Chapter 9

“It doesn’t look good, does it, Lord Theon?” Daario Naharis, formerly captain of the Second Sons, asked Theon Greyjoy, last surviving son of Balon Greyjoy.

“No, captain, it doesn’t,” Theon agreed.

He was perhaps a bit less sympathetic than he would be otherwise, given that the man speaking to him still had his private parts.

The two men, along with what remained of the Second Sons and a small party of Northmen, Ironborn, and others, had entered the coastal castle of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea earlier and now stared down from it. The voyage from Dragonstone had been difficult enough, but Theon had dealt with the North and its winters. He was not entirely unable to bear it. Daario had certainly been through some hardships of his own, so both men had some endurance, as did the Northmen, Ironborn, and Second Sons among them. Even so, this winter was already far colder than anything that Theon had known before in terms of harsh weather. For Daario, more accustomed to warm climates, it was truly a shock to the system.

Worse still, they could see the approaching Army of the Dead, the White Walkers and wights under the Night King himself, and they were not nearly as distant as any of the relief force wished. Reaching the castle had been difficult enough, but aiding the defense was an additional test of their mettle to be sure. If the Night King was able to breach this part of the Wall, the whole company could be doomed and added to his ranks. Even if it was not a complete disaster, it would be a kick in the teeth for any in the North hoping to hold the line against the Dead.

“That wind, it’s not just cold, biting cold at that, but it feels as if that army is snowballing it, making it stronger with each step forward. Am I imagining that, Lord Greyjoy?” Daario inquired now.

He was more than a little worried at the growing proximity of the Dead and the blizzard that accompanied them.

“Absolutely not. The Starks always said that winter was coming, and it’s now here, captain. Winter is here. We’re looking at what brings it, too. The Night King can bend the winds to his will. He can make anything chill to the bones, wipe out any warmth, snuff out the strongest of flames. He’s ... not a man. He’s a god, I think. An evil god. I never realized until now, but every story and legend of the Starks, of the North, which I once doubted, I now know to be true. They’re hard men and women for a reason, far harder than even you or I. Same with the Wildlings, I venture to say. One must be very strong indeed to face and endure the storm, the wintry blast,” Theon did his best to ignore the chattering of his teeth and Daario’s by now.

“Even my very blood threatens to freeze in my veins. I’ve never known or imagined that any place in this world so could be this fucking cold,” Daario admitted, truly afraid in ways that even dragons had never quite summoned such fear...

This cold was inhuman, impersonal, yet very much alive somehow. It made Daario and Theon both shiver even more to contemplate how many of these undead snowmen there were, creatures able to inspire such terror that even Wildlings rallied under the banners of Mance Rayder once, not long ago, simply to escape their doom. The more perished at the hands of this Night King and his host, the more would join said army and swell its ranks. Not only did they grow weaker, but he became equally stronger with each success.

Worst of all, there was a singular, unified will and purpose behind all of this, one hand, one entity, one undead figure directly in command of all of this force. This one, single-minded, unrelenting, unwavering person controlled the entire army down to the last detail and guided every aspect of its movement. This was truly horrifying to consider, given the dissension and disunity among mortal men and women. No one living had as much resolve, unity, and fortitude as the Dead and their undead master. He guided all, brought order to it all, marshaled all of the resources ruthlessly toward one end, that of eradicating the world that was not his once and for all.

“How are we to defeat an enemy such as this?” Theon thought aloud, even as someone from in front of the gates of Eastwatch called out to the guards.

“I cannot say, my friend, but we have to at least try it, do we not? We can only do this, or else surrender and lose ourselves, our souls, our lives, forever, to an enemy that will never stop until he is crushed for good,” Tormund assured them, walking up to them from behind.

“Where is the commander of this outfit, anyway?” Daario probed of the first Wildling man that he met in his life.

“He’s just down there, returning alone among his scouts. We’ll have to bring him in without letting those frosty fucks who chase him in as well. I am here by command of Jon Snow, the King in the North. He assigned me this post and I shall guard it as he wills, for as long as he wishes it. We have to keep the enemy at bay, buy time to rally the South, which to be truthful is all of Westeros south of the Wall, against the Night King and his army. This castle is a port, too, as you discovered yourselves, so even more vital to our cause. I am Tormund Giantsbane. Who would you two be?” the tall, red haired man asked them in turn.

“I’m Theon Greyjoy, third and last son of Balon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands. My sister, Yara Greyjoy, is Queen of the Iron Islands, if she survives, by command of our Queen, and yours now. Daenerys Targaryen, wife to Jon Snow, who now reign together as Lord and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, King and Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Our King and Queen have sent me here to assist you at Eastwatch-by-the-sea. I can see why now. It has been decided to trust in the Wall to buy time for the armies of Westeros, of all Seven Kingdoms, to rally together against the Army of the Dead,” Theon announced himself, much to the surprise of Tormund, who had only heard bad things about the Greyjoys.

“Why should I trust you, Ironborn? You were the one who attacked Winterfell, drove out Bran and Rickon, pretended that they died, and lost badly to the Boltons, am I wrong? Why should I trust a thing that you say, by the gods, the true gods, the gods of the weirwood and the forest, the gods of the North? And who are you? What is your real purpose? Were you sent here to convince me to betray my King?” Tormund demanded, as he had only served and trusted two kings in his lifetime: Mance Rayder and Jon Snow.

“Because I have bent the knee to Jon Snow, and Daenerys Targaryen, his wife, our King and Queen, because they have assured us of the independence of the Iron Islands should we all prevail, because I still need to rescue my sister, so I have every reason to wish to avoid being taken and changed by the Night King and his host. Because I must do this, to make it right between House Stark and myself, for the evil things that I did to them. Because I have already suffered enough to make me understand how wrong I’ve been,” Theon snapped, truly impatient, yet knowing that others would always mistrust him until he proved himself.

“It happened. I was there. I saw it. I also need to atone for my sins or mistakes or whatever. I failed my Queen. Daario Naharis, lifelong sellsword, formerly captain of the Second Sons, formerly governor or regent of Meereen in the absence of Queen Daenerys. I was rather unceremoniously evicted from said city by the forces of Volantis and her allies, during which battle, I lost most of my company. Only these remain to serve me still. I seek to prove that I am still loyal and competent, which I shall do by getting you lot out of this damn castle and safely to the Wall,” Daario declared, surprising Tormund with the conviction in his voice.

“So, the King in the North has taken a bride. A Dragon Queen. A Targaryen. I’ve heard mention of these Targaryens now and then, largely from my short stay at Winterfell. Dragon riders. They burn castles, cities, etc. to the ground. Sounds like a handy queen to have, if you ask me. With the winter that’s here now, we can use all of the fire that we can muster. Any of you here are Northmen to vouch for this?” Tormund asked the party of volunteers while the sentries ushered Cotter Pyke into the castle below them.

“Aye, I’m from the North. Ragnar Slait here. It’s all true, my friend. Our King has gone south, but he has not abandoned us. He has to bring the lions to heel and avenge the Red Wedding, and once he’s done that, he’s marching north with a much bigger army of warriors from all over Westeros. Every single kingdom will send warriors to fight the Night King and his force. He doesn’t wish to see anyone needlessly sacrificed. The Wall can hold for a while longer, and while it holds, he wishes to build an army that cannot be defeated, even by the Dead.

“He’s already brought Dothraki and Unsullied into our camp, by marrying Daenerys Targaryen, not to mention three fully grown dragons who can aid us in beating the Night King and his host. That’s not counting any other forces who might yet join us, such as those in the Riverlands once Edmure Tully is freed, along with the dragonglass that we’ve been able to mine. The delay is necessary and worthwhile, I assure you. We just came because he doesn’t want Eastwatch to go unmanned, so he chose to reinforce it,” one of the Northern soldiers, a rather gruff one who hailed from the Glover lands, confirmed for Tormund.

“Well, here he comes in at last, our fearless commander. Cotter Pyke, also of the Iron Islands. A fellow Ironborn to you, Theon Greyjoy. Once again, I have cause to be grateful to our King. If anyone deserves to sit on this iron chair of theirs, it’s him. If he’s King, he’ll be able to rally everyone to fight the Dead, and that sounds like a great reason to me. Even so, I have some prisoners that I need you to look at, Lord Theon and Captain Daario.