The air was heavy with tension as Mance's group stood on one side of the Heart Tree, their eyes flicking to the small group Rick had gathered. The tall, gnarled tree loomed above them, its ancient roots digging deep into the ground, a silent witness to the negotiations about to unfold. The breeze carried the scent of pine and snow, but it did little to ease the unease in the air.
Rick, with Freyja at his side in her direwolf form, stood among his closest companions—Tormund, Ygritte, Sigorn, Val, and Benjen. The bond they shared was unspoken, but it was there, a quiet understanding that they were in this together, no matter the outcome of the coming talks. The presence of Melisandre, now fully integrated into their group after a month spent in Castle Black's libraries with Maester Aemon, added a strange energy to the gathering. Her red robes were a stark contrast to the cold surroundings, but it was the fire within her that Rick knew mattered most.
Melisandre's eyes occasionally flicked toward him with a quiet reverence. After weeks of studying ancient texts and cryptic prophecies, she was thrilled to be back at Rick's side. Her god had guided her to him, and now, with the tensions rising around them, she knew that his role in the coming conflict was more important than ever.
Lord Commander Mormont and the Northern Lords were late. As Rick stood there, his fingers drumming against the hilt of his sword, his thoughts were far away. The unity of the North, the Free Folk, and the Night's Watch hung in the balance. These men—the Lords—had to see the truth. They had to understand the dangers that were coming, and the only way to do that was to convince them to set aside their old grudges and think beyond the Wall.
Rick caught a glance from Mance, who stood with a quiet intensity, his weathered face betraying little of the tension he must have been feeling. The Free Folk were ready to fight, but they needed the backing of the North if they were to stand a chance against the Others. The weight of that truth pressed down on Rick's shoulders, but he had been preparing for this moment for what felt like a lifetime.
The wind picked up slightly, and Rick's eyes shifted to the distant figures approaching, the slow but steady march of those who would either bring hope or doom to the realm.
Riding beside Jeor Mormont was a man that Rick recognized instantly. Not because they had met before—he hadn't—but because the man's features were identical to his own, only aged by two decades. It was like looking into a reflection of himself, but older, harder, and marked by time.
"That your father?" Ygritte asked, her gaze flicking from Rick to the man beside Mormont, her voice laced with curiosity.
"No." Rick's tone was sharp, his lip curling in distaste as he looked toward the man. "My cunt of a sire looks like one of those man whores you thought were girls in Volantis. I suppose he's my uncle—Eddard Stark." His words were bitter, laced with the resentment he carried for the man who was his blood but had never once bothered to learn of his whereabouts, let alone acknowledge him.
"Aye, he is," Benjen confirmed quietly, his voice holding a note of regret as he glanced at Rick.
Eddard Stark dismounted his horse and surveyed the gathering at the heart tree. His gaze stopped on Rick, and for a moment, it froze there, locked in shock. It was as if he had seen a ghost—or perhaps something far worse. The recognition in his eyes was swift, and the disquiet that followed was palpable. His stiff posture and sudden silence betrayed a man unaccustomed to being caught off guard.
For his part, Rick felt the flicker of anger that had been smoldering inside him begin to dissipate. He didn't need to hold on to the resentment any longer—not when he saw Maege Mormont step out from behind his uncle. The sight of her was a balm to his weary soul. Maege Mormont had taken him in when he was twelve, and for three years, she had been the closest thing to family he'd known. She had given him a home, food, and, most importantly, the love and support he had long been denied. But it had been six months since he left her side, and though the distance had been long, seeing her again filled him with warmth. Maege was the only true mother figure he'd ever had, the only one he could trust or acknowledge as such. In that moment, his heart swelled with gratitude, a feeling far stronger than the resentment he'd once held for the people who brought him into this world.
Following the pull of his emotions, Rick moved from his position, his feet carrying him across the cold earth toward the Northern Lords. His uncle, Eddard Stark, opened his mouth as if to say something—perhaps to call him, to explain himself, to offer some apology or simply introduce himself—but Rick didn't wait. He didn't even glance in his direction. The words from his uncle he didn't know were unimportant. Rick kept his eyes forward, his mind set on the one person who truly mattered in that moment.
His path led him straight to Maege Mormont, who stood a few paces away, her usual sharp grin on her face. It wasn't the warmest smile, but it was hers, and that was all Rick needed. He reached her quickly, his movements sure and swift. Without hesitation, he pulled her into an embrace, the kind of hug he hadn't received from anyone else in years. Maege's snarky smile softened just for a moment, and she returned the gesture, her arms wrapping around him just as firmly, just as solidly. She was the only one who had ever truly been there for him, and no amount of time or distance could change that bond.
When they finally separated, Maege Mormont held Rick at arm's length, her hands firmly gripping his shoulders as she looked him over, as if seeing him for the first time in ages. Her eyes scanned him, taking in the changes.
"It's good to see you again, Maege," Rick said with a mischievous smile, the one that had always seemed to slip out whenever he was in her presence. It was his signature grin, the one that had often been a mix of trouble and affection.
"Aye, it is, lad," Maege replied, her tone gruff but warm. She gave a small, approving nod. "You've grown up like a sprout in those moons. Not sure if it's the training or the company you keep, but I see a man in you now." Her gaze softened slightly as she added, "Maybe you'd be able to handle the fury of my she-bears. Brenda's been especially cross with you since you left."
Rick couldn't help but chuckle, but there was a hint of concern in his eyes. "I'm fucked, ain't I?" he asked with a smirk, his voice filled with a blend of humor and resignation.
Maege let out a hearty laugh, the sound rich and full of life. "Aye," she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "You are."
"Maybe I should give her another target?" Rick mused, his grin widening. "My friend over there. Tormund the bearfucker."
Maege's eyes widened in surprise. She turned her head to look behind Rick, her gaze falling on Tormund, who was standing by the heart tree. He was looking at her with a lustful glint in his eyes and a grin that could only be described as foolish. Maege's expression soured as she quickly glanced back down at Rick, unamused.
"I met him a moon after I left Bear Island," Rick said with an amused tone, her voice laced with mirth. "And I have plenty of humiliating stories for you, if he's annoying you."
Maege raised an eyebrow, amused. "I'll keep that in mind." She chuckled, but let the matter drop with a sigh, clearly deciding there were better things to focus on.
After a moment of silence, she spoke again, her voice softening. "Of all the things... I didn't expect you to join the Wildlings."
Rick shook his head slowly, his face thoughtful. "Free folk," he corrected her with a wry grin. "And no, I didn't join them. I'm... my own group. Trying to make sure the others don't gut each other. I work with them as much as I work with the Night's Watch. With what we're going up against, it's necessary."
Maege's eyes softened slightly, understanding the weight in his words. She took a deep breath before speaking again, her tone almost weary. "It's true, then? The Others?"
Rick nodded solemnly, his face hardening as the memories flooded back. "Yes. Saw them with my own eyes. Killed one, even." He glanced at Maege, his expression determined. "That's partly why Mance Rayder is trusting me with making the talks smoother."
The last of the Northern lords finally arrived, and Rick, feeling the weight of the tense atmosphere, made his way back to his group. The air was thick with anticipation as he rejoined Tormund, Ygritte, Val, Sigorn, and Benjen, trying to shake off the sharp gaze he felt from his uncle Eddard.
Eddard Stark, his expression unreadable, couldn't help but approach Maege with a set of sharp questions, his voice low but accusatory. "You know him," he stated, his words heavy with the weight of unspoken expectations.
Maege didn't flinch. Her response was calm, unwavering. "Aye. Been fostering him since he turned two and ten." The bluntness in her tone wasn't lost on Eddard, who looked at her with a mix of confusion and disapproval.
Eddard's jaw clenched, but it was his eyes that betrayed his frustration. "Why not send him to Winterfell? To me?" His question rang with the sting of something deeper—perhaps guilt, perhaps regret.
Maege met his gaze, unphased. "Why would I have?" she countered, her voice steady. "When I asked if you knew about your niece and nephew at the Lords' gathering three years ago, you knew nothing about him and didn't seem interested in changing that. He wasn't interested, either. In case you'd send him back to the South." She gave him a pointed look, her eyes narrowing slightly. "And it's not like there was any proof he was the prince. At worst, he was your bastard, and that wouldn't have gone over well with your Lady wife. At best, he's Brandon's. No, it was better for everyone for him to stay with me. Especially him."
Eddard's face turned a shade darker as he processed her words, the reality of the situation settling in. The truth was plain, and Maege had never been one to mince words. He was left to contemplate her reasoning, and perhaps for the first time in years, he felt the sting of his own inaction.The realization hit Eddard like a weight he hadn't been prepared for. It hurt more now, seeing the burden Rick had carried—everything that had been laid upon his shoulders, the years of abandonment and isolation. The life Rick had led was one of hardship, survival, and betrayal. A life he'd been forced to live alone, without the family he should've had by his side.
Benjen hadn't told him about the time Rick left King's Landing, nor about the years that had passed before they met again. Benjen hadn't known. And that fact only deepened the wound in Eddard's heart. He had failed his nephew in ways he never imagined. He hadn't been there for him. And now, looking at Rick, standing so distant yet so close, he couldn't deny the weight of it all.Knowing that Rick had been safe in the North, that Maege had taken him in and cared for him, should have alleviated some of the guilt Eddard felt. It should have brought some relief, a sense of peace. But it didn't. It made it worse. He had let his family slip through his fingers, and now, more than ever, he could feel the pain of his decisions, the regret eating at him.
Maege's words echoed in his mind—he wasn't interested—and Eddard realized that it wasn't just a matter of him not reaching out. It was also the cold truth that Rick had given up on him, on all of them, long before Eddard had even begun to feel the stirrings of guilt. That thought stung more than any accusation Maege could throw at him. The silence between them now felt heavier, as though no amount of words could fix the years that had been lost.
The sudden booming voice of GreatJon Umber cut through the tension, drawing both Eddard and Maege's attention. They looked over to see the towering lord of Last Hearth, his massive arms wrapped tightly around a woman dressed in the garb of a wildling. He was holding her like he'd just won some great prize, lifting her off her feet in a bear hug that was both fierce and joyful.
"GreatJon embracing a wildling?" Eddard asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. He had never expected to see such a thing. The Umber lord, known for his fierce loyalty to the North and his hatred of the Free Folk, was now wrapped in a moment of unexpected warmth with one of them.
Maege's eyes widened, recognizing the woman. "By the Old Gods! That's Morna Umber!" she exclaimed, her voice full of surprise and recognition.
"Morna... His cousin that was taken twenty years back?" Eddard asked, bewilderment clear in his voice. The name stirred something in him, a memory of the loss that had haunted the Umber family for so long. Morna's disappearance had been one of those grim events that had been whispered about in the North for years, but nobody ever expected to see her again.
Maege nodded, her eyes squinting as she studied the reunion. "Aye. I recognize her. Same blonde hair, same sharp look in her eyes..."
Eddard's gaze shifted to the pair once more, still trying to grasp the situation. Then, suddenly, he winced as Morna, in a swift and very familiar move, kneed GreatJon in the stones. The massive man let out a sharp grunt, staggering back in pain, holding his groin, much to the amusement of the onlookers.
Maege burst out laughing, her sharp and knowing chuckle filling the air. "And same stones-shattering knee," she remarked, clearly enjoying the sight of the great warrior being taken down a notch by the woman who had clearly not forgotten how to handle her cousin. The laughter between them was a rare moment of levity, cutting through the tension and reminding them that, even in times of grave importance, there was still room for moments of human connection.
Morna Umber didn't waste a moment before turning on her cousin, her voice rising in a furious storm of words. She hurled insults at GreatJon with a fierce intensity that would have made even the bravest of men flinch. The words that poured from her mouth were harsh, raw, and filled with a rage that no lady of the North, or anywhere, should have had to carry. The language she used was even unusual from someone of the boisterous House Umber. It was clear that years of pent-up frustration had come to the surface at that moment.
GreatJon, towering over her, stood there in stunned silence at first, his chest heaving as though he might speak, but the onslaught of her words had left him speechless. It was as if the snowstorm of fury that came from Morna's lips had numbed him to anything else, leaving him without a defense.
Finally, when the storm of words seemed to ebb, Morna's expression softened. With the same swift movement, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her cousin. It was an embrace filled with a mix of relief, sorrow, and years of pain that had now found release. Her sobs were muffled against his chest, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, she allowed herself to cry freely in his arms.
Eddard watched the scene unfold, feeling an unexpected sense of emotion stir within him. The reunion, despite its roughness and the deep pain it carried, was genuine. Maege, standing beside him, had gone quiet, observing the moment with an understanding that only someone with the same kind of loss could truly appreciate.
The cold winds of the North seemed to grow even sharper around them as Morna cried, the weight of her emotions settling on everyone present. And yet, amid the rawness, there was something almost healing in it—something that suggested that the bonds of family could never truly be broken, no matter how far apart they had been for so long. It gave him hope regarding his nephew.
As the cousins continued to talk, the tension in the air began to settle. Morna's anger had dissipated, replaced by something softer, though still heavy with emotion. She wiped her eyes, still sniffling a little, before turning her attention to Rick's group. Her gaze locked onto Val with a pointed finger. Rick's brow furrowed in curiosity. He had already made the connection during their travels from Hardhome, but seeing the interaction between the two women– mother and daughter– stirred something in him. It wasn't like he hadn't suspected, but now, he found himself wondering what Val thought of the situation.
Val, for all her strength and confidence, was not just a Free Folk woman; she carried noble blood. One of the Great Houses of the North, no less. Her connection to the ancient houses was something that could change many things for her—whether it would or not, however, remained unclear. It was a strange thing to think about, especially given the circumstances of their current lives.
What was more pressing in Rick's mind, though, was how this piece of information might alter the course of the truce talks. Val's older sister, Dala, was married to Mance Rayder, and that fact alone made things complicated. The weight of such bloodlines carried power, and Rick couldn't help but wonder how the Northern Lords would view the situation once they realized the true identity of Mance's wife.
He was betting on talks being easier at least as far as House Umber was concerned, all from the reaction of Greatjon Umber.
Jeor Mormont raised a hand, his gruff voice calling the gathering to order. The moment had come. Free Folk assembled on one side of the Heart Tree, the Northern Lords on the other, and Lord Commander Mormont stood firmly between them, as if the old bear could hold the weight of the world on his shoulders. Rick stood silently among his companions, his eyes sharp, his ears keen. Every word spoken mattered now.
Mance Rayder and Jeor Mormont spoke first, standing side by side—a sight that alone stirred murmurs among the Northerners. They reaffirmed the agreement forged at the edge of the world: that the Night's Watch and the Free Folk would stand united against the Others. Mormont's voice was steady, lined with conviction, while Mance's carried the calm authority of a king long used to doubt.
Not all the Northern Lords welcomed the idea. A few, like Maege Mormont, watched with stern approval, their expressions unreadable but clearly weighing every word. But others scoffed or growled beneath their breath. One lord barked that the Wall had stood for thousands of years and needed no help from "wildling savages." Another declared Mormont an oath-breaker for even entertaining the thought of alliance. Some claimed the threat of the Others was no more than old wives' tales, exaggerated by tired men too long in the cold.
Eddard Stark stood among his bannermen, his expression composed but tight with frustration. He held the dignity of a lord and the wisdom of a man who had seen too much war, too much loss. When he spoke, he did so with the quiet authority that had once ruled the North—measured, calm, reasonable. He urged his peers to consider the greater threat, reminded them of ancient warnings and the duty they bore not just to their houses, but to all of Westeros.
But his words fell on hardened ears. The hatred between the Northerners and the Free Folk ran too deep, layered with generations of blood and grief. Even those who respected Eddard refused to bend. Pride, suspicion, and the cold weight of old grudges held them fast. They would not trust wildlings. Not now. Not ever.
Mance gave a sidelong glance at Rick, a silent question in his eyes. Rick held back a sigh, already knowing what was needed. He nodded once, then stepped forward with purpose.
"Alright, enough, you daft cunts!" Rick's voice rang out across the glade, sharp and commanding. All eyes turned to him as he walked up to stand beside Lord Commander Mormont, planting himself firmly between the two sides.
"Children, women, and the elderly of the Free—"
"The fuck are you, boy?! Hm?!" shouted Lord Karstark, cutting him off with a sneer. "Have the savages gone soft, sending a wet-behind-the-ears pup to yap for them?"
"Go back suckin' at your mother's teat," Lord Glover added with a contemptuous curl of his lip, drawing a few murmurs of laughter from like-minded lords.
Rick didn't flinch. His eyes locked on Glover with ice in them, and his voice dropped cold and precise. "Freyja."
Hearing her name, Freyja leapt forward in a blur of white fur and primal force. Before anyone could react, Lord Glover was flat on his back in the snow, the wind knocked clean out of him.The direwolf stood over him, one massive paw pinning his chest with effortless strength. Her head lowered, jaws parted in a savage snarl that bared fangs longer than a man's fingers. Her breath steamed in the cold air, hot and rank with blood and wildness, as she growled low and dangerous—so close Glover could do nothing but stare at the abyss of her throat.
No one moved. Everyone and everything had gone dead quiet. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Maege Mormont's eyes narrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line—not in fear, but in sharp appraisal. She didn't flinch. Her warrior's instinct saw Freyja's size, speed, and obedience and marked it for what it was: power harnessed with purpose. She glanced at Rick, a flicker of pride behind her stern gaze.
Eddard Stark's brow furrowed, his face hard with disbelief. Benjen had told him the boy had a direwolf, but he hadn't truly believed it—at least, not one the size of a warhorse. Now, seeing Freyja standing over Glover like death given fangs and fur, he understood. His eyes flicked from the beast to Rick, putting the pieces together with grim calculation. He didn't move, but his hand dropped instinctively near the hilt of his sword before stopping himself. There was no mistaking the wolf's bond with the man—who bore his sister's eyes, and now, her fury.
Greatjon Umber's mouth hung open. For once in his life, the great booming bear of a man had nothing to say. He blinked at Freyja, then at Rick, then back at Freyja. Slowly, ever so slowly, a wild grin began to curl beneath his beard.
Lord Glover, flat on his back beneath Freyja's massive weight, stared up at the snarling maw above him. His eyes bulged in stunned terror. His limbs were rigid, paralyzed with the cold realization that one wrong breath could end him. Sweat beaded his forehead despite the snow, and not a sound escaped his lips—not a curse, not a plea—only silence and the tremble of his throat as he swallowed hard.
"I am Prince Aemon Targaryen, and you will do as I say. Or you, your family, your keep, and your people will burn." Rick's voice cut through the cold like a blade, unflinching, unforgiving. His eyes turned white.
In that moment, Rick warged into Alexstrasza. She had been waiting atop the Wall in her human form, cloaked and still, watching the Heart Tree from afar. When the signal reached her mind, she shed her borrowed skin in a blaze of light and fury. Scales erupted over flesh, wings burst free, and in the space of a breath, the Mother of Dragons stood in her true shape once more—massive, ancient, and terrible.
A deafening roar shattered the sky. It echoed off the Wall, rolled down the mountains, and sent flocks of birds fleeing. Every man beneath the Heart Tree—Free Folk and Northerner alike—snapped their heads up. A third the height of the Wall, Alexstrasza reared her serpentine neck and bared her fangs to the wind. Her wings spread wide, casting a blood-red shadow over the field below.
The mother of dragons looked down at them—at the gathered lords, the Free Folk, the Lord Commander. Her crimson eyes locked on the field below with ancient fury and judgment.
"Children, women, and the elderly of the Free Folk will settle in the Gift and the New Gift," Rick said, his voice carrying across the circle like the sound of steel drawn from a sheath. "They will till the earth, raise livestock, and harvest what we need to survive the coming storm. The Night's Watch is too few, too burdened. This way, food will be grown, bellies filled, and blades kept sharp." He glanced between the lords, letting the weight of his next words settle. "They will abide by the laws of the realm. They will not raid. They will not steal. But they will not kneel. Do not ask it, for it will not be given." His pale eyes flashed, white as snow. "This is not peace. It is a truce. A line drawn in the frost while we fight the true enemy. When the Others are gone—when winter ends—they will return to their lands beyond the Wall. That is the deal. Break it, and you'll have two wars instead of one."
"Free Folk, Black Brothers, and the folk south of the Wall will work together," Rick continued, stepping forward into the middle of the two camps. "You don't need to share tents or trade tales by the fire. You don't have to fight shoulder to shoulder, or break bread like friends." His tone sharpened, cold as the wind. "You only need to fight. And do as you're told. You will hold the line. You will carry your weight. Or we all die, and the Others won't care whose blood is Northern, Free Folk, or royal."
He let that hang in the cold air a moment longer, eyes scanning every face—watching the resistance in some, the understanding in others.
"What's the plan? My brother said you had a plan," Eddard Stark asked, his gaze sharp and his tone measured, as he watched Freyja release Lord Glover. The man was visibly shaken, but the direwolf, after delivering a warning, had let him go.
Freyja trotted back to Rick's side, her massive paws kicking up the snow, and Rick, his expression unwavering, put a hand through her fur.
"Why don't you use that big dragon of yours?" GreatJon Umber boomed, a hint of frustration in his voice as he eyed Rick. The question hung in the air, heavy with expectation, and the Northern lords exchanged uncertain glances.
Rick stood tall, his voice calm but carrying the weight of the truth. "Two reasons. One," he began, meeting their eyes, "She has only awoken from a millennia of slumber. Her power is not what it once was. The magic that courses through her veins is weakened, and she cannot match the strength of the Others' magic. It's an ancient force, one that even she struggles to combat."
He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in, before continuing, "Two, even if she could fight them, her presence would break the enchantment woven into the Wall. The magic of Bran the Builder, combined with the Children of the Forest, is what keeps the Wall standing. If she were to unleash her full strength, the Wall would shatter, and the Others would be free to cross, bringing their thralls with them. It's a risk we can't afford." he lied.
The silence that followed was thick, every man and woman present understanding the weight of Rick's words. The Wall, their last line of defense, was not only made of ice but of ancient and powerful magic.
Rick shared a look with Freyja, his eyes momentarily meeting hers, a silent understanding passing between them. Without a word, Freyja began to shift, her form rippling and distorting as she transformed from her massive direwolf shape back into her human form. The air seemed to hum with magic as her size remained imposing, her pale skin glowing in the pale light of the North. Her long white hair cascaded down her back, and her deep blue eyes met those of the gathered lords.
The reaction was immediate.
"By the gods!" GreatJon Umber shouted, his voice filled with disbelief and awe as he stepped back, eyes wide in shock.
"You're! But... you're a myth!" Maege Mormont exclaimed, her hands instinctively going to her hips, staring at the towering woman before her. The legends of the Mother of the North, the ancient figure said to have nurtured first men at her teats, flashed through her mind.
Eddard Stark, however, wasn't entirely surprised. Benjen had spoken of this, though the mention of Freyja had always felt like a tale rather than reality. Still, seeing her standing there in the flesh, unashamed of her power, caused a fleeting moment of astonishment.
"What sorcery is this?" Lord Karstark demanded, his face twisted in suspicion and confusion. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, but he hesitated, unsure of whether to draw it.
Maege Mormont's glare cut through the tension like a knife. She shot Lord Karstark a disdainful look. "That's the Mother of the North, you stupid cunt!" she snapped, her voice laced with irritation. "She's no sorcery, she's as real as the North itself."
Freyja's eyes flicked to Maege briefly, acknowledging the woman's fierce loyalty. Then, her voice rang out, low and solemn, cutting through the murmurs and gasps that had filled the air. "That is correct, Maege Mormont. I am no myth." Her voice carried the weight of centuries, a reminder that legends were born of truths long hidden beneath the surface. "And I am here to see the North survive. Just like I did eight thousand years ago. Though my powers, like the Mother of Dragons and the Wall, are quite diminished. I can only provide knowledge and wisdom at the current moment."
"How asinine it is that you exist aside, or that you're still alive after eight thousand years, my Lady," Roose Bolton, the cold, calculating Lord of House Bolton, spoke in his usual detached tone, his pale eyes narrowing as he regarded Freyja. "What is this about the Wall's power being diminished?"
Freyja's gaze never wavered, her face as impassive as the ancient stone itself. "The magic in the runes carved into the ice comes from the Old Gods," she began, her voice steady and calm. "The more Heart trees there are, the more magic the Old Gods can give. Unfortunately..." She paused, her eyes scanning the gathered lords.
"The Andals' cunts cut almost all of them," Maege Mormont interjected, her voice thick with distaste. She'd known the history, the brutal sweep of the Andals across Westeros starting from Dorne, the southest kingdom, destroying the sacred groves of the Old Gods in the name of their new religion. The trees that had once granted strength to the Wall were now a mere shadow of their former number and only in the North.
"Yes," Freyja confirmed, her voice tinged with sorrow for what had been lost. "In a bit less than a decade, the Wall will only be a huge block of ice. It won't stop the Others anymore."
The weight of her words hung in the air, and for a moment, the cold silence seemed to deepen, as though the wind itself had stilled in recognition of the truth. The Wall, once the bulwark against the dark, would soon be nothing more than a memory.
Rick stepped forward then, his posture strong, his voice carrying with the weight of urgency and responsibility. "The plan," he said, cutting through the tension, "is to kill the Others before that. They will attack during winter, and if we wait too long, we'll be fucked when that happens. In a year at most we will attack by taking them by surprise and where we want them to be."
His words were blunt, but the fear in the room was palpable. Everyone in that circle knew what the Others could do, knew that when they came, it would be a battle for survival. The stakes had never been higher. They knew the stories, they knew the legends.
"How?" Wyman Manderly, Lord of House Manderly, asked with genuine confusion, his voice heavy with skepticism. His rotund frame shifted uncomfortably as he leaned forward, eyes narrowing in thought. "We all saw that wight. How can you kill what's already dead but not dead?"
The man's disbelief was clear, and it wasn't just his size that made him seem larger than life in that moment; it was the weight of his doubt. Wyman Manderly, for all his noble stature, couldn't shake the vision of the walking corpse they had seen—something so unnatural, so beyond comprehension.
"The wights can be killed by four different ways," Rick began, his voice steady as he addressed the lords. "One is fire. Two is dragonglass or obsidian. Three is Valyrian steel. Fourth, and perhaps most crucial, is killing the White Walker who raised them, or the Night King."
"The Night King?" Eddard asked, his brow furrowing in confusion as he leaned forward slightly. His voice was thick with suspicion, an underlying tone of disbelief.
Rick's gaze sharpened, and he nodded gravely. "The very first White Walker. The one who raised the others, then the wights. If we kill him, his entire army of dead will fall."
Maege Mormont's lips curled into a thin, disapproving line. Her eyes, sharp as ever, locked onto Rick as she crossed her arms over her chest. "That sounds simple, but it ain't, is it?" she said, her voice thick with disdain. "If it were that easy, we'd have done it by now."
"Indeed," Rick continued, his tone unwavering as he addressed the gathered lords. "The whole army doesn't know pain, doesn't know fear, doesn't know fatigue. The White Walkers are faster and stronger than humans. The Night King, as the very first of them, is even more formidable. A simple duel wouldn't be in our favor. Walkers are immune to fire, too, which doesn't help us." He paused, letting the weight of the situation sink in. His gaze turned to Mormont and Mance, his voice steady but filled with an edge of urgency. "And there are... how many did the scouts report?"
Mormont's grim expression tightened. "Six hundred thousand," he answered, his voice heavy with the truth of the number.
"Perhaps more," Mance added, his tone just as grim. "We've seen their numbers rise even beyond that."
Rick let out a breath, his words deliberate and cold as he shared the devastating reality with the group. "Six hundred thousand dead, between us and the Night King."
The sheer enormity of the number staggered everyone into silence. Eddard Stark, GreatJon Umber, and the other lords shifted uncomfortably, their faces drawn with the weight of the figures. The morale of the group faltered in that moment, the hope fading into dread.
But Rick wasn't finished. He lifted his chin, meeting their eyes with a determined fire. He could feel the defeat seeping into the minds of the lords, and he wouldn't allow it. "There is hope," he said, his voice cutting through the room like a knife. "We have what they don't. We have our minds. And with that, we can outsmart them."
He let that sink in before continuing, his gaze now sweeping over the room. "I've devised a battle plan—one that will make their overwhelming numbers more than manageable."
The lords, though still visibly shaken, found a flicker of hope in Rick's words. He could see their attention refocus as they looked to him for guidance. Even Maege, who usually wore a skeptical air, gave a slight nod. She wasn't yet convinced, but she respected Rick enough to hear him out.
Rick's voice grew more confident, unwavering. "With strategy, we can turn the tide. And we will."
Rick gave a solemn nod to Mormont, signaling him to proceed. Mormont, in turn, unfurled a large map of the Lands Beyond the Wall. It was detailed, its edges curling slightly from the years of use. The map was large enough that it took both Mormont and Benjen to hold it in place, the two men standing on opposite sides to ensure it didn't roll up.
Rick's finger moved over the map with purpose. "The Others came from the unexplored far North, from the land of Always Winter. A place so cold and desolate, no living creature can survive there. They came down this way, westward." He pointed to a vast, blank stretch of white on the map, just west of the Thenns, an area untouched by man. "This is where they came from, the farthest reaches of the world, where the cold is eternal."
He then shifted his hand, tracing the map further south. "If they want to move east, they have two choices. They could turn back, heading further into the land of Always Winter, and make their way down the other side. But that would take them far off course and away from the Wall." Rick's finger slid across the chasm between the mountains. "Or they pass through here—the Skirling Pass."
He tapped the spot with authority, his gaze unwavering. "The pass is not far from the Fist of the First Men. It's the only natural way through the mountains, the one route they could take to continue south."
Rick's plan began to take shape, each move calculated with precision as he pointed at the map, his voice steady and commanding. "We make an ambush right here," he said, his finger tapping the Skirling Pass. "We position specialized defensive troops inside the pass to block them, slow them down. They'll be forced to fight in tight quarters, making it harder for them to advance. At the same time, archers and giants will be stationed on the cliffs on either side, raining down arrows and rocks, doing as much damage as possible."
He traced a path down the pass with his finger. "Bit by bit, the troops will fall back, drawing the wights deeper into the pass. We don't make a stand; we retreat slowly, only engaging when necessary. The goal is to lure as many of them into the narrow choke points as possible. When the time is right, we strike."
Rick's finger moved to the sides of the pass, and he gestured with conviction. "When enough of them are drawn in and enough have been killed, cavalry will come down each side of the pass—here and here." He pointed to the appropriate spots. "The cavalry will flank what's left of the dead, cutting them down in waves. The cavalry's role is to be swift. They don't stop to fight; they simply charge through the wights, tearing through their ranks, then circle back and repeat the charge. They can't afford to get bogged down, or the walkers will raise them as their own."
He paused for a moment, letting the plan sink in before continuing. "The main point is to keep their attention focused on the cavalry and the ambush, while keeping our own casualties to a minimum. If too many die on our side, the walkers will just raise them, and that's the last thing we need."
Rick's finger then shifted to the Bay of Ice and Bear Island. "Meanwhile, a small group will sail from Bear Island, using the Bay of Ice to land on the frozen shore. They'll come at the walkers and the Night King from the back, striking from the rear to finish them off for good. We strike swiftly, no hesitation. We'll break their command, and the wights will fall with them."
The weight of the plan settled over the group, the magnitude of what Rick had proposed clear. It wasn't a plan without risk, but it had a clear purpose—to use their advantages to draw the enemy in, keep them off balance, and deliver the final blow where the Night King wouldn't expect it. The silence in the air was palpable, everyone's eyes fixed on Rick as the reality of the coming battle set in.
It was Greatjon Umber who broke the heavy silence, his booming voice filling the air with a mix of shock and grudging respect.
"Daaaaamn, your grace," he said, leaning forward, his eyes wide with disbelief. "That's quite the nasty strategy. I like it."
"Aye, the pass will negate their overwhelming numbers," Maege Mormont added, her gravelly voice filled with approval. "It will slow them down, give us a fighting chance."
Roose Bolton, always the pragmatist, leaned back in his chair, his cold eyes narrowing as he studied Rick. "That leaves the problem of actually killing them. Valyrian steel is extremely rare, and obsidian, from what I hear, is too brittle to be relied upon for anything serious."
Rick's gaze remained steady as he reached for the sheath at his waist. Without missing a beat, he unsheathed the dagger, its polished steel gleaming in the firelight. He tossed it across the table toward Bolton, the blade spinning in the air with deadly precision.
"I made it a week ago."
Bolton caught the dagger with an air of practiced precision, his usual stoic demeanor faltering as his eyes traced the blade. He held it up, inspecting its edge, his expression shifting from skepticism to shock.
"You MADE it?" Bolton's voice was incredulous.
Rick nodded slowly, his voice calm and steady. "Aye. Where do you think I found the Mother of Dragons? In Valyria. I uncovered the secret of Valyrian steel there." He looked around at the gathered lords, his gaze meeting Benjen's. "Ask my uncle Benjen—he was there for the Night's Watch when I found it."
Benjen, standing off to the side, gave a quiet nod of confirmation.
Rick's tone grew more serious as he continued, "For more than a moon now, I've been smithing arrowheads, spikes, and whatever else I can manage. But a single man can only do so much. If you could send blacksmiths to Hardhome, that would be a great help. There's so much to be done, and we're running out of time."
He turned his gaze back to the lords, his voice lowering with urgency. "I can promise swords, I can promise armor. But the special troops inside the pass won't need them. They'll only need shields and pikes. Now, friends, a demonstration, please."
Tormund, Ygritte, Sigorn, Val, Freyja, and Benjen moved forward at Rick's command, each of them gathering their shield and pike. Their movements were swift, precise, the warriors falling into place as Rick had taught them.
The shields were large and sturdy, each one a solid barrier against the oncoming enemy. Tormund, towering and broad, took the lead, his shield raised high, the edges perfectly aligned with Sigorn and Ygritte, who flanked him on either side. Val and Freyja, each with her pike in hand, stood in position, ready to defend or strike at any moment. Benjen took his place at the end, completing the line with quiet determination.
Rick stood back, watching the formation with a critical eye. "This is how we stand in the pass," he said, his voice calm but carrying authority. "A shield wall, side by side. Each of us relying on the others to hold the line. No gaps, no weaknesses."
Tormund grunted in agreement, his large shield braced against his side. Sigorn and Ygritte, their shields pressed together, mirrored the formation perfectly. Val and Freyja, with their pikes poised, stood like sentinels, their focus unwavering. Benjen, silent as always, exuded a quiet strength, his place in the formation solid and unwavering.
Rick continued, "The pikes will fill the gaps, pushing back anything that tries to break through. The shields protect the weak spots, and we hold the line. We don't break, we don't retreat—until it's necessary, and only when their numbers are thinned enough to break them."
He gestured for them to move, and the warriors shifted together, a seamless display of practiced skill. The shields were heavy, the weight a reminder of the brutality of the battle ahead, but the unity in their movements spoke volumes about their training and the bond they shared. Each warrior knew their role, and each was prepared to play it to the fullest.
When the demonstration ended, Rick stepped forward again, his voice low but resolute. "The point is simple: we stand together, we make them come to us and lure them to their doom.
"This formation requires a great deal of discipline," Rick continued, his voice steady and serious. "The ones who will be inside the pass will need to train hard, every day. A single person who fails to act in unison, who hesitates, who falters... and it's the end for all of us." His eyes swept across the gathered lords, his gaze sharp, making sure they understood the gravity of his words. "Choose carefully the men you send to be trained. This is not just about strength; it's about coordination, precision, and trust."
There was a brief silence as the weight of the responsibility settled on their shoulders. Then, Rick turned, his attention shifting to Freyja.
"One more thing," he said, his tone now carrying a sense of finality. "Freyja."
Freyja stepped forward, her posture regal, her expression unwavering. "Runes," she said, her voice a clear, powerful echo of ancient authority. "We will carve runes onto the spearheads, the handles of your weapons, onto your armors. This will enhance the gear, make it stronger, sharper, and more durable." She paused, letting the importance of her words settle. "A spear won't break as easily, a sword will cut cleaner, and armor will protect you more. It is without danger—there is no risk of harm to the children you send to do this. We are guided by the Old Gods, and they will see to it."
The room grew quiet, the lords contemplating the significance of what Freyja was suggesting. Rickard Karstark, ever the skeptic, raised his hand, his voice carrying the weight of his concern. "How do we know who has magic in their blood?"
Freyja turned to him, her deep blue eyes steady and wise. "You don't," she replied simply. "But I do. The Old Gods know. They have always known. Technically, most of the North carries some trace of magic in their blood, descendants of the First Men. For most, it's a faint drop, a whisper of power. But for others," she glanced at the lords, her gaze sharpening, "like your daughter, Lord Karstark, or Lord Reed's eldest son, or all the children of House Stark... they have enough power to wield it."
Rick nodded in agreement, stepping forward once more. "The runes will not only enhance our weapons, they will serve to bind us, to strengthen our unity. We need all the advantages we can get, and this is one we can't afford to ignore."
The lords exchanged glances, some with a touch of awe, others with lingering skepticism, but all of them knew the gravity of what was being asked. This war would not be won by might alone. It would require the strength of tradition, of magic, and of unity.
Rick looked to Freyja, his expression resolute. "Let's begin the preparations. There is no time to waste."
The alliance was done. The lords didn't speak their agreement to working with the freefolk, but ever since Rick had stepped in, and Alexstrasza's thunderous roar had echoed through the gathering, the air had shifted. It was clear—the deal was made. From the corner of his eyes, Rick saw Morna Umber approach, bringing Greatjon to meet Val. The two stood tall together, an odd yet undeniable pairing, both seasoned and dangerous in their own right. Their conversation was quiet, but Rick could see the curiosity and subtle tension in the way they stood, eyes darting between each other.
Rick then turned his attention to Maege, who was deep in conversation with her brother. He watched them, the stark contrast between their personalities clear even from a distance. Maege's face was a picture of focus and sharpness, while her brother's expression was softer, almost resigned. He had hoped to speak with Maege, to learn how things were progressing back on Bear Island, but the siblings hadn't seen each other in so long, and Rick knew it wasn't his place to interrupt them. Despite their friction and differences, they shared a bond that was stronger than any disagreement.
"Ned wants to talk to you, but he doesn't know how to approach you," Benjen said, his voice low, pulling Rick from his thoughts. The older Stark was close now, standing just beside him, eyes trained ahead.
Rick turned to face his uncle. His expression was unreadable, yet his mind raced. "Talk about what?"
Benjen gave him a quick glance, hesitant to explain further but not about to leave him in suspense. The moment was heavy, the silence between them lingering as the weight of the looming battle settled deeper within the camp.
"I'm no Stark, nor am I a Targaryen. I may have the blood, I may have the name and the looks, but it means nothing to me," Rick explained, his voice steady but carrying the weight of truth in every word.
"It means something for us," Ned said as he got closer, his voice tight, as if every word was dragging something heavy from deep inside. "We... we did you wrong. We were angry, furious even. Angry at Lyanna for what she did. She... she broke everything. She shattered our family, our house, our honor. She ran away with Rhaegar, and because of that, thousands of good men—our men—died. My own flesh and blood, my own brother, Brandon, gone because of her choice. My father too. And you, Aemon, were caught in the aftermath of all that destruction."
He paused, his breath shaky, as if admitting these things made them real in a way he hadn't allowed before. "We loved her, Aemon. She was our sister. We would have given our lives for her. But what she did... it was unforgivable. And I... I couldn't understand how she didn't seem to care. How could she just disappear into his arms, leaving all of us to deal with the bloodshed, the wreckage she left behind?"
Ned's voice cracked, something raw and painful flickering in his eyes. "I've spent years carrying that anger. I've let it eat at me, thinking if I just held on to it long enough, it would make sense. But it never did. And now… now it's too late to undo the past. It's too late to bring back what we lost, too late to fix what she–they– broke."
His gaze met Rick's, the apology lingering, but unspoken, heavy in the space between them. "We're suffering because of our own ignorance, Aemon. Our inability to forgive, to accept what happened. Maybe that's our fault. Maybe that's on us. But we've been carrying this weight, this bitterness, for too long, and I can't do it anymore."
Eddard's voice softened, the rawness giving way to something more vulnerable, a brother's plea for understanding. "I don't know if we'll ever truly forgive her… But we love her. We just… can't stand her anymore. And… she was so enamored with Rhaegar that we thought, we believed you'd be treated well. Their son, born of love. A prince. We never thought he.. That she… Had we known I would have asked Rhaegar to foster you with me. Home and with your family."
Rick didn't quite know what to think. The words hung in the air, thick with the weight of years lost to silence and resentment. On one hand, it was an apology—a deep, raw confession—something he never expected to receive. If he ever had hoped for it, those hopes had long since faded, buried under the crushing weight of everything that had come before. It had been too many years, too many battles fought, too many scars carved into his soul for him to even imagine such a moment.
But here it was. Eddard Stark, standing before him, his voice breaking through years of silence and pain, offering words of regret. It was genuine, heartfelt—there was no mistaking that. The man before him was not the cold, distant figure Rick had always imagined him to be; this was a man undone by grief, by the long-held weight of his choices, and by the guilt of the decisions made long before Rick had ever come into the picture.
Eddard Stark was not perfect, Rick knew that well. No man was.But in this moment, Rick could see the rawness of his humanity—the father, the brother, the man who had lost so much. The realization hit him with a quiet force: this apology wasn't just for the past, for the betrayal or the broken family—it was a plea for something more. A plea for understanding, for healing, for the chance to move beyond the walls built by years of anger and regret. And for a fleeting moment, Rick found himself wondering if, perhaps, forgiveness could be found after all.
"I... accept your apologies. Both of you," Rick began, his voice steady but tinged with a weariness that only years of hardship could bring. "I'm not sure it will change anything, though. I... I'm free of family bonds, almost. And if I'm honest, I'm not sure I even want them. Out of everyone, only Uncle Aemon ever treated me like family. For three years, we spoke through one letter a month—just words on paper, but they were all I had. And Maege... Maege, that old snarky hag, she's more family than anyone else. Yet, despite how she welcomed me into her home, how she treated me like a mother might treat her son, I always felt like a stranger among her brood. Family? I don't even know what that is anymore if I ever did."
He paused, the weight of his own words hanging heavy in the air. There was a bitterness there, not aimed at them, but at a world that had taken so much from him.
"I'm not... against it. I'm not against knowing you two idiots anymore, but don't expect warmth from me. Not because I don't want to but because I don't think I have it in me anymore. It's not like I've had the chance to find it. I'm... I'm the gods' chosen. Fated to fight the Night King and bring the dawn to this cursed world. That's my path. That's my focus. I don't have time for anything else."
The words were a quiet declaration, a man stripped of the luxury of warmth, of kinship, of the ties that once might have bound him to something more. He wasn't sure if it was self-preservation or simply the reality of the path he'd been thrust upon, but in the quiet of his heart, Rick knew the truth: there was little room for anything else.
"I don't think it's a good idea either. Azor Ahai... the Last Hero. The one who defeated the Night King the first time. Perhaps the greatest feat in known history, and yet, no one knows what happened to her after the Long Night."
"Her?" Ned's voice held a touch of disbelief.
"Aye. Her," Rick responded flatly, his gaze distant. "I doubt the First Men were overjoyed knowing they owed their lives to a woman. It's not exactly the sort of thing the world likes to record, is it? History's always kinder to men—heroes, kings, warriors."
Benjen's eyes narrowed, sensing where Rick was headed. "You think she died in the fight, and that you're destined to meet the same fate?"
Rick didn't answer right away, his silence louder than any words. His eyes met Benjen's, and in that moment, everything was understood.
Benjen pressed on, his voice softer, but cutting through the tension. "That's why you refuse to make any bonds, isn't it? You believe you're going to die, and you see no point in attaching yourself to anyone. Aemon's a hundred now. He won't be around much longer, so it's all right." His gaze shifted briefly to Eddard, who stood frozen in shock at his brother's words.
Rick said nothing. The silence was a void, thick and suffocating, stretching between him and the two men like an invisible wall. The weight of his non-response felt like a hundred unspoken truths, but he kept his thoughts locked behind them. Even Freyja, who always seemed unshakable, was struck silent.
"Rick... Azor went back east. She survived the battle. There's no reason for you to—" Freyja started, her voice soft, careful.
But Rick's voice cut through her like a blade, sharp and jagged. "There are plenty," he spat, his tone harsher than he intended. "My whole life, from the day I was born, has been nothing but being used and discarded. Do you really think the gods are any different? They made me, shaped me, and when they're done with me, they'll cast me aside just like everyone else. Why keep the puppets when you no longer need them?"
Freyja opened her mouth to argue, but he raised a hand, his palm facing her to stop her before she could speak. His eyes were cold, distant, filled with something far darker than what he'd shown before.
"Fuck the gods." His words hung heavy in the air. "You told me I had a choice, but it doesn't feel like I do, does it? Even my own feelings—everything—everything is being pulled and twisted by hands I can't even see. I'm just another pawn in their game."
And with that, Rick turned on his heels and walked away. He didn't need to hear anything else. There was nothing more to be said. The forest stretched out before him, cold and silent, and he welcomed its emptiness. The weight of his thoughts, heavy and suffocating, could only be eased by solitude. Alone, as he had always been. Alone, as he was meant to be.