Rick stood in the heart of the forge Mance had given him—the largest and sturdiest structure in Hardhome. Smoke clung to the rafters, and the walls were stained black from a moon's worth of fire and labor. Rick moved with steady purpose, sleeves rolled up, arms dusted with soot, his hands busy forging arrowheads. Not crude things—he'd been shaping triangular bodkin points, meant to punch through bone, armor, or the icy flesh of the dead. Efficient, deadly.
The idea to involve the untrained had worked better than expected. Rick had designed molds—simple, durable. With a single ingot of Valyrian steel, they could cast fifty arrowheads. No smithing experience required. Just pour, cool, sharpen, repeat. Even a child could be useful here, and many were. None questioned the work. They all knew what was coming.
The forge's fire blazed hotter than any normal flame, thanks to Alexstrasza.
In her human form, she stood just beyond the heat, her breath fueling the forge with unnatural intensity. It wasn't the full fury of her dragon shape, but still far beyond what men could kindle. When she breathed across the coals, they blazed white-hot, softening Valyrian steel like wax.
She had taught Rick the process—everything he knew about working the strange ore they'd hauled from the ruins of Valyria. It had looked like obsidian, but not quite. It pulsed faintly with heat even cold, laced with veins of deep crimson and gold. A remnant of the Doom, maybe. A gift. Or a warning.
To turn that ore into Valyrian steel, it needed to be melted under dragonfire. But heat alone wasn't enough. The final step—the part Alex had shown him in silence, not explanation—was blood.
Not hers. The blood of the dragon she had slain in Valyria.
It had been collected in thick, sealed flasks from the huge jars. Still warm when they reached the Wall. Still potent. When a drop was added to the molten metal, it shimmered—sang, almost. The forge pulsed with a low hum, and the steel turned dark, glassy, alive. True Valyrian. Forged in fire and blood.
Rick wiped the sweat from his brow as he inspected a fresh batch of arrowheads. They caught the forge-light with an ember-like gleam, each one a small promise of death to the enemy.
He didn't know how long they had. But with every arrowhead, he felt like they were one step closer to being ready.
After arrowheads came spearheads and pikeheads—lean, brutal, and made for one purpose: to kill what was already dead. Valyrian steel cut through wights like fire through parchment, and the Others shattered under it like glass. With the molds, it was just a matter of melting down the steel ingots—or crafting new ones from obsidian and dragon's blood—and pouring the glowing metal into waiting forms. His assistants, most of them untrained, followed his guidance well. It wasn't smithing in the old way, but it worked. And it worked fast.
But the real test of his skill was the shields.
He hadn't found their design in any book or scroll. He'd thought them up himself, driven by the vision of what was needed for the battles to come. Tall, curved from top to bottom and side to side, they could cover a man from shoulders to shins. Long enough to overlap with another, wide enough to protect from sword, spear, or claw. Unlike the flat round shields used by most Free Folk or the heavy kite shields of southern knights, these were built to deflect, not absorb.
Crafting molds for something that size wasn't easy. So far, he'd only managed a few. But the beauty of it—what made it possible—was the metal itself. Forged from Valyrian steel, the shields were incredibly light and impossibly strong. A normal shield of that size would weigh a man down, limit his movement. Rick's didn't. They could be carried easily in one arm and still withstand a hammer blow from a wight or a frozen lance hurled by one of the Others.
He ran a hand along the edge of one cooling shield, still faintly warm to the touch. It gleamed with a faint, dark sheen—like moonlight caught in oil. The steel wasn't just strong; it felt alive. Every curve, every layer reinforced with purpose. Not art. Not tradition. Just what was needed to hold the line when the dead came.
And the dead would come.
"Winter!"
A young lad's voice rang out from the wide entrance of the forge, cutting through the rhythmic pounding of hammer on steel. The name—the one the Free Folk had given him—echoed with heat and iron.
Rick stilled. Sweat clung to his brow despite the cold air that crept in from outside, his chest rising and falling with the weight of labor. The blade he was working on, glowing a fierce orange-white, pulsed like the heart of a star atop the anvil.
Without hesitation, he reached for it—his calloused hand wrapping around the tang with practiced indifference to the heat—and plunged it into the nearby barrel of water. The reaction was instant. A furious hiss and billowing clouds of steam rolled upward like a dragon's breath, shrouding him in a ghostly mist.
He stood there for a moment, watching the vapor swirl and curl. The forge behind him burned hot—brick and stone walls stained black from weeks of fire, its belly fed by Alexstrasza's unnatural heat. Tools were scattered in a neat chaos: molds, crucibles, cooling racks lined with arrowheads and spear tips, and blades in various stages of birth.
The name still echoed in his ears.
Winter.
Of all the things they could've called him, that was what stuck. The Free Folk, ever blunt and bound to raw truth, had chosen it after the day he cut down a White Walker before Mance Rayder and a hundred wide-eyed survivors. To them, only winter itself was more merciless than the Others—and since he had killed one, they had named him after the one thing worse.
Only winter is more lethal than the Others, they'd said.
Not Dragonlord. Not the Southern Prince. Not even Warg-Slayer.
Just Winter.
So now, Rick—the discarded prince son no one wanted, the boy locked away and forgotten—was Winter, the one thing the dead feared more than themselves. Supposedly.
The blade sizzled as he drew it from the water, steam clinging to the steel like frost. Its surface was dark and rippling, the beginnings of a weapon worthy of the wars to come. He set it aside gently and turned toward the lad, who stood at the threshold, fidgeting with the edge of his coat, boots crusted with salt and half-melted snow.
"What is it?" Rick asked, voice low, worn, but steady.
The boy cleared his throat, eyes darting between Rick and the glowing forge behind him.
"Message from Mance. Says someone just arrived. A crow."
Rick's brow arched, a single line of sweat trailing down his temple as he picked up a cloth and wiped the soot from his hands.
"A brother of the Watch came all the way here?"
"Aye. And he says he knows you."
Rick exhaled slowly, folding the cloth and tossing it onto the workbench.
"Of course he does," he muttered, lips curling into something halfway between a smirk and a sigh. "Where am I needed?"
"The Chiefs' hut." The boy answered while looking around in curiosity. He was too young yet to help in preparation for the war.
Rick swiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, leaving a dark streak across his temple. He turned from the anvil without hesitation and moved to the smaller barrel nestled against the forge wall—its rim bound in leather to keep the ash out, its contents reserved for him alone.
He plunged his hands into the cool water. It stung, biting into the cuts and calluses etched into his fingers from long hours spent shaping steel. The water rippled, darkening as the grime lifted from his skin. This barrel was for cleansing, not for quenching metal—he made sure it stayed pure.
With practiced ease, he dried his hands on a coarse linen cloth, still warm from the forge's heat. The heavy silence of the place settled around him, broken only by the faint hiss of cooling metal and the low, lingering crackle of coals. His chest still gleamed faintly with sweat under the orange light.
His shirt went on first, but as he reached for his belt and sword, he caught sight of something draped over a wooden hook near the forge's entrance: the heavy cloak Val had given him. She'd handed it to him without ceremony the morning after their return from Castle Black, her voice dry as ever: "If you're going to be their Winter, at least dress like you won't freeze to death."
Thick fur lined the inside, stitched from wolf hide and mountain goat wool, and the outer layer was a dark, weather-worn leather, burnished black and grey like smoke-stained snow. It smelled of cold wind and pine resin—faint, but grounding. Her handiwork, or perhaps her idea brought to life by others.
He pulled it on now, the weight of it familiar against his shoulders. Functional. Northern. His.
Fastening the clasp at his collarbone, Rick stepped outside, letting the forge door thud shut behind him. The cold met him like an old rival, sharp against his skin, but the cloak did its work well. The path to the Chiefs' hut stretched ahead, muddied from trampled snow and lined with watchful faces. Some nodded in passing. Others simply stared. He kept walking, boots crunching on frost-hardened dirt.
Inside the building, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The flickering firelight cast long shadows on the wooden walls, dancing over the weathered faces of the chieftains who had gathered. Mance Rayder, ever the commanding presence, stood near the center, his usual calm but watchful demeanor tempered by the weight of the discussions at hand. Ygritte leaned casually against a beam, her fiery gaze sharp and alert, while Sigorn stood with his arms crossed, the brooding silence of a man who preferred action to words.
Val was near the fire, her pale hair reflecting the glow, her gaze distant, as if she were lost in thought, or perhaps listening to something only she could hear in the crackling flames. Her posture alone made it clear that she was one of the most respected among the Free Folk, a force to be reckoned with.
Rick moved further into the room, his eyes scanning the gathering. There was a sharp buzz of murmurs among the chieftains, low voices that carried with them a palpable mix of curiosity and suspicion. But it wasn't the chieftains that caught Rick's attention. It was the man standing beside Mance, dressed in black, a cloak draped over his broad shoulders. Rick took in the unmistakable features of the man. His uncle, Benjen.
Rick took in the unmistakable features of the man. His uncle, Benjen. The tension in the air was palpable, the Free Folk glaring at him, and Rick knew they were all too aware of the First Ranger's notorious reputation. The chieftains, many of whom had been at odds with the Night's Watch for years, eyed him warily. But Rick's focus was drawn to Mance Rayder, who had been expecting him.
"You're here," Mance said with a nod, his tone brisk. "The time is upon us."
Rick raised an eyebrow, his hands still holding the weight of the situation. "I see. The truce talks are finally happening?"
"Aye," Mance confirmed. "The Northern lords will be gathering at Castle Black soon. We'll meet in front of the Watch's heart tree, where we'll need to negotiate an alliance."
Rick felt the weight of the task. He had agreed with Mance a moon ago that he would be there to mediate between the Free Folk, the Northern lords, and the Night's Watch. Now the time had come. It was a responsibility Rick had never expected but knew he couldn't walk away from. A truce was the only way to have any chance of survival against the Others.
"I guess I'll prepare if I want them to listen, then. Mind if I request some help?" Rick asked, his tone calm but edged with the weight of the task at hand.
Mance raised an eyebrow, his gaze steady. "What do you need?"
"I need six people to help with a demonstration of how we'll deal with the dead," Rick replied, his voice clear and direct. "It's simple enough—holding my new type of shield, a spear, and forming up in a special formation. Nothing else."
Mance nodded slowly, a flicker of approval crossing his face. He'd come to trust Rick's instincts. "Tormund, Ygritte, Val, and Sigorn will go with you. They know you best. As for the two others…"
Before Mance could finish, a voice broke in.
"Count me in," Benjen interjected, his tone blunt but resolute. The tension that had been simmering between him and the Free Folk had yet to fully dissipate, but his presence here now seemed more purposeful than ever. "Seeing a Black Brother and Free Folk working together may help convince those stubborn idiots that we're not joking around."
Mance gave a low hum in acknowledgment, his eyes flicking between Rick and Benjen, before nodding once. "Agreed."
Rick felt a small weight lift from his shoulders. Benjen's involvement, though unexpected, could very well make a difference. It wasn't just about the demonstration; it was about the symbol they would present—unity, not division.
"I'll find the last person," Rick said, his thoughts already spinning with what had to be done. "When is the parley?"
"Five days," Mance answered, his gaze turning somber. "We'll need to leave soon to make sure everything is ready."
Rick's mind raced, but his expression remained steady. "Then we must leave today."
Mance's eyes met Rick's for a long moment, and then he gave a decisive nod. "Yes. We're leaving in an hour."
"You found the Umber?" Rick asked, his voice steady but with a sharp edge of curiosity.
Mance nodded, his expression unreadable. He briefly flicked his gaze to Val, a subtle shift that Rick caught. "I did," he said quietly, before his focus returned to Rick. "She'd be there."
The meeting ended there, and Rick, his mind already whirring with the weight of the coming days, stood up and left the building. His friends followed quietly behind him, the shadows of the evening stretching long across the frozen earth.
As he stepped outside, the cold air hit him like a slap, but he hardly noticed. His thoughts were focused elsewhere. He made his way toward the small hut that had been set aside for Freyja. It was humble, nothing more than a single-room dwelling built from timber and stone, but it held a sense of purpose in its modest walls. This was where the magic, the knowledge of the old ways, was being taught.
Inside, Freyja was seated at a rough-hewn table, a few of the young Free Folk gathered around her. The air was thick with concentration as she moved between them, guiding their hands as they etched ancient runes into wooden shafts, leather, and even the dragon bone bows that Rick had crafted. The soft sound of carving tools against the surface was a rhythmic background to the hushed murmurs of instruction.
There were no more than half a dozen of them, each one with some trace of magic in their blood. They were a rare few—individuals with the potential to wield power that, though not as strong as the magic Rick had witnessed firsthand, was still enough to make a difference.
Freyja looked up as Rick entered, her deep blue eyes meeting his with a soft acknowledgment. She had come to this place, to this teaching, because she knew the importance of it. The magic woven into these runes could be the key to surviving the coming war—not just for the Free Folk, but for all of them.
Rick nodded to her, his gaze sweeping over the small group. They were hard at work, their focus unwavering. The runes they carved held power, a connection to the old magic of the land, magic that had once shaped the world before it was lost to time.
"Is everything going well here?" Rick asked, his voice quiet as he approached the table. The students paused in their work, looking up briefly, but Freyja gave him a reassuring smile.
"They learn quickly," she replied. "The runes are not easy to master, but they're determined. They know what's at stake." She gestured to the carvings that were taking shape in front of them.
Rick nodded, the weight of the next few days settling heavily on his shoulders. He took a breath, his voice firm as he spoke of the purpose of his visit.
"We're leaving within an hour to the Heart Tree at the Wall. The parley with the Northern lords is in five days," he said, his eyes scanning the room briefly. The faces of his companions were serious, knowing the gravity of what was to come.
Freyja, who had been watching him intently, raised an eyebrow. "What about Alex?" she asked, her voice low and curious.
Rick smirked, clearly amused by the question. "She's coming too. She can use a break, and I'm sure she'll appreciate the chance to unfurl her wings south of the Wall. Plus, I'm certain she'll enjoy not feeling sleepy all the time," he said, grinning.
Freyja's lips quirked upward in a quiet chuckle. "Sounds like a well-deserved rest for her," she replied, the warmth of the moment breaking through the tension that had been building. It was a rare moment of lightness amidst the seriousness of their mission.
Rick glanced at his companions, then back to Freyja. "It's more than that, though. Her presence will be useful at the parley."
Freyja nodded thoughtfully, her gaze lingering on Rick for a moment longer. "I understand," she said quietly. "And I trust you're prepared for what comes next."
Rick's expression grew more serious. "As ready as I'll ever be."
After Rick left Freyja, he made his way to the forge, where his companions were already waiting. He placed the new shield and spear on the workbench, each weapon a testament to the days spent in the forge. The shield, made of Valyrian steel, was lighter than expected, yet unyieldingly strong. The spear, longer than most and crafted with precision, gleamed under the firelight.
Rick took a moment to gather his thoughts before presenting his creation. He demonstrated the shield first, showing how its light weight didn't compromise its strength, and how easily it could be maneuvered in tight formations. The spear, with its long shaft and sharp tip, was a perfect complement, designed for both thrusting and throwing. It was a weapon that could be wielded in close quarters, but also from a distance.
Rick's plan was simple: use the shield to form a near-impenetrable defense, while using the spear to keep their enemies at bay. But the specifics of the shield's design and the way it worked—how it could withstand even the most powerful blows and how it would hold up against the magic of the Others—remained a mystery for now, something Rick would expand upon later.
Benjen, Tormund, Ygritte, Val, and Sigorn watched intently, taking in every movement Rick made. The shield's capabilities were clear, and even though the specifics of the defense were shrouded in secrecy, it was evident that Rick's approach could be a game-changer.
Benjen, after a long silence, finally spoke. His words were simple but filled with respect. "Impressive." He looked at Rick, then back at the shield and spear. "This could make a difference."
Tormund nodded his approval, still eyeing the weapons. "A solid defense. We'll need to train with them, but it's a start."
Rick's eyes were already moving beyond the immediate future. There was still much to be done, but the groundwork was laid. They would train in the coming days, refine the techniques, and prepare for what was to come. The shield and spear were just the beginning. The true power of his design would reveal itself when the time was right.