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Chapter Forty-Two: The Mad King's Dilemma

Winterfell was ringed in the light of a thousand flames. Concentric circles of flickering light around the inner and outer walls. Every beacon along the battlements was lit, with more torches lit in the barbican and gatehouse. Even the paths leading to the gates were lit up, showing the way for the supply carts trundling up from Winter Town and aiding any travellers who had become lost in the endless night. From the windows of the Maester's Turret, Margaery could look down and see the effect of these combined fires. She found it to be both strange and beautiful, despite the dangers lurking in the places the fires could not reach.

That morning, she had followed the path from the barbican, watching as her grandmother's wheelhouse passed through the light of the beacons and into the darkness beyond. Even when out of sight, she stayed until the sound of the wheels crunching through the snow faded. She might have wept, had the tears not frozen before they could properly form. Nor would she, surrounded by the northmen. Nevertheless, it was a separation she felt acutely. A separation she knew would probably be permanent.

To take her mind off that final goodbye, she had returned indoors quickly and made for Wolkan's turret. Every day she checked for news on Robb and her brothers. Every day, when Wolkan sadly shook his head, she hid her disappointment and her ever increasing fears behind a mask of carefully constructed optimism. No news wasn't necessarily bad news, after all. There was room for hope. But, beneath that façade, her hopes faded and worry crept into the vacuum left behind. As more time passed, worry soon turned to fear.

Then, after her grandmother's departure, she had made the familiar journey to Wolkan's rooms and noticed the change in him. He was expecting her. He stood stooped and his expression was grave as he straightened the scroll in his hands. Margaery knew already, it was news but not news she wished to hear.

"A message from Ser Loras," he said, before she could speak a word.

If it was from Loras, then he had to be alive to write it, she reasoned. But she surmised that was where the good news ended.

"And?"

"The King's party was attacked by wights close to the Antler River," he said. "During the skirmish, they scattered. While most made it to Hardhome, where the garrison was established, King Robb and Ser Garlan haven't been seen since."

Margaery's vague smile stayed in place, but her stomach folded and her heart sank at the news. "And Daenerys?"

"Ser Loras spoke with her at Hardhome some days passed, but she has not been seen since."

She only half-listened to Wolkan's answer. In her mind, she was already racing through all the different scenarios under which Robb and Garlan could have miraculously survived not only their encounter with the wights, but the wilderness beyond the wall. A wilderness so vast, it wasn't even possible to chart it on a map. Of course they could survive, she told herself. Daenerys could have found them, two small people lost in that frozen hellscape. Anything was possible.

After Wolkan, Margaery returned to her own chambers. True to her word, Cregan had been left in his nursery, in his home, amongst his people. Entering his nursery, she nodded to his nurse and lifted him out of his cradle before carrying him back to her rooms. Getting bigger by the day, he could sit up in her arms and look at her through the clear blue eyes he inherited from his father. But now she held him close and kissed the top of his head as she showed him the lights around the castle.

Only there, in the privacy of her own chambers, did she let her feelings show. The lights of the beacons and torches blurred and swam as tears welled in her eyes, before leaking down her cheeks and onto the baby's head. Cregan squirmed in her arms and cried out the half-formed words he was only just beginning to learn. "Mamamamamama," he'd say and point at her. However, he did not know his father. He'd shout out "papapapapapa" and point to Wolkan, Arya, his nurse and once, even one of Robb's dogs. At the time, they had burst out laughing. But now the prospect of Cregan never knowing his father yawned like a chasm in Margaery's mind and it made her heart break.

What would she tell him? How would she keep Robb alive in his infant son's mind? Would she even have to? The uncertainty of not knowing only heightened her anguish. All she could do was prepare for the worst while praying for the best. Meanwhile, she watched the lights outside as her tears dried. The flames came back into focus. The path lit to show lost travellers the way to safety. She thought, they may yet light the way home for her lost husband and brother.

A soft knock at her door jolted her out of her sinking misery. Hastily, she dried the last of her tears and sniffed loudly. "Enter."

She turned to the door in time to see Sansa step into the room, her auburn hair catching the light of the lantern she carried. "They're here."

It took her a moment to realise how she meant. "The Northern Lords?"

Sansa nodded. "We're convening in the common hall."

She thought she had heard the horn blasts, but paid it little heed. Winterfell was so full of sound and activity, she had left them to it. Now she returned Cregan to his nurse and his warm cradle. She splashed some cool water on her face to wash away the tear stains and stood straight backed as she studied her reflection in the mirror. She donned her demeanour like armour, a mask slipping back into place as she prepared to get back to business. She drew a deep breath and was ready to face her people.

The woods were on fire. Jon looked back over his shoulder, to where a great column of smoke was blotting out the light of the moon. The smell of it irritated his throat and made his eyes sting. Whether Bloodraven's weirwood was affected, he did not know and he felt it would make little difference, even if it was. He would still be down there, deep in the caves, with what was left of the Children and the singers trapped in their weirwood prisons. He never did find out what they were there for.

Keen to put plenty of distance between them and the caves, he and Robb agreed to keep moving through the small hours. Hodor pulled Bran on a sledge that Meera had procured and Dany flew overhead, scouting the land to the south and ready and able to deal with any wights that might be on the roads ahead of them. Every so often, he would see a jet of flame in the distance and he knew it Daenerys dealing with the enemy. Occasionally, he would hear the beat of leathern wings overhead, circling them protectively. It was Rhaegal, his emerald scales catching the pale starlight and shimmering as he turned through the air.

Since the long night began, he had lost track of time. Whether it was morning or afternoon, it all bled into one endless stretch of darkness. But he knew it was at least half a day later that he caught up with Meera, as they left the woods and sensed the nearness of the wall. Or what was left of it.

"Where is your brother?" he asked.

"Dead," she replied, almost matter of fact.

"I'm sorry." The words sounded hollow, even to Jon himself.

She told him what happened, adding: "The children saved us."

It was hard to miss the accusation underpinning the sentiment.

"They saved you because they wanted to use you," Jon countered. "You and Jojen, you were just the means of bringing Bran to him, to use his powers against us. Just as he was the bait to bring Robb, Daenerys and I to the caves. He would have had us all trapped in there while the White Walkers wreaked havoc on the south."

Even Melisandre had seen it. She had tried to warn him, but she couldn't put a name to their enemy. Jon's only regret was that they'd attacked the weirwood grove too late. Now he dreaded what lay in wait for him at the ruins of Castle Black. Would his former brothers think he set the dragon on them on purpose? He had, in a way. But he only intended for the mutineers to be targeted. Would they even know what had happened to him? That Thorne and the others had killed him? Ser Davos and Melisandre knew. Jon could only hope they had explained what happened. But, for all he knew, the Others had already passed through the breach in the wall and laid waste to whoever was left after Rhaegal's attack.

Meanwhile, Bran remained in a trance more often than not. When he came around, he spoke low and monotone, describing the blackened ruins but he had not seen any people. Another day passed, in which they cleared the woods and kept a steady course south. Although still ravaged by too long in the wilderness with inadequate food, Robb seemed to find a way to keep his strength up. Side by side, they led the others and talked quietly among themselves.

"If we cannot repair the wall, I don't see what we can do next," said Robb.

"The Children helped build the wall," said Jon.

"And I don't think they want to be our friends anymore," Robb said, smiling wryly.

Jon couldn't help but laugh. "Whatever makes you say that?"

When they rested up, Daenerys descended from on high, setting down with them to sleep a while. The dragons kept their party warm with their fires, and the closeness of their bodies. One night, she landed and joined them by a cookfire they had started, with rabbits roasting on a spit.

"I want to go to the Riverlands," she said, her gaze directed into the fire.

"The Riverlands?" said Jon.

Daenerys opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated. "It's … It's just something that's been troubling me. A gut feeling. I think they're down there."

"Even if they have passed the wall," said Jon. "They won't have reached the Riverlands yet."

"I know, but they're heading south."

"She's got a point," said Robb. "The Riverlands are still a safe area. If we can prepare defences along the Trident and the Forks, we might be able to assemble enough forces to start pushing them north again."

Daenerys looked emboldened by Robb's intervention and Jon saw little harm in it anyway. He was simply curious as to why she had so suddenly seized upon the idea.

"I'll leave Rhaegal with you," she said. "But Drogon, Viserion and I fly south."

"The south does need to be warned, even if they don't fucking listen," said Robb. "Surely they know by now. Even if Castle Black only had time to send one raven before the wall fell, it would have been to Margaery at Winterfell. She would have known to spread the news, even to King's Landing and the Citadel."

That would have made sense. But would they have been thinking straight in the heat of the moment. Jon recalled that night all too vividly. It had been chaos on stilts. As for the Citadel, Sam would be there by now. He must have told the Maesters what was happening. But the wall was Jon's immediate problem. One he couldn't delegate, or drive from his mind. It plagued him constantly.

"How far are we from the wall now?" he asked, more himself than the others. "We'll be at Eastwatch on the morrow, I think."

"By my reckoning, yes," said Robb.

Jon's mind was made up. "With your permission, Daenerys, I'm taking Rhaegal to Castle Black. I cannot divert at Eastwatch. I need to know what's happening."

"You don't need my permission," said Daenerys. "He answers to you."

Robb's eyes widened. "You fly one of those things now?"

They hadn't had much time to talk in Bloodraven's cave, Jon ceded. "In a manner of speaking."

He looked to Bran, who had directed Rhaegal to the weirwood. As ever, his brother looked lost to the world, with his eyes rolled to the back of his head. The sight still unnerved Jon but everyone else seemed accustomed to it. But, if need be, Bran could get Jon back to Castle Black. In the meantime, he looked to Robb. "I need you, too."

"But Bran?"

"Bran will still have Meera and Hodor," said Daenerys. "And I will still scout for them, taking care of any wights on the road to Eastwatch. Only once they're safe will I go to the Riverlands."

Jon was relieved. He rose to his feet, ready to try and sleep in a nearby tent. "We leave first thing."

And after Castle Black, he resolved, he was taking Robb straight back to Winterfell.

Given what lay beneath the city streets, naked flames were a bad idea. As such, Jaime was reduced to navigating the underground tunnels by feeling his way along the damp walls. Brienne followed, hesitant and invisible in the pitch darkness. Occasionally, in places where a high window peaked above street level, pale rays of light from the beacons penetrated the darkness. But it wasn't nearly enough to light the way entirely.

As for Wisdom Hallyne, the pyromancer in charge of the guild, he seemed to sense his way through the subterranean maze. Sniffing the air like a mole as he navigated the intersections and turning points that Jaime couldn't even see properly. Meanwhile, their footsteps echoed for miles, joining the sounds of rats and mice scurrying through the dark. Unable to see where he was placing his feet, he occasionally landed in a puddle, the splashes adding to the palimpsest of sounds and echoes emanating from the void that surrounded them.

Although he knew Brienne was right behind him, he still jumped her felt her hand on his elbow.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he answered, flatly. "I'd be even better if you didn't scare me like that."

That wasn't what she meant and well he knew it. She knew too much about him to think that this was just a casual exercise in inspecting the city's defences. It was true, too, that the deeper he ventured into the pits of the city, the more the past seemed to come alive in his mind. Sometimes, he could fool himself into thinking it was done, forgotten. In the past. The reality was that it never took much for it all to come rising to the surface. Harranhal had taught him that.

That night in the baths with Brienne seemed to have awoken something inside him that had lain dormant since he slew the Mad King. A latent sense of honour, of something he had once aspired to be. He had wanted to be like Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy. But then the cold realities of the world had beaten it out of him. Aerys had forced him into a dilemma in which he could never have escaped with his honour intact, no matter which course of action he took. Kinslayer or Kingslayer? The choice had been his and he'd borne the stain on his name ever since. Never mind the millions of lives he had saved. A sworn knight was only as good as his last fuck up.

It all returned to him now. The chaos. The final, frantic hours of the last Targaryen king. Mad with bloodlust and swearing to leave only ash and bone for Robert. Aerys' dying refrain rang down the years, resonating in his head once more: 'burn them all … burn them all.'

They turned another corner, where the first ominous green traces oozed from a badly corked keg. 'Burn them all,' Aerys cried again.

"Brienne," he said, coming to a halt. "Take my hand."

He wanted to feel her, to know he wasn't alone in this forsaken endless night. Despite the darkness, they found each other easily.

Meanwhile, he looked around him at the containers piled from floor to ceiling. He could just make them out, he could smell the chemicals, dry and sharp. There was nothing he could compare it to.

"It grows more volatile with age, my lord commander," said Hallyne. His voice was like a rusty door hinge, setting Jaime's teeth on edge.

"I know that," he replied.

They moved through the underground vaults, where more and more of the lethal wildfire was stored in earthenware containers to keep it cool and stable. It shone from glass vials, incandescent and making a soft green hazy light of its own.

"Where are now?" said Brienne.

"Under Aegon's Hill," said Hallyne.

Right above their heads stood the Red Keep itself. Cersei, Tommen and every lickspittle courtier from the Riverlands to Dorne. They would be gone in the blink of an eye, should a stray flint spark anywhere in this vault. Hundreds of years of history and an entire city wiped out, all in the blink of an eye. Knowing the city was rigged up with wildfire was one thing, actually seeing the extent of it was another matter entirely. And it truly was everywhere. From Aegon's Hill to Visenya's, under the Sept of Baelor. By Jaime's estimation, if this lot blew, it would take out a good chunk of the crownlands, too.

On and on the inspection went, revealing to them the full extent of the danger. But once it was over, they emerged through a passageway that led back to street level, close to the seawall. Grateful to be breathing the open air again, Jaime led Brienne to the place where he and Ser Illyn once practised sparring. From there, he could hear the waves of the Blackwater sucking at the shingle shore. He could just make out the starlight rippling on the swelling waters.

After an uncomfortable silence, Brienne finally spoke. "There has to be another way."

"If you think of one, let me know," he said. Running his good hand through his hair, he sighed heavily. "I know, you're right."

What was the bigger catastrophe, he wondered? An evacuated city being blown sky high, or a populated city being ravaged by white walkers, turning the people into mindless undead meat puppets? Would he rather be a Kinslayer or a Kingslayer? It was the Mad King's dilemma all over again.

Sansa exited the common hall discreetly. All those people packed inside, all hearths blazing and the pipes in the walls adding their heat, it had become unbearable. Just for a few minutes, she wanted to feel the cold winter air on her skin, the snowflakes melting on her face and in her hair. She wanted to walk the battlements and see the torchlights flickering on the wind. Despite the terribleness of the situation, the castle looked strangely beautiful. Had she been a child still, she would have thought it was enchanted.

Nor was she alone. She looked down into the empty yard and saw Arya practising her water dance, a long and thin blade poised in her hands. Stood in the dark space between two beacons, she was barely visible. Only when she changed position or shifted her poise, did Sansa catch the flames reflected in the blade of Arya's new sword. Not wanting to disturb her, Sansa moved on. But her footsteps echoed over the sounds of muffled voices from within the hall.

"Where are you going?" said Arya. "What's going on inside?"

"Just for a walk to clear my head," she said, answering the first question. "And it's all right in there. No one is arguing, for a change. They're already refurbishing their defences and raising more men to fight. But now it's more urgent, because of the wall."

Arya sheathed her sword and closed the gap between them. "I'll come with you."

They were all inside the hall. Manderlys, Glovers, Cerwyns and Tallharts. Greatjon Umber was there, too. Even Lady Bolton, who had been left with the remnants of her traitorous husband's house. Now was not the time to ruminate on past wrongs. As such, even Alys Karstark was present – to the consternation of many.

Meanwhile, Sansa and Arya walked the empty yards. Even the forge was locked up, their new armourer inside the hall to talk over stocks of steel and arrowheads, all the things he would be needing in the wars to come. It was as they passed the barbican that they saw the lone figure standing in the path beyond the portcullis. The guards had noticed too. They had their arrows trained on the person, until Sansa called them off.

"Who is that?" said Arya, circumspect.

Sansa shared her trepidation. "I don't know, but they're alone."

The wind whipped at the threadbare clothes they wore, the snow blowing up all around them. Sansa had to squint to keep the person in view, even then she was quite unable to tell if it was a man or a woman.

"Open the gates," said Arya.

"My Lady, I-"

"I said, open the gates," Arya repeated, curtly.

Not wanting to gainsay her in front of guards, Sansa spoke low in her sister's ear. "Maybe we should wait for them to approach us."

"They could be dying out there," Arya said, looking to Sansa sharply. "We're sworn to help our smallfolk as well as our lords."

Unable to refuse a request from a lady of the house, the guards were already raising the portcullis.

"We'll bring a guard with us," said Sansa. She felt rather stung that Arya deemed it fit to remind her of their obligations toward the smallfolk. "We'll all go together."

"What are you afraid of? They're alone out there. You can see that."

Despite the growing guilt she felt, Sansa couldn't quite shake the feeling of uneasiness. There was something unnatural about that person. Something about the way they stood motionless in the pathway, just staring at them while the snows swelled and the wind lashed at their ragged cloak. Even their long hair swept over their face, hiding their features. But Arya was right, as well. What if it was a lost traveller seeking shelter from the elements? Sansa wouldn't want a lost person to die just because she had a funny feeling about them.

As the portcullis raised, Arya walked ahead. Before Sansa could even implore her to wait for the guard, she was off down the tracks. She had always been fearless and bold. Traits Sansa often wished she shared with her sister. And now she followed as Arya called to the unwary traveller.

"Are you lost?"

Without breaking pace, the sisters continued their advance toward the third person. As they did so, the wind seemed to strengthen. It hadn't been as bad as this when Sansa left the hall, she thought to herself. Still, she added her voice to Arya's. "We've come to help."

Swift, as if a spell had been broken, the person met their gaze with shining blue eyes that easily penetrated the darkness. Before Sansa could so much as cry out, the wight descended on them at speed. Fast, lumbering movements, jerky as they navigated the pathway thick with snow.

"Wight!" Sansa cried out.

Arya's sword was already drawn but up close, the wights cloak fell away to reveal a chest torn open and encrusted with thick, black blood. Sansa heard Arya curse, yelling at her to stand back as she lunged at the dead thing with her sword. Already Sansa knew it would be no good. Even as the blade penetrated the flesh, the person was already dead. The guard coming up behind them called for help and had his own sword drawn as the creature lunged at Arya. Sansa screamed shrilly as black fingers clawed at her sister's face.

Without thinking, Sansa knocked over the nearest beacon and kicked it at the wight with all her strength. Flames rapidly took hold of the hem of her skirts, but it melted the flesh of the wight too. Triumphant, fell back as the guard took over and used the force of his strength to push the wight onto another flame. The cry it screeched as the flames took it was awful.

Breathless and dazed, Arya picked herself up from the snow she had fallen in while Sansa stamped out the flames that had taken around her hems. The damage was no extensive and she was not hurt. Neither of them were, as they stood and looked at each other in amazed disbelief as the winds abruptly died away.

"Are you all right?" asked Sansa.

Arya nodded. "And you?"

There were livid red streaks on her face, where the wight had clawed at her. Sansa was about to move closer when another beacon died out. Then another, and another. Within minutes, there was a domino effect of fires being extinguished one after the other, plunging them back into darkness. Confused and alarmed, Sansa turned on the spot wondering what was happening. The winds had died down already, but still the fires all died.

"My Ladies, return to the castle," said the guard. "Now."

His gaze was distant, focused over the crest of a far hillside. Sansa turned to see what he was looking at, squinting through the light of the moon. They made a pale light of their own, beneath which she could see scores of them – all moving in the same fast, jerky way the other one had. Her heartbeat raced. Wights cannot extinguish fire. But white walkers can.

Frozen to the spot in terror, Sansa yelped at the sudden sound of thousands of birds exploding into chatters. She heard the beat of numerous wings taking sudden flight from the godswood and all around. This time, Arya had to pull on her to get her back inside.

"Sansa! Come on!"

Arya delivered a swift kick to the back of her leg, hard enough to knock her out of her stunned torpor. Then Sansa ran. She ran back to the castle faster than she'd ever run before as the wights gave chase from afar.

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