Game of Thrones: Lord of the Flames

Meera Reed wheeled Bran Stark to the window.

Looking to the north, the sky was covered with green light of varying shades, which was strangely and terrifyingly beautiful.

The searing wind that blew past gave the illusion of a summer heatwave.

The wildfire's green flames burned vividly against the snow, forming a towering wall of fire that stretched across the length of the Neck's defensive line.

Moments ago, the surging tide of wights had been reduced to ash and smoke, consumed by the inferno.

Mindless and fearless, the wights continued to surge forward. As those in the front were incinerated, those behind pressed on, leaping into the fire like moths to a flame.

"Does this mean it's over?" Meera murmured, still shaken as she gazed at the hellish sea of green fire.

"It's not that simple," Bran replied softly from his wheelchair. "Wildfire doesn't burn forever."

Meera glanced down at the boy. Her eyes lingered on the hollow voids where his eyes used to be.

"You can't see it, can you?"

Bran shook his head. "No. But I can hear it."

"Then you must hear the wights' screams as they burn," Meera said.

"I do," Bran nodded. "But I also hear the howling wind, the roaring snow, and the deafening voice of the storm."

Meera frowned, about to speak, when Bran continued, his tone matter-of-fact:

"The Others and their wights are the heralds of winter and masters of the Long Night. This wildfire may hold them back for now, but it won't end the darkness. It won't turn winter into summer. In this frozen night, the Others will only grow stronger, drawing endless power from the cold. You can't kill them all—they are infinite."

"Then what's the solution?"

Before Meera could ask her question aloud, someone else voiced it first.

She turned to see King Samwell standing nearby, having arrived silently and unnoticed.

"Your Majesty," Bran said, "to end this war, you must end the Long Night."

Samwell's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Someone once told me the Long Night ends when the Others are defeated."

"They weren't wrong," Bran said. "But what we're killing now are wights. They're only the Others' servants. Killing them won't change anything. Our true enemy is the Others themselves—or, more precisely, their leader. The source of this Long Night: the Night King. Only by killing him will the Long Night end, and with it, this war."

"The Night King?" Meera asked, puzzled. "Wasn't he just a Commander of the Night's Watch who tried to set up his own kingdom? And wasn't the Watch founded after the first Long Night ended, to prevent it from happening again? How could he be the source of the Long Night?"

"That's because the first Long Night and this one don't share the same source…" Bran trailed off, his expression a mixture of sorrow and pain.

"Then what is the source of this Long Night?" Meera pressed.

Bran didn't answer.

It was Samwell who broke the silence.

"The oldest written records in Westeros date back to the arrival of the Andals. Before that, the First Men left only crude runes etched into stone.

What we know—or think we know—about the Age of Heroes, the Dawn Age, and the Long Night is based on stories written thousands of years later by maesters filling in the gaps. Their accuracy… well." Samwell chuckled dryly.

"There was once a maester named Fomas who wrote a book called The Lies of the Ancients. He claimed the Others weren't monsters, but a tribe of the First Men who came from the Lands of Always Winter and were ancestors of the Free Folk.

According to him, the Long Night forced them to migrate south, where they clashed with the men of the North—ancestors of today's Northerners. Over time, these battles became exaggerated in stories and legends, turning the Others into undead monsters. It was a convenient way for the Watch and the Starks to portray themselves as humanity's saviors."

"But the Others really are undead monsters," Meera argued.

"I'm not saying Fomas was right," Samwell replied. "But his perspective is worth considering. Bran, I've been to the crypts beneath Winterfell. Those tombs of the Kings of Winter… they've long been empty, haven't they?"

Bran lowered his head, his expression unreadable.

But he didn't deny it.

"There's a legend that the Night King—the Watch Commander who tried to crown himself king—was a Stark," Samwell continued. "And the current Night King… he's a Stark too, isn't he?"

Meera gasped and turned to Bran, searching for denial.

But Bran remained silent, his head bowed, as if in silent admission.

"I'll find him," Samwell declared. "And I'll kill him."

With that, the King turned and strode away.

"Bran," Meera asked in a hushed voice, "is the Night King really a Stark? How could that be? The Starks are the North's protectors…"

"Have you heard the story of Bael the Bard?" Bran finally spoke, his question seemingly unrelated.

Though confused, Meera nodded. "Yes. He was a King-Beyond-the-Wall, mocked by the King of Winter as 'Bael the Coward.' In retaliation, Bael scaled the Wall and infiltrated Winterfell disguised as a bard.

He played at the Stark feast and so charmed the King of Winter that he was promised a reward of his choice. Bael asked only for a single winter rose.

The next morning, the Stark princess was gone, and in her empty bed lay a rose. The Starks searched for her but never found her.

Years later, she returned to Winterfell with a son—the product of her union with Bael."

Bran nodded and continued the tale:

"That son became the new King of Winter. In a later war with the Free Folk, he led the Stark army north and killed Bael at the Frozen Ford.

When he returned to Winterfell with Bael's head, he found his mother had leapt to her death from the tower."

Bran paused, then concluded sorrowfully:

"Sometimes, you don't know the enemy you fight with all your might is your own kin."

Meera finally understood the story's purpose, and her heart filled with grief and disbelief.

"Could the Night King really be a Stark? Are we fighting our own blood…?"

Bran said nothing further, staring blankly ahead with his empty sockets.

"Lucky I lost my eyes," he muttered. "Now I won't see my kin fall before me."

Meera felt a lump rise in her throat. She tried to speak but found no words. Finally, she bent down and embraced the cold, shivering boy.

He was freezing.

---

Catelyn Tully felt unbearably cold.

The howling wind in the cave sounded like death whispering in her ear.

Wrapped tightly in her fur cloak, she couldn't keep the relentless chill from seeping into her bones.

The dim campfire before her gave little warmth, its feeble glow smothered by the overwhelming cold.

Lighting a fire was a dangerous act now, with the North overrun by the Others. The flame could easily attract the undead.

But Catelyn no longer cared. Without fire, she would freeze to death.

But such a small fire gradually went out. Wisps of black smoke rose up, drilled out of the cave, and merged into the darkness.

Catelyn tried to move her arms and legs, but found that they were frozen and had no feeling at all.

Beside him, his daughter Arya was sleeping peacefully, with a comfortable smile on her rosy face, as if the biting cold had no effect on her at all.

They, the Starks, do have an endurance for the cold that far exceeds that of ordinary people.

Having been married to Winterfell for so many years, Catelyn certainly knew this.

She could only envy them.

"Arya, Arya…"

Hearing her mother's voice, Arya stirred awake.

"What is it, Mother?"

"Come closer…"

Noticing Catelyn's pale complexion and trembling form, Arya hurried over to embrace her.

"Mother, you're freezing!"

Arya added wood to the fire but saw it was nearly gone.

"I'll go find more firewood," she said.

"No!" Catelyn grabbed her arm. "It's too dangerous out there alone."

"I have Nymeria and Big Guy with me," Arya reassured her.

As if hearing his name, the direwolf sleeping at the entrance of the cave raised its head and looked over.

"Be careful," Lady Catelyn urged, her tone firm. "We're probably not far from the Neck. South of here is likely where the armies of the Seven Kingdoms are clashing with the Others. Whatever you do, don't go sticking your nose into trouble."

"I won't, I won't!" Arya replied, nodding with exaggerated certainty.

"If you see a White Walker, don't try to fight it. Let Big Guy carry you and run. Do you understand?"

"Got it, got it!"

Before Catelyn could launch into another string of warnings, Arya darted out of the cave, eager to escape her mother's fussing.

Nymeria padded after her, silent and vigilant.

"Big Guy! Hey, Big Guy, wake up!"

At Arya's call, a massive shadow stirred behind the hillside. Slowly, a hulking figure shifted, and two enormous eyes opened, glowing a deep blue like stars in the night sky.

"Come on, we're going to find some firewood," Arya instructed with the tone of a commander. "And remember, there's an ice lake just east of here. Maybe we can break through the ice and catch something to eat."

The giant rumbled a low, incomprehensible response, but obediently extended his massive hand, letting Arya climb up onto his palm.

"Oops, wrong way! That's west! East is the other direction!"

Though the world was cloaked in darkness, Arya used the faint starlight to orient herself, guiding the giant like a seasoned navigator.

The ground trembled faintly with each of the giant's heavy steps, but Arya, fearless as ever, only grinned.

"Take it easy! You're shaking the whole hill!" She gave the giant's head a playful pat.

She wasn't the least bit frightened.

Arya had encountered plenty of wights along their journey. She knew they were no match for Big Guy, who could crush a handful of them underfoot without breaking a sweat.

Even when the wights came in larger numbers, Big Guy could simply run. They were far too slow to keep up with him.

This sense of security allowed Arya to feel unusually bold, even deep behind enemy lines.

Still, something puzzled her.

They had encountered plenty of wights, yet not a single White Walker.

Once, she had spotted one in the distance—riding a giant ice spider, no less. She was certain the creature had seen them, yet instead of giving chase, it had abruptly turned and left.

"White Walkers must be terrified of giants," Arya concluded, quite pleased with her deduction.

Riding high on Big Guy's shoulders, she felt invincible.

She thought of the stories of Brandon the Builder, the legendary Stark ancestor who had worked alongside giants to construct the Wall, Winterfell, and Storm's End. These awe-inspiring monuments were marvels of engineering, celebrated even in song.

Now, Arya fancied herself a bit like Brandon, commanding a giant of her own. Perhaps she could rebuild the Wall someday.

The idea made her chest swell with pride.

As they marched through the frosty air, the cold wind stung Arya's cheeks, but her excitement burned brighter. From her lofty perch atop Big Guy's shoulders, she felt like a hero from the ballads.

There was only one thing missing: her father.

They hadn't found him yet, and Arya suspected he had already reached the Neck, joining the King's army at the frontlines.

She wanted to follow him south, even if it meant venturing into the heart of the battlefield. She wasn't afraid.

In fact, the thought of riding Big Guy into battle against the wights thrilled her. What a sight it would be—the Stark girl atop a giant, smashing through the ranks of the dead.

But her mother had forbidden it.

Arya pouted at the memory of Catelyn's stern warnings, kicking her heels against Big Guy's shoulders in frustration.

When Nymeria suddenly stopped ahead, circling and whining softly, Arya knew they had reached the ice lake.

"All right, Big Guy—break the ice!"

The giant crouched, raising a massive fist, then brought it crashing down onto the frozen surface.

CRACK.

The thick ice split instantly, jagged cracks radiating outward like spiderwebs.

Big Guy reached into the icy water, withdrawing a handful of thrashing fish.

"Yes!" Arya cheered, hopping down to gather the catch.

Nymeria, not to be outdone, snatched a fish from the hole with her sharp teeth.

After some time, Arya climbed back onto Big Guy's shoulders, their bounty of fish secured.

As they passed through a grove of snow-laden pines, Arya instructed Big Guy to uproot one of the smaller trees.

"We'll use this for firewood," she said as the giant hefted the tree onto his back like a twig.

Returning to the hillside, Arya was about to slide down from Big Guy's shoulders when she noticed something in the southern sky.

A bright green light flickered on the horizon, growing rapidly and stretching across the land like a glowing scar.

"Wildfire…" Arya whispered.

The sight brought back memories of the Battle of Blackwater Bay, where she had seen Tyrion Lannister unleash wildfire on Stannis Baratheon's fleet. The destruction had haunted her dreams for days afterward.

And now, she was witnessing it again.

The realization struck her like a hammer: the King's army was fighting the dead right now, not far from where they stood.

Arya bolted into the cave.

"Mother, look!" she cried, tugging Catelyn to the entrance. "The King's army is right there, just south of us! We should go to them!"

Catelyn stared at the eerie green flames in stunned silence. But she quickly shook her head, her voice firm:

"No. This war isn't for little girls to fight."

"But I have Big Guy!" Arya protested.

"I said no!"

Arya crossed her arms and pouted, but she knew better than to argue further. Grumbling under her breath, she followed her mother back into the cave.

They relit the fire and roasted some fish for dinner.

The warmth of the flames and the meal in her belly helped Catelyn finally relax, and she drifted off to sleep.

Arya, however, lay awake, restless and unable to settle.

After what felt like hours, she crept to the cave entrance, moving as silently as a shadow. She glanced back to ensure her mother was still asleep before slipping outside.

"Nymeria, Big Guy!" she called softly. "Let's go. We're going to hunt the Others!"

(End of Chapter)