignore the way her words rang with a certainty that made his skin prickle.
He huffed, shaking his head. "Fine. But I don't trust you."
Melisandre inclined her head, the firelight in her eyes unwavering. "Trust is not needed. Only the truth."
Rick let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "I already have the Old Gods riding my back, whispering in my dreams, pushing me toward things I never asked for. And if I'm right, the gods of Valyria might have their own claim on me too. I don't need another god pulling at my strings."
Melisandre's red eyes gleamed in the lantern light. "You see yourself as a puppet?"
Rick scoffed. "Don't I look the part? The gods shove me down a road, and all I can do is march."
She studied him for a long moment. "That is not how I see you."
Rick folded his arms. "Oh? And how do you see me, then?"
Melisandre stepped closer, her voice low and steady. "Not a puppet. A blade. A sword tempered in the cold, waiting for the right hand to wield it."
Rick snorted. "And let me guess—your god wants to be that hand."
She did not flinch. "My god seeks only victory over the Great Other. You would be a sword in that war, whether you serve him or not."
Rick narrowed his eyes. "Convenient."
Melisandre's expression remained unreadable. "Truth often is."
Rick exhaled through his nose, weighing her words. He had seen the White Walkers with his own eyes. He had felt their cold, heard the wails of the dead. If this Red Woman had power—real power—to fight them, then maybe she was worth listening to.
"Look, no god is going to use me for their own ends," Rick said, shaking his head. "I'll follow my path, and if it happens to align with their will? Fine. But I do things my way."
Melisandre gave a small nod. "You have your free will. It is not in contradiction with the fate the gods have for you."
Rick's jaw tightened. "Good to know," he muttered, before his gaze turned serious. "Let me tell you about the White Walkers. I've seen them, fought one of them. They aren't like anything else. They don't bleed. They don't die like any of us."
She watched him intently, her interest piqued. "I know of them. The Great Other's servants. They are creatures of ice and death. But this—what you describe—it is beyond what I've seen in the flames."
Rick's eyes darkened. "You want to know why? They're led by someone—a king. The Night King, I call him. He was made by the Children of the Forest, twisted into something worse. He's not like the rest of them. He's something… different."
Melisandre's brows furrowed slightly. "The Night King… I know nothing of him. The flames do not reveal his name."
"Because he's not just another wight," Rick muttered. "He's a White Walker, like the rest, but with more power. They created him, but they lost control of him. Now, he leads the Others."
Melisandre fell silent for a long moment, her gaze unwavering. Finally, she spoke, her voice softer. "You are important. I have seen you in my visions. I was sent to you, though I do not understand why yet."
Rick gave her a hard look. "If I'm so important, then why isn't your god telling you everything?"
Melisandre's red eyes flickered with an unreadable emotion. "The gods speak in riddles, and the flames are often unclear. I know only that you are significant, and that you will play a role in the war to come."
Rick frowned but didn't speak right away. She was right about one thing—he was caught up in something far larger than he had ever wanted, and no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, the gods had a hand in his fate.
Melisandre's thoughts, however, were far from his words. The flames had shown her Rick. She had seen him, standing tall among the firelight, fighting alongside both ice and fire. And the more she pondered it, the more she was unsettled by the feeling that he might be the one to fulfill a prophecy—though not the one she had long believed in. The tales of Azor Ahai were tied to fire, but there was something about Rick... his connection to ice, his role with the direwolves, spoke to a different fate than the one she had envisioned.
Rick, still caught in his own thoughts, glanced at her. "I'm no hero. I don't care for prophecies. I saw what they do to men. Lead them to madness. I leave that to the idiots who are too busy to act themselves."
He took a step closer to her, his voice hardening. "I'm going to Valyria. My dreams are pointing me there. If you're serious about coming along with me, then there will be no burning of innocents, no preaching. You'll keep that to yourself."
Melisandre regarded him with a faint smile, her gaze steady. "I am here to meet with you, Rick. Nothing more. I will not preach, and I will not burn. The flames have shown me what I need to see. My purpose is clear, and it does not lie in the destruction of innocents. It lies in meeting you, and learning what role you have to play in what's to come."
Rick gave a small nod. "Good. Then we have an understanding."
Melisandre's red eyes gleamed, though her expression remained impassive. "We do."
Rick stood at the edge of the ship, the sea breeze tugging at his cloak as he gazed across the deck. Beside him, Freyja, her massive white form cutting an imposing figure against the setting sun, stood still as stone. Her bright eyes never left Melisandre, whose arrival had been met with the sharp scrutiny of both man and beast.
Rick turned to her and spoke, his voice steady and measured. "I suppose I should introduce myself properly," he said, giving a nod to the Red Woman. "The name's Rick." He gestured to the towering direwolf beside him. "And this is Freyja—first of the direwolves, Mother of the North, born of the Old Gods. She's my guide, my protector, and my companion."
Freyja let out a low growl as her ears flattened, her icy-blue eyes piercing through the air as they studied Melisandre. Rick barely glanced at the wolf but was aware of the weight her presence carried.
Melisandre's gaze flickered briefly to the direwolf, though she did not flinch. "I see," she said, her tone still unwavering. "A creature of legend, and one that speaks of a destiny yet to be written."
Rick didn't take offense. He merely tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "That's Freyja's place to decide. But now, what about you? You claim to have answers. What kind of help have you brought with you?"
Melisandre stepped forward, her dark red robes flowing like liquid flame. "I have what is necessary for what lies ahead," she replied, her voice calm and measured. "A ship with a few followers, and a handful of acolytes who share my faith. We will travel together, guided by the flames, prepared to offer assistance when needed."
Rick studied her for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. "And how many are we talking about?"
"Seven," she answered without hesitation. "A small group, but loyal. Their purpose is not only to serve me but to assist in any way we can, as the flames guide us forward."
Rick nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "Well, then, let's get moving. We've got a long road ahead of us."
Rick, Freyja, and Melisandre moved through the bustling streets, the weight of the city pressing in around them. He had done what he could to prepare the Free Folk for this, teaching them about trade, coin, and the ways of southerners, but he still worried. Hard lessons had a way of finding those unprepared for the world beyond the Wall. As they walked, Rick's mind turned to the House of Black and White. Was seeking them out truly worth it? They were powerful, no doubt, but if they agreed to help, how would he manage them while dealing with Melisandre? The Red Woman alone was bound to be enough of a headache. Adding a cult of assassins into the mix? That was another matter entirely. Pushing the thought aside, he glanced at Freyja.
"Freyja," he murmured, "find them."
The direwolf sniffed the air, ears twitching, then padded forward with purpose, leading him through the winding streets. Rick followed without question. He didn't know which of his companions she would lead him to first, but that hardly mattered. One by one, he would gather them all. Melisandre walked beside him in silence, her presence an ever-present weight at his side. For now, Rick let it be. There were more pressing matters to deal with.
Freyja found Ygritte and Val in the crowded markets of Braavos, both women clearly fascinated by the sights and smells around them. The air was filled with a mix of unfamiliar scents—spices, fresh fish, sweet fruits, and warm bread—a stark contrast to the frozen world they had come from. The sound of haggling, vendors calling out their wares, and the clatter of hooves echoed through the busy street, creating a sense of organized chaos that was foreign to the Free Folk.
Val's eyes were wide with interest as she approached a stall laden with strange fruits. She reached out hesitantly, touching an orange with her fingers, staring at it in awe as though she couldn't quite believe it was real. "What is this?" she asked, her voice tinged with genuine curiosity, her usual tough exterior momentarily forgotten.
Ygritte was a few steps away, eyes gleaming with the same wonder as she picked up a loaf of bread, sniffing it as if unsure of what it was but intrigued nonetheless. She held it up to Val. "What's this, then? It's soft. Looks like the stuff we get from the goats, but... different."
Rick, walking up behind them, couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of them both. "You two are like children in a sweet shop," he said, a grin pulling at his lips as he looked over the scene. "Listen, Ygritte, you might want to pick up some proper clothes while you're here. If you keep wearing that fur, you'll roast in the heat when we travel south. Trust me, you'll want to be in something lighter."
Ygritte shot him a look, raising an eyebrow. "I think you're joking. You can't expect me to leave my furs behind. This is what I know."
Rick shrugged, his expression serious. "I'm not joking. You'll cook in the heat. It's no good for you. And I'm not telling you to leave your fur behind, leave them on the ship in a corner."
Val, who had been quietly observing the conversation, tilted her head and, after a brief moment of thought, added, "I don't mind the heat so much, but I suppose there's sense in what you say. I'll get something to cover the skin when it's necessary." She seemed unbothered by the notion, but Rick noticed she didn't outright dismiss it either.
Rick shook his head, chuckling under his breath, but he still gestured for them to follow him. "Come on. I'll help you haggle for the prices. I still have some coins left."
They made their way to a clothing merchant who was selling a variety of garments, many of which were unlike anything the Free Folk had seen before. The fabrics were lighter, finer—smooth to the touch, in vibrant colors that seemed to shine under the Braavos sun. It was clear they would have to settle for simpler, less expensive clothes, but even then, the fabrics were worlds apart from their fur-lined clothes.
Rick set to work, negotiating with the merchant in a way that seemed to surprise both Val and Ygritte. They had never haggled like this before, accustomed to the ways of trade and barter in their own land. Rick's sharp tongue and smooth bargaining skills earned them better deals than they had expected.
After a short while, they had a small collection of clothing—enough to keep them comfortable for the journey south. Rick still had a few gold dragons left from the money Varys had given him, though he knew he had to be careful. They weren't here for luxury; just the basics, things they could afford.
Once they finished with the clothing, Rick led them to the weapons market, where Tormund and Sigorn had already wandered, inspecting a variety of weapons—axes, swords, and even a few crude spears. They seemed particularly interested in the quality of the armor, which was clearly a step above anything they had ever worn in the North.
Rick approached them, looking over the prices. As expected, the finest quality weapons and armor were well beyond their budget. But he didn't need the best—just something serviceable that could hold up on their travels. He ended up purchasing two simple but well-made swords and a few spare pieces of armor. His remaining gold and silver had thinned considerably, but there were still enough stags left to be of use.
Before leaving, Rick introduced Melisandre to Tormund and Sigorn. "This is Melisandre," Rick said, his tone flat. "She'll be traveling with us. And I expect no stealing. The last thing we need is trouble here."
The two men nodded in acknowledgement, though neither spoke. Melisandre's presence was somewhat unsettling to them, as it often was to anyone who wasn't accustomed to the mysterious woman. But they kept their thoughts to themselves, understanding that Rick trusted her—whether they fully understood why or not.
With their purchases in hand and their preparations mostly complete, they gathered outside the market. Freyja, waiting patiently nearby, was already ready to lead the group to their next destination. Rick took one last glance over the bustling city—Braavos, the Free City, a place of immense wealth and secrets—and then turned toward the path that would lead them forward.
The group made their way back to the Night's Watch's ship with a mixture of emotions. Benjen, as expected, wasn't happy with the addition of Melisandre to their ranks. His face tightened with skepticism every time he glanced at her, but Rick simply didn't care. His mind was set. As Melisandre had a whole ship at her disposal, Rick figured it made sense to have both vessels travel together. With another ship, they could carry more supplies, more weapons, more goods, and possibly more answers. One more ship meant they could bring back more from Valyria—more knowledge, more history, and, if Rick was honest, a better chance of surviving the journey ahead.
Melisandre, with her usual cryptic composure, seemed unbothered by the tension. She had warned her followers and acolytes of the journey and the dangers they would face, but Rick wasn't about to argue with her now. She boarded with him without protest, her crimson robes fluttering in the wind as she moved gracefully up the gangplank. Whatever else she was, she was a part of this mission now, and Rick knew better than to let personal discomforts get in the way of their goal.
The next day, with the ships fully prepared and everyone aboard, they departed Braavos. The city, already fading into the horizon behind them, was just another stop in a long journey that would lead them to darker places. The sea stretched endlessly in front of them, and with each passing day, the distance between them and the Wall grew.
That night, as the ship cut through the dark waters, Freyja shed her wolf form and took her human shape. She was breathtaking in the moonlight—tall, her pale skin almost glowing, her white hair tumbling down her back. Her deep blue eyes locked onto Rick with an intensity that told him this lesson was important.
She motioned for him to sit, and as he did, she drew a series of symbols onto the wooden deck with her fingertip. They pulsed faintly with light, ancient yet simple, as if they had been waiting to be remembered.
Freyja sat across from Rick, a small dagger in her hands. With careful precision, she carved a rune into a scrap of driftwood, her movements slow and deliberate. The sea air was cool against their skin, and the only sound was the rhythmic creaking of the ship.
"These symbols," she said, tapping the rune she had just etched, "are not spells. They are conduits. They do not create power from nothing; they amplify what is already there."
Rick leaned in, studying the shape she had made. It looked like an angular 'M' with long arms stretching upward.
"This," Freyja continued, "is Uruz—a rune of strength. If carved properly onto a blade, it reinforces the steel, making it less likely to break. On a shield, it makes the wood sturdier." She handed the driftwood to Rick. "Try to feel it."
He took the wood in his hands, furrowing his brow. It didn't hum with unnatural energy. There was no overwhelming sensation of power. But… there was something. A subtle firmness, as if the wood had gained a stubborn resilience.
"How does it work?" he asked.
Freyja drew another rune beside Uruz—this one an angular 'N' shape.
"This is Kenaz—it is the rune of fire and warmth. A smith might carve this onto a forge to make it burn hotter, or onto a torch to ensure it never gutters in the wind." She glanced at him. "If you were to carve it onto your skin, you would not burn as easily. But the rune alone is not enough—you must have the magic to activate it."
Rick exhaled. "And that's what's been lost?"
Freyja nodded. "Most men have forgotten. Some, like the Thenns, remember the shapes but lack the power to use them." She reached for his hand, guiding his fingers over the carved symbols. "The runes are simple. They do not summon storms or break men's minds. They do not destroy or enslave. They only enhance. A sharpened blade, a warmed room, a reinforced shield—these are the gifts they offer."
Rick traced the carvings again, absorbing the knowledge.
"What if I carved both?" he asked. "Strength and fire?"
Freyja smiled. "Then your blade would cut deeper, and it would never freeze."
Rick glanced at Dark Sister at his side. The idea of making it stronger, even in a small way, was enticing. He nodded, absorbing her words. "So… how do I use them?"
Freyja handed him the dagger. "Now, let's see if you've been paying attention. Carve Ansuz—the rune of wisdom. Let's see if your hands can match your curiosity."
And so, under the quiet night sky, Rick took his first lesson in the ancient craft of rune-carving.
As Rick pressed the dagger's tip into the wood, carefully carving the shape of Ansuz, a thought struck him.
"This is all well and good," he said, his voice low in concentration, "but wood won't help against the Others. Even if I carve these runes onto a shield or a weapon, it's useless if it shatters the moment one of them touches it." Rick set the driftwood down and met her gaze. "The First Men fought the Others during the Long Night, long before Valyrian steel ever existed. So how did they win? If their weapons were just normal bronze, they should have shattered like anything else."
Freyja's lips curved into a knowing smile. "You are asking the right questions." She reached for the dagger and tapped the metal. "Runes work best on bronze. Bronze is a composite—copper and tin forged together. Unlike iron or steel, it holds the magic."
Rick frowned. "Why?"
Freyja shrugged. "I do not know. The Old Gods did not see fit to tell me, so it must not be important."
Rick sat back, processing this. "So that's how they did it. They carved runes into their bronze weapons and armor, strengthening them, making them sharper, maybe even resistant to the White Walkers' magic."
Freyja nodded. "It is a forgotten craft, lost as the blood of the First Men grew thin and the heart trees dwindled. And when the Andals came with their iron and steel, the runes no longer worked. So they were abandoned."
Rick exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "So, if I want a weapon that can hold rune magic… I need bronze."
Freyja grinned, her deep blue eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "You're learning."
Rick's mind raced as he connected the pieces. "That's why the Thenns still use bronze," he murmured. "They don't know the magic behind it, but they kept the tradition alive."
Freyja nodded. "Some knowledge lingers, even when its purpose is forgotten."
Rick tapped the wooden carving with his knife. "If I carve runes into a shield, will they work for anyone who carries it?"
Freyja stretched her long limbs, lounging like a great beast in her human form. "Yes, but only until the magic within them is depleted. It must be renewed."
Rick let out a slow breath. "That could help, but I'd be the only one who could make them."
Freyja chuckled, a rich, velvety sound. "No. You are not as alone as you think." She tilted her head, considering him. "From what the gods have told me, your kin—the Starks—still carry enough magic in their blood to carve runes and make them work, if only for a time."
Rick's brow furrowed. "My cousins?"
Freyja nodded. "Your cousins, your uncles. And there are more, scattered across the North, both this side of the Wall and beyond."
Rick exhaled, rubbing his chin. "That changes things." But even as the possibilities turned in his head, Freyja smirked.
"It would still be easier to find Valyrian steel," she said. "And far more efficient."
Rick clicked his tongue. "True. But what if I carve runes on Valyrian steel?"
Freyja paused, her deep blue eyes narrowing in thought. "I do not know."
Rick grinned. "Then I'll have to find out."
Under Freyja's watchful eye, Rick carved into the driftwood, his knife gliding through the grain with slow, deliberate strokes. The runes took shape beneath his hands, their lines simple yet precise. Freyja leaned close, murmuring quiet corrections when needed, her voice steady and sure. The wood drank in the markings, but there was no sudden flash of power—only the quiet weight of something ancient, waiting to be understood.