Taryn Stark took in a shallow breath as he knelt before the Weirwood tree in the Godswood and his voice rang through the darkness.

"Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come..."

# # # # # # # # # # #

The Night King opened his ice blue eyes, focusing them on the city of White Harbour as he looked down on the chaos of battle from atop his undead steed, his generals surrounding him.

White Harbour had been the first town or city the army had encountered that had been occupied the other Manderly outposts of the Last Hearth, the Dreadfort and Ramsgate had either been abandoned or left in ruin.

Now, as his wights overtook the city, destroying all in their path and adding to the ranks of their army that would soon wind through the east gate toward Winterfell, the Night King blinked, his pale cheek twitching in slight reaction as he saw the old giant Weirwood tree at the center of the Godswood in the heart of the city—the tree where he knelt and took his first vows as a soldier of Castle Black many centuries before—go up in flames as a result of the assault.

Suddenly, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the general closest to his right turn his head and growl, bringing the attention of the command line to a small figure running swiftly away from the city gates with a lit torch in his hand, a handful of wights on his heels.

# ## # # # # # # # # # #

Twelve year – old Macon Debraux could hear his heart pounding in his ears and his boots crunching through the snow covered field—he tried to focus on only those sounds and not the high pitched screams of the wights that had chased him out of the city— as he sprinted as fast as his young legs could carry him. They were no doubt drawn to the light of the torch he carried, but he knew that he couldn't put it out, not now. His father, seriously wounded, had crawled into his blacksmith shed where Macon and his younger sister, Dahlia, had been hiding during the attack on the city and, looking his son in the eye, told him that the other city watchmen were dead. He had survived, but was in no condition to ride to the watchtower. It was up to Macon to raise the alarm.

The Long Night had begun.

Macon could now see Hammer Hill in the distance and beyond it, the old watchtower where the beacon awaited.

Macon, tried to keep his breath even and willed his legs to keep going as he felt himself start to fatigue. He told himself not to look back, but he didn't listen to his own advice. His chest was starting to hurt and he allowed himself a short glance over his shoulder.

Macon's green eyes widened in horror as he saw the handfuls of wight men, women and children in torn and bloody rags clamoring behind him with their pale skin shining in the dim moonlight through the now falling snow.

Macon's breath caught and he lost his balance and fell, landing hard on his back, instantly feeling a cold wetness through his clothing and it momentarily stunned him. He flexed his empty hand, missing the feel of the torch in his hand. He couldn't move. All he could do was blink up into the falling snow as it melted on his flushed face, trying to catch the breath that he had lost.

A few moments passed and Macon could see a shadow come over him.

It had to be the wights. It was over.

Suddenly, a tall man, with a thin bearded face and a makeshift eyepatch, appeared over him, a flaming sword in his hand.

"Boy!" he said in a gruff voice, "Get up!"

Macon's eyes narrowed.

The man had to be Beric Dondarrion. The Brotherhood Without Banners had made it to the city from East-Watch ahead of the White Walkers, to warn White Harbour of their approach, but this was the first time Macon had seen the legendary warrior and Lord of Blackhaven in person and even then, he only recognized Dondarrion by reputation of what he looked like from the stories his father had told him.

Beric Dondarrion's eyes flicked over to more oncoming shadows and before Macon could move to rise up, the man whirled and swiped his flaming sword at a female wight who screamed in high pitched agony as he sliced across her neck and chest, before she burst into flames.

Macon started, sat up quickly, slid back across the snow and then struggled to his feet as he watched the man with the flaming sword fighting back several wights.

Macon located his still lit torch, a foot away, and turned, ready to help Beric.

"No!" Beric cried, watching Macon over his shoulder as he fought off the wights methodically, holding the line that separated them from Macon, "Go! Get to the watchtower! "

Macon watched as Beric cried out he slashed one wight woman across the chest, then decapitated it before giving a swift chest kick to a wight man who had crossed the line of scrimmage. Beric then turned, sensing Macon was still there,"Go!"

Macon gasped, then turned on his heel and then took off running toward Hammer Hill, the First Man burial ground, and the old watchtower.

However, he didn't make it but a few feet before he ran directly into a cold, solid mass, dressed in leather armor.

Macon looked up and into the face of a White Walker, it's dead, cold blue eyes staring blankly at him.

Suddenly, there was a slicing noise and the White Walker's eyes widened briefly before he shattered into glasslike shards in front of Macon…. to reveal the Night King behind him.

Macon felt his heart rise up in his throat.

Their eyes locked for a long moment before the Night King twirled the short sword in his hand, then sheathed it before stepping aside and nodded with his chin for Macon to keep going toward the hill.

Macon walked slowly past the Night King, still seemingly in shock, and with a final unsure glance over his shoulder, took off sprinting toward Hammer Hill.

The Night King smirked, then turned back toward where Beric Dondarrion still fought his way through the wights, and, raising his right hand, flicked his wrist.

The wights immediately stopped and fell lifeless to the ground.

Beric whirled around, unsure as to what was happening around him, then turned exhausted toward the Night King and lowered his sword. Their eyes met and Beric took a step forward, ready to make a move, before The Night King raised his hand again and Beric's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he passed out on the ground.

The Night King turned on his heel when he sensed someone behind him and whirled to face five of his White Walker Generals facing him, scrutinizing him with their ice blue eyes.

The Night King straightened and looked past them to the young boy now climbing Hammer Hill to the watchtower on the other side.

"I am the shield that guards the realms of men…."

The Night King's eyes softened, then he turned on his heel and walked back toward where their horses waited.

A few moments passed and then he heard his Generals fall in step behind him.

# # # # # # # # # #

When he had reached the top of Hammer Hill, Macon slid down the other side, his boots gliding effortlessly through the wet snow, his right hand balancing him as his left hand held the torch that lit his way.

Macon reached the bottom and took off in a sprint toward the tall wooden watchtower.

When he reached the ladder, Macon placed the torch wand in his mouth and proceeded to climb up to the top.

It took a few minutes, but when he arrived at the top landing, Macon took in a breath as he moved toward the three stacks of kindling wood there.

It was wood from a Weirwood tree and it would burn bright orange in the night, flooding the sky with the color that would reach the mountain rangers and watchmen in the nearby cities, towns and land holds and signal their distress.

It took a few moments for him to remember the lessons his father had taught him.

"One for friend, two for foe, three for White Walkers…" Macon said under his breath.

Farther North, they had the horn at the Wall to signal on coming advances of friend, foe or White Walker.

South of the Kingsroad they couldn't hear the horn. They only had the beacons.

It had been nearly a quarter of a century since the beacons were last lit, during the days of Robert's Rebellion and before that, the wrath of the Targaryens and their dragons.

He wasn't sure when three beacons had last been lit…

Macon stepped forward and with a shaking hand, put his torch to the first kindling pyre, then the second…and finally, the third.

# # # # # # # # # #

"Tristan..." a young man in his mid-twenties, dressed in heavy furs and leather armor, stood from where he had been sitting on a boulder, carving a small wooden figure of a bear for his toddler son, and greeted his replacement as he climbed up the cliff edge to the watchtower high above Oldcastle.

"Thane…" the older man replied, shaking a dusting of snow from his long dark hair, then grasping the younger man's forearm in a gesture of greeting, then he flexed his face, " I think my nose hairs are frozen. Gods, it's freezing up here."

Thane laughed then turned back to the boulder to place his wood shaver and the tiny figure in his knapsack next to what remained of the bread, cheese and fruit his wife had packed for him to have to eat on his twenty four hour watch shift.

"My son will want to play in the snow come morning," Thane replied, throwing the sack over his shoulder, "I don't think he'll care about his nose hairs being frozen."

Tristan smiled and clapped Thane on the shoulder as they changed spots and Tristan took a seat on the boulder, "Ah. To be young again!"

"If only," Thane replied as he brushed past him

"Be careful on the way down the cliff, there is ice and—" Thane heard Tristan start to warn behind him as he walked to the cliff's edge, prepared to climb down.

"'And'?" Thane asked, prompting as he turned around, "Tristan?"

But, Tristan was slowly rising to his feet, ignoring Thane and looking out from the watchtower toward the northeast and the three beacon lights in the distance coming from White Harbor.

"Gods…" Thane whispered as he came to Tristan's side, taking in the sight

"White Walkers…" Tristan whispered in reply, his eyes widening in fear.

Suddenly, Tristan grabbed a nearby torch and took off at a sprint toward the other end of the watchtower and swiftly climbed up a ladder to the next level and three large piles of Weirwood kindling there.

Tristan put the torch to three piles of kindling, one by one, until they were all alight, their flames blazing high.

Thane met him as he ran to the other side of the watchtower toward Cerwyn.

What felt like an eternity went by, then Thane and Tristan took in an intake of breath and exchanged a glance as three more beacons burst into flames in the mountains above the Barrowlands.

# # # # # # # # # # # # #

Jon's eyes softened as they fell upon Sansa, asleep in the bed in their chambers, as he entered the room, then turned and closed the door softly behind him as not to wake her.

"How's Bran?" her voice came in the candle lit room

Jon smirked as he turned and saw she had rolled over under the covers to face him, her eyes open but heavy with sleep.

"He's doing better. The Maester will watch over him tonight and make sure he stays warm."

"I worry about him, Jon," Sansa said, raising her head and resting it on her hand as she eyed her husband, removing his shirt and trousers.

"I do as well," Jon replied, tossing his shirt onto a nearby chair, "But, Bran is the Three Eyed Raven now—"

"Just because he's an all seeing entity now doesn't mean he's no longer our little brother."

"No," Jon replied, "But, it isn't our little brother who is predicting deaths like some charlatan—"

"Deaths?" Sansa asked, worried and intrigued

Jon closed his eyes

There was a long silence between them.

"Jon?" Sansa asked, reaching a hand out to rest gently on Jon's shoulder as he took a seat on the edge of the bed.

"Bran—he's—he's shown me things. When I met him in the Godswood, he told me that I wouldn't survive the war that was to come—at least Jon Snow wouldn't—"

"And what about Eamonn Targaryen?" Sansa interjected in a soft voice, resting her chin on his shoulder

Jon quickly turned to face her, "Has Bran shown you something?"

"No," Sansa replied, shaking her head, "I was—well, I was thinking about something that Little Finger told me that night he showed up in our chambers…."

Jon waited expectantly and Sansa continued

"He said that if I was a good wife, I 'wouldn't give up on my father's dreams for Jon Snow'."

Jon's eyes narrowed in confusion.

"But, our father didn't have any dreams for you, necessarily, Jon. He had dreams for Eamonn Targaryen—for your birthright—he died for it."

Jon's eyes softened, then nodded

There was a long silence, then Sansa placed a hand on the side of Jon's face.

"What are you thinking about?" she whispered

"I'm thinking about what Bran showed me tonight," Jon said

"What did he show you?" Sansa asked, her blue eyes searching her husband's brown

"My death…I saw it."

Sansa released Jon's face and drew back as he continued, "We survive the Long Night—I'm not sure how—but we do. I don't think we are meant to know how. It may change the future, perhaps, if we did…but, I know that I survive…only to die not long into the future, getting our son to safety as Jaime Lannister and his men sack Winterfell looking for him."

Sansa wrapped a protective arm around her stomach as her eyes widened a little, "But, he's alive? He's alright?"

Jon smirked as he nodded, "Yes. He's beautiful."

Sansa blew out a relieved sigh, then asked with soft eyes, "Can I ask his name?"

Jon gave a small smile, "Benjen."

"Benjen…" Sansa smiled and Jon knew she was thinking with fondness on the kind man who had once been their uncle, then she said with wry humor, "Are you sure you don't want to name him, Aegon Targaryen? Sounds a bit more fitting for a prince being hunted by a Lannister don't you think?"

Jon chuckled then, his face turned more serious, "Or a Prince Who Was Promised."

"What?" Sansa asked, intrigued

"The Red Priestess was wrong. I'm not the Prince That Was Promised. But, according to Bran our son will be."

"You mean Azor Ahai? The prophecy story that Old Nan would tell us at bedtime?"

"Yes."

Sansa narrowed her eyes, thinking, then said, " 'There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.'"

Sansa digested her own words for a moment, then said, "Are you sure?"

"As sure as I can be. I didn't see more than the sacking of Winterfell and my death. All I know for certain is that I rise from the flames like a true Targaryen…I return to life…like I did at Castle Black…And they hail me as a Targaryen king."

"And Jon Snow was dead…" Sansa whispered

Suddenly, there was a knock on their door and they both startled before Jon said, "Come!"

It was Ser Davos. He opened the door, then said, "Pardon me, My Lord….My Lady."

He then marched across the room to the shuttered castle window that overlooked the balcony.

Davos threw it open and Jon quickly got up to follow him as Sansa moved to follow suit, wrapping a wool blanket around her as the night air blew in.

Jon came to Davos' side as they stepped out onto the balcony and looked out into the distance toward the mountains.

"The beacons are lit, Jon…" Davos said, turning toward him, "The appeared over Castle Cerwyn not long ago."

"The Night King has made it to White Harbour, then..." Jon replied solemnly, watching as two men quickly climbed the stone stairs of the Old Keep at Winterfell and the three beacons there were set ablaze in answer to their Cerwyn counterparts.

Sansa placed a hand on Jon's shoulder and he turned back to face her, then looking down to her stomach, fell slowly to his knees in front of her.

Sansa ran her hands through her husband's hair as Jon leaned forward and sighed as he whispered to her stomach, "Prince That Was Promised…if you are listening in there…we could sure use that flaming sword right about now…"