Previously, on The Dragon in the North:

"As soon as Brandon Stark passed through the tunnel in the Wall to enter Castle Black, he knew he'd made a terrible mistake." . . . "The Night King . . . he is in King's Landing."

This is how it happened.

"The fisherfolk near Eastwatch have glimpsed White Walkers on the shore." (A Game of Thrones, Chapter 21, Tyrion III)

Eight ravens left. Dead things in the water. Send help by land, seas wracked by storms. From Talon, by hand of Maester Harmune. (letter from Cotter Pyke, A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 58, Jon XII)

Chapter 15

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No one saw the dead ships as they drifted along the coast.

Even the few birds still in the air, in this, the dead of winter, paid them no heed. The unlucky ones which tried to fly over the ships froze instantly, dropping from the sky to land on the deck.

The dead ships spread thick fog along their path. The sea did not freeze where they passed, but seemed to allow them through. There were no fishermen who might see this strange fleet passing. Ever since winter had come, no fishermen dared ply their trade, for fear of the storms and the strange new fog, which grew like a living thing.

If anyone had been watching, they would never have seen movement on deck. No sailors manned the ropes, or the ragged sails. Still, a wave of cold and fear washed over the settlements they passed. Small villages were decimated. Large towns would be suddenly gripped by a fear of going out after sunset, a fear of their neighbours, of their dead. But the gentry did not listen to what the smallfolk were trying to bring to their attention, even if they had been able to express their unspoken fear and dread in words.

So, as the mortals of the land busied themselves with their squabbles, the Night King moved, slowly but inexorably, towards his target – the most populous city in the land.

In the Red Keep, Queen Cersei had been warned of Daenerys Targaryen, the woman she privately called the Targaryen whore. She had been warned of a fleet of ships flying various House devices, of the Tyrells and their treason, of the Sunspear coming for her, of the three-headed dragon, resurrected after so many years.

But the Night King flew no standard. The Night King gave no warning. None that she would have listened to, in any case. She had given promise of a great reward, in coin, for the first man to spot the standard of any enemy ship as it approached King's Landing.

It became commonplace for the walls of the city to be packed with men, women, and children, looking out to sea, all straining their eyes to be the first to catch a glimpse. Fights broke out with regularity. But, as the weeks passed and the monstrous Dragon Queen did not come, interest petered out. Besides, the nights were getting colder, and longer. Snowfall had been seen in King's Landing for the first time in many years.

So, there was no-one on the battlements, except for the gold cloaks, when the strange ships drifted into the harbour. None of the watchmen, already being punished by patrolling the battlements at night, wanted to wake anyone important, so they decided to wait until daybreak.

But the enterprising smallfolk, who plied their wares along the docks, did not want to wait. A fleet of small boats steadily approached the three ships, which looked dead, and therefore prime for looting. No one noted that they were level in the water, that they were not listing to the side, that there was no damage to the hull. They saw that the sails were ragged, but did not notice that all the masts were upright. If any of them'd had a spyglass, they might have noted glowing blue eyes watching them from the shadows. But they were smallfolk, not gentry.

So, by the time the moon was smothered by dark clouds, by the time Qyburn was roused out of a fitful sleep by his little birds, by the time a restless Cersei was woken by her handmaiden, it was already too late.

On the Street of Steel, Gendry worked his forge in a very different part of the city. The bottom part of the street, closest to the River Gate, was not Flea Bottom, to be sure, but it was still a far cry from Tobho Mott's forge. Still, Gendry was happy to have this, and had been for the past few years. He did not deal with the gentry, so there was no chance of him being recognized. He used what he had been taught by Tobho Mott, and slowly gained a reputation for being a good, reliable smith. And if Gendry had gathered as many scraps of metal as he could find, to start crafting a war-hammer, who was to be the wiser?

Close to Fishmonger's Square as it was, the street was always full of beggars and thieves. Sometimes they were one and the same. For the last month or so, Gendry had observed one beggar in particular, who wore a torn hooded cloak, and never said a word, just sat in the street with a begging bowl in front of him. Strangely enough, no-one ever tried to take his coin, or even beat him for the simple fact that he was there.

When he'd asked one of the street rats, they whispered a strange story: of this man going into an alley, followed by the three cutpurses with the worst reputation, and only the stranger leaving again. The little thief had put special emphasis on the word stranger. Apparently, the children had decided that this ragged beggar was death himself, come to visit, and no-one would tangle with him again.

Gendry wasn't thinking of that man, as he laboured in the forge, well into the night. He was thinking of the reason for his late-night work, that the Queen was demanding the crafting of more and more weapons, that a strange foreign queen was attacking from Essos, and the city had to be prepared.

He stared at the sheet of parchment nailed to one of his walls, which the gold cloak had read out loud, before leaving. He remembered that once the watchmen had left, people had started whispering treason, about Good King Aerys and his only daughter, and how she had come to save them from the Lannister bitch. Only one or two spoke of dragons. Gendry had heard many stories of 'good' King Aerys – he'd much rather face the dragons.

It was too hot in the forge. Gendry flung open his door, needing a breath of cold air, no matter how fetid. Even though the night was freezing, more so than usual, the strange beggar was sitting in the alley, bowl in front of him. Gendry was about to offer a seat by the forge, which would be warm, at least, when a strange sound caused him to angle his head towards the bay. Had that been a scream? Not that there wasn't noise in the city at night, though the colder it got, the more inclined people were to limit their feasting to their houses. But this had sounded different, somehow.

A movement at his feet caused him to look down. The beggar was sitting up, alert, hand at his waist, as if on the pommel of a sword. He didn't look like a ruin of a man anymore. There was a warrior hiding under his ragged robe. Another scream. Then, a whole chorus of screams, as though the world were going moon-mad.

Shadows started gathering at the end of the street, and Gendry saw that they were from all walks of life – people richly dressed, poorly dressed, all fleeing the city, running towards the River Gate. He caught the sleeve of a child dressed in rags, as it tried to run past him.

"What is it? Is it the dragon queen?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the beggar's head turn to him sharply, eyes, he could tell, shockingly bright blue in a weathered face.

"Let me go, you stupid wanker! They're dead, they're all dead! Let go!" The girl, for it was a girl, pulled at her sleeve until it tore, and raced off into the darkness.

"I think," the beggar said, with a certain forceful calm, "we had better go inside."

Gendry nodded, then he wondered at himself, for not questioning this strange man further. "Who am I inviting into my forge?"

The man rose to his full height. "Ser Jorah Mormont, lately of Essos. I would give you my hand, but that is not a good idea."

Gendry beckoned, wondering at the man's words. They both retreated to the forge, shutting and bolting the heavy door. They exchanged looks. Gendry felt the terror like a weight on his chest. He couldn't catch his breath, but felt his blood boil in anger, his temper never very far from the surface. What was happening? What did that gutter rat mean? Who was dead?

Also, who was this man, this Mormont? When apprenticed to Tobho, he had often been tasked with putting House sigils on armour, so he knew that the Mormont seat was Bear Island, far away, in the frozen North. This knight was very far from home.

Just as he was about to ask, Ser Jorah raised a hand, as if for silence. In the sudden hush, with the only sound the crackling of the logs in the fire, Gendry heard it too. A snuffling outside his door, a scratching, and then . . . screaming.

Unaware of the terror spreading among the smallfolk,, Queen Cersei strode through the passages of the Red Keep. Her handmaiden had babbled about strange ships in the harbour, but the girl was almost incapacitated with terror. Useless cow. Still, she had the girl dress her and help her with the crown, but when Cersei wanted to instruct her further, she'd vanished. Cersei made a mental note to deal with that in the morning.

Now, she needed to find out what was happening. The corridors were strangely deserted, whether of guards or servants. She thought to find Qyburn, but then decided to look from the battlements instead. Though, as soon as the thought came to her, she discarded it. It was still dark. There was no moon. What on earth could she expect to see?

Anyway, why should she do anything? She was the queen! She would find some guards or servants to attend her! Thinking as she walked, she wondered which part of the keep would still be busy at this time of night. After discarding the stables, she settled on the kitchens. Of course, the kitchens were always busy. Bread needed to be baked every day, and preparations for breakfast were always started well before sunrise.

But she was to be disappointed, even there. The cavernous room was empty of people, if not of food. The was a mound of dough on one of the tables, which still had finger-marks in it, as though the cook had been kneading when – whatever happened . . . happened. In spite of her anger, a tiny tendril of fear crept, ice-cold, down her spine.

As she walked towards the door leading to the Throne room, she stopped, abruptly. There was a pool of blood congealing on the floor. The rushes were sticky with it, and disturbed, as though there had been a struggle. She pulled up her skirts and ran, opening the door and closing it behind her with a loud clang that echoed through the empty room.

As she leaned against the door, heartbeat thundering in her ears, she squeezed her eyes shut. Safe. She was safe, here. But the prickling fear was stubborn. There was a reason for that. She'd made a mistake.

The throne room was not empty. In front of the Iron Throne stood a tall figure, with what looked like a crown on his head. Or were those horns? She could not tell. She advanced, blood boiling in rage, all her fear forgotten. How dare they, how dare anyone? She was the queen of the seven kingdoms, only she sat the Iron Throne!

As she strode towards the steps, she saw another figure in the shadows, this one more familiar.

"Ser Robert! Arrest this intruder!" But Ser Robert did not respond. He turned his armoured head in her direction, and for the first time she noted that from the depths of his helmet, his eyes glowed with an unearthly blue.

When she turned back to the Iron Throne, the figure had turned to face her, and was staring at her with an incurious look on its face, like she might gaze upon a slug in her garden. Yes, its face, she realised. This was not a man. This was some sort of creature, come out of the old tales.

Cersei shuddered. The creature was tall, with blue-white skin, and a crown of ice on its head. It was wearing a strange kind of armor, but no helmet, as though it did not need that kind of protection. Its eyes were the same shade of blue that glowed out of Ser Robert's helmet. The creature reached out with one hand and touched the tip of one clawed finger to the Iron Throne. One by one, the swords shattered, with a discordant screaming noise that made her cover her ears, to no avail.

Frost built up on the throne, growing before her eyes, until it was a throne of snow and ice. A wind formed out of nowhere, shattering the windows with the Lannister crest, obliterating it, letting the snow in, small flurries drifting towards them. The figure turned to her again, regarding her, with no emotion in those impassive eyes.

Cersei tried to back away, but hit a wall – a wall made of Ser Robert, who clamped an iron fist around her arm, pulling her inexorably towards this strange silent king. For, whoever, whatever this thing was, there was no doubt about its rank.

Ser Robert's iron grip on her arm woke her out of her strange enchantment, and she started screaming for help. She screamed and screamed, her voice growing hoarse as her screams died in the silent room, clawing at Ser Robert's arm to no avail. At one point she dragged his dagger from its sheath, stabbing him with it. Ser Robert did not stop. She turned the dagger on herself, felt her blood gushing out, her struggles growing weaker, even as she welcomed death. Ser Robert did not stop.

Finally, they reached the strange figure, as he stood before his frozen throne. Cersei was weak now, hanging from Ser Robert's grip like a bundle of rags, her finery covered in blood and wet with snowmelt. Her head sagged and the crown fell off, rolling down the stairs with a muffled clanging that soon faded away into silence. She wanted to beg for mercy, to scream at him, to demand who he was, but her voice was gone.

This time, the long-nailed hand reached for her and she tried to back away, but Ser Robert was ever there, a silent presence behind her. One finger pressed against her forehead, burning with a deep cold that spread from that spot through her limbs, shaking her from the inside. She felt the blood freezing in her veins, her heartbeat slowing until it stopped, and, in the deep silence of her head, the screaming died.

oOo

Note

Meanwhile, in King's Landing (aka, how I learned to stop worrying about losing all my readers and finally posted this chapter).

This is how I always intended to present the Night King striking the first blow in a war on two fronts. Or, as soon as Bran passed through the Wall, they were all fucked.