Chapter Eighty Two: Into A Corner

Lady Dacey Clegane sighed as she sat atop her garron at the head of the vanguard. The Army of the Dead was less than five miles to the north, and it was getting closer with every passing second. We are fortunate the blizzard died down. Otherwise it'd be too foggy to see them. Be that as it may, seeing the Others coming towards them was just as dreadful as not being able to see them at all.

We've already faced them in battle three times. We've managed to kill millions of them. Yet even so… there's still so damn many. They may as well be endless.

In the midst of her musing, Dacey felt a hand on her right shoulder. The touch was rough and tender at the same time. It was a touch she was very familiar with. She promptly turned to face the hand's owner, who was mounted on a huge brown destrier beside her. Even now, she had to look up to gaze into his piercing yet welcoming eyes. She had looked into those eyes almost every day for the last fifteen years. Has it really been that long?

"Stay strong, my love," Lord Gregor Clegane bade her.

"I am always strong, Gregor," Dacey Clegane reminded her husband, grinning at him.

"Yes, I know," said Gregor, grinning back.

After he removed his hand from her shoulder, Dacey sighed again and stated "Of course, strength alone will not be enough to get us through this. Nevertheless, I will not despair."

"Even though we are faced with an overwhelming force?" said a coarse voice from Dacey's other side. It belonged to her gruff mother, Lady Maege Mormont, who was atop a large gelding.

The Lady of Moat Cailin scoffed. Turning to the looming mass of the undead, she declared "Vast though that force may be, Mother, I would not call it overwhelming. There have only been two times in my life when I have felt genuinely overwhelmed. One was the day I wed Gregor, particularly during the bedding ceremony. The other was the day Rickard was born."

"I apologize for the latter, Mother," the heir to Moat Cailin called out in amusement. Rickard Clegane was mounted on his own garron to the right of his father. Dacey just snickered and flashed a smile at her firstborn. That may have been a grueling experience, but the reward was very much worth it.

"What about the Pentoshi Bloodbath?" Gregor contended. "Didn't you feel overwhelmed back then?"

"I'm certain I would've," Maege commented, "As I recall, the mere news of that fiasco was enough to overwhelm most of the realm. Especially those of us who had family among the fallen."

That includes House Mormont. Alysane Mormont, Dacey's sister and Lady Maege's second daughter, had suffered an ax to the head near the start of that infamous battle. She left behind a son and a daughter, who had been evacuated to the south with the rest of Dacey's sisters and second cousins.

"I simply couldn't afford to be overwhelmed," Dacey revealed, "After all, I was in command of our forces at the time, and it was my responsibility to keep them organized."

That was only mostly true. Dacey had not been present for the entirety of the Bloodbath. In the final stages of it, Marrigo the pit fighter had driven an axe into her lower chest. Luckily, the weapon had gotten stuck in her chainmail, so Marrigo had inflicted no grievous damage on her. But he had still been able to knock her out somehow. To this day, he's the only man other than Gregor who has successfully managed to take such advantage of me. If Prince Jon Targaryen had not come along and sliced the pit fighter in half, Marrigo might have finished Dacey off when she was unconscious.

In Dacey Clegane's mind, the true hero of the battle was Jon. After she was removed from the fighting, he had brought it upon himself to keep their few remaining leaders together until Lady Melisandre arrived with reinforcements. They had still suffered heavy losses, certainly, but those losses could have been even greater if Jon had not stepped up and taken charge.

Jon Targaryen had saved Dacey Clegane's life. He had also saved the lives of several others that night. He may end up saving a great many more today, provided he and Ygrenyon manage to get close enough to the Night's King.

"I understand just what you mean, Dacey," Gregor told his wife, "Even when confronted with dreary circumstances and virtually insurmountable odds, I have never once allowed myself to succumb to hopelessness. I am not about to make an exception today of all days."

Neither will I. But even though we've survived this long, there is no way any of us can ensure we will live beyond today's battle. Dacey was well-aware of the possibility that every person there would soon meet his or her end. She would likely meet her own. While she was fully prepared to die, she could not help but think of the ones she would leave behind.

Dacey glanced downward at her chest, and she placed her hand on the bear-shaped brooch which fastened her cloak in place. Her second son Alyver had bought that brooch with his own money when they were in Braavos. He had given it to her as a gift for her thirtieth nameday. He remembered even when his mother had forgotten.

Alyver had wanted to stay behind and join in the fighting. He had tried his hardest to sway his parents' minds. He argued that he was qualified to stand with them, as he had endured the hardships of the Free Cities and the Dothraki Sea, he had witnessed the horrors of the Pentoshi Bloodbath, and he had even killed one of the traitorous serjeants of the Golden Company. And I myself could attest to the truth of all of that. Alas, in the end, the only person under eleven years of age who was permitted to remain at Moat Cailin was Bran Stark. Alyver and everyone else of ten years or younger was evacuated south.

Dacey wondered if she would ever see Alyver again. Or Vallory. Or Larys. Or little Torrhen. Her niece and nephew had been devastated when they learned of Alysane's death. She would never forgive herself if she brought such grief to her own children. But she was willing to lay down her life if it meant she could help guarantee their survival. All the same, Dacey Clegane was determined not to let her children grow up without a mother. Even a horde of walking corpses will not keep a bear from her cubs.

When Dacey looked back up from her brooch, she discovered that the Army of the Dead had nearly halved their previous distance from the living host. Gregor closed the margin even more a few seconds later, when he urged his destrier forward. When he was about fifteen feet away, he swung around so that he was facing his wife, son, and comrades.

"Alright, this is it!" he announced, as he rode his horse along the foremost rank, "Stand hard and fast! Do not give in to fear!"

Those were simple words, but they were sufficient to hold the column together. I wonder if he'll give us one of his speeches, or if he'll spare us that monologue.

"Now, some of you may have been expecting a speech," Gregor proclaimed. Dacey resisted the desire to chuckle. It's as though he read my mind. "I would have prepared a speech, if I thought it would actually do some amount of good. But I ultimately elected to forgo the speech. At this point, words will not make any more of a difference. It is time we chose to depend on actions instead. Therefore, I will only pass on a few pieces of practical wisdom: take down as many of the foe as you can, look out for the well-being of your allies, and do not give away any openings or weaknesses. Of course, we are almost certainly about to meet our doom. In spite of that… I implore you all not to lose faith, and I wish each and every one of you the best of luck in our impending struggle. For what we do here today will decide the future of the Known World."

At that, everyone raised their weapons and cheered. Dacey did likewise, her longsword Bearswrath in one hand, her Morningstar in the other. She smiled at her husband again. Speech or no speech, he always knows just what to say to keep the men motivated. No wonder Lord Eddard relinquished command of the vanguard in Gregor's favor. Even the wolves cannot deny the Mountain's supremacy on the field of battle.

Gregor smiled back at his wife. Then he turned in the direction of his brother Sandor, who was posted to the right of Rickard, and he called out "Bran, come forth, my boy."

Rickard and Sandor then inched away from each other so that Bran Stark could pass between them on his chestnut horse, Dancer. His direwolf companion Summer padded forward alongside his master. Once the second son of Lord Eddard Stark was beside Gregor, he declared "I await your order, my lord."

"Then begin," the Mountain commanded.

The Three-Eyed Raven nodded his head and leaned back in his saddle. Then his body went limp, and his eyes went white. Whiter than the freshly-fallen snow on the ground.

Dacey soon heard a shrill screeching sound overhead. She looked up and watched as a raven flew towards the approaching adversary. It did not take long for the bird to fade into the distance.

There was nothing to do but sit in relative silence for the next several minutes. All the while, the Army of the Dead continued its advance. Eventually, Bran's eyes regained their color, and he sat up straight in his saddle again.

"Did you see him?" Gregor inquired.

"No, my lord," Bran replied, "I searched the entire Army of the Dead, and I could not find the Night's King. It is almost as though he is absent from their ranks."

"Could he be elsewhere?" Dacey conjectured.

"I do not believe so, my lady," Bran contended, "I searched the surroundings, as well. Quite thoroughly, I might add. He was nowhere to be found there, either."

"Perhaps he is hiding," Sandor speculated.

"How, Uncle?" said Rickard, "There are no holdfasts, forests, caves, or other conventional hiding places between here and Castle Cerwyn. Just flat land, foothills, and a bunch of scattered trees are far as the eye can see."

"I believe he means the Night's King could be hiding in plain sight," Gregor illuminated.

"I do," Sandor affirmed. He looked to Bran and asked, "Do you suppose that could be the case?"

"That could very well be so, my lord," Bran remarked, "After what became of the Night's Queen, the Night's King must be less willing to expose himself."

"I would not be surprised," Gregor thought aloud, "Perhaps he's somehow made himself less conspicuous. He might've changed his raiment. Or maybe his bodyguards are standing close enough to him that he's been hidden from our view."

"Whatever the case, I am confident he's somewhere in there, my lord," Bran pronounced, gesturing to the immense crowd of White Walkers and wights. "I can feel his power issuing from within that horde."

"Then we'll just have to draw him out," Gregor muttered with a smirk. He then reached back, gripped the hilt of his greatsword Summit, and drew it from its massive scabbard. And thus, the end begins. As the Mountain held his Valyrian steel weapon aloft, he turned to the youngest person there and told him "Bran, send the signal to the Dothraki."

"Aye, my lord," the Three-Eyed Raven acknowledged. He proceeded to warg into two more ravens, which he sent in opposite directions. The first went to the east to alert half of the Dothraki, who were stationed along the White Knife. The second went to the west to alert the other half of the Dothraki, who were stationed at the edge of the Barrowlands. There goes the first wave.

A few minutes later, Dacey could faintly hear both hordes of Dothraki screamers getting closer. She smiled when she felt the ground beginning to shake. Normally, the Essosi would associate that yelling and that trembling sensation with an impending catastrophe. Today, we Westerosi associate them with our deliverance.

Soon, over a hundred thousand Dothraki were approaching the Army of the Dead; more than fifty thousand on either side. Up until now, the Others had been completely focused on the Cleganes and their allies assembled further down the Kingsroad. As the horselords came closer, more and more of the White Walkers and wights had their attention diverted. Dacey gave a wide grin when the space between the three forces was rapidly reduced. They may be undead, but even they aren't invulnerable against a raging stampede.

The Dothraki all but plowed through the first hundred rows of the Army of the Dead. A number of wights practically went flying when the horselords crashed against them. Many more were knocked down and trampled over. None of them were permanently disabled, of course, but most were so irreparably mangled that they would never stand back up again.

Imagine what we could have accomplished if we found a way to shoe the horses with obsidian or Valyrian steel. Dacey scoffed at the thought. Gregor and his notary, Samwell Tarly, had actually considered that at one point, but they had ultimately decided that the smelting and shoeing process for so many horses would have been too long, too costly, and too complicated. Furthermore, both substances were deemed too valuable to expend on something as trivial as horseshoes.

The Dothraki were not armed with very many obsidian or Valyrian steel weapons, either. In fact, they had none made of obsidian whatsoever, and the only Valyrian steel ones they had were those that had been in their possession before Dacey recruited them. Gregor and the rest of the secret council had offered the Dothraki a healthy supply of dragonglass weapons, but the horselords had insisted on using their own armaments. They were quick to accept the warmer leather armor we offered them, though.

The Dothraki may have been accustomed to the arid, sandy conditions of the Free Cities, but even here in the frigid, snowy conditions of the North, they were a force to be reckoned with. There was no known army that could best them mounted. The Unsullied could reportedly hold their own against the Dothraki, but even those stalwart and emotionless eunuchs could never truly defeat the horselords. Some would say no one alive who could triumph over a Dothraki horde.

Of course, the Others were not alive. For that reason alone, they were bound to pose the greatest challenge any khal had ever faced.

Over the next twenty minutes, the Dothraki managed to subdue several thousand wights and White Walkers without incurring any notable losses on their part. After that, their good fortune began to diminish, and the Others started fighting back earnestly. The horselords may have had the advantage of higher elevation and superior combat experience, but they were still outnumbered by a factor of approximately two hundred to one. Worse yet, most of their arkhs and their other weapons were ineffective against the undead.

Before very long, scores of Dothraki were quickly being surrounded and pulled down from their mounts, never to get up again. Luckily, however, the horselords had accomplished their intended objective by now. In that, they had managed to cut through the Army of the Dead's ranks and isolate a small portion of it from the majority.

That was when Gregor turned to Bran Stark and told him "It is time for your cousin to take to the skies."

"As you say, my lord," the wolf boy declared, leaning back once more. This time when he opened his third eye, he warged into Summer, who hastily retreated into their column. Dacey knew Bran was using Summer to locate his brother Ghost, who was with his own master. Prince Jon Targaryen was near the rear of the company with his half-siblings and aunt. Along with the embodiments of their house.

A couple minutes later, an earsplitting roar penetrated the already strained atmosphere. It came from behind. Dacey peered over her shoulder and saw three huge masses ascend into the air several hundred feet away. It was just bright enough that she could make out their color schemes. One was gold and cream. Another was bronze and green. The third was scarlet and black.

She could also make out the silhouettes of the figures seated on the backs of the dragons. There were four of them altogether. The one atop Eliaxes was her rider, Prince Aegon Targaryen. The one atop Draegar was her rider, Princess Daenerys Targaryen. There were two atop Ygrenyon. One was his rider, Prince Jon Targaryen. The other was the eldest of the dragons, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.

Jon was just as capable of piloting his dragon as Aegon and Daenerys were with theirs. However, at certain instances, he would be warging into his dragon's mind. Because of that, he would not be in total control of his body for the full duration of the flight. That was why Rhaenys was riding with him. She would steer Ygrenyon and hold her younger half-brother in place to prevent him from falling off. It's just their luck that Ygrenyon is the largest of the three. I doubt there's enough room on Eliaxes or Draegar's backs to support two people.

Once the dragons carried out their initial ascent, their riders directed them forward towards the area where the Dothraki and the Others were exchanging blows. They soared through the air until they were directly over the northmost point of the two clashing armies. When they got there, Dacey could have sworn she heard the word "Dracarys" echoing in the distance. That marked the exact moment the dragons officially entered the fray.

All at once, the three dragons expelled a stream of fire down towards the ground. They enveloped well over a hundred wights, and the ground immediately below them practically burst into flame. Now there was a wall of flames splitting apart the Others engaged in combat with the Dothraki from the rest of their undead comrades. The first group was essentially caught off from the much larger second one.

The wall of fire would only last for as long as it took the grass beneath the snow to turn to cinders. Fortunately, that would still be more than enough time for it to fulfill its purpose.

Gregor gripped the reins of his mount with one hand, raised Summit high over his head with the other, and shouted "Vanguard, ahead full!"

The Mountain galloped forward on his enormous destrier. Dacey was the first to follow after her husband. Mother, Rickard, Sandor, Lord Eddard Stark, Benjen Stark, Robb Stark, Prince Jasper Baratheon, and almost every single other person in the vanguard joined the charge. In fact, Bran Stark was the only one who stayed behind.

Gregor was the first one to reach the Army of the Dead from the south. He gave a mighty swing of Summit when he neared them. In the frontal swing, he demolished ten wights and two White Walkers. He took out almost as many on the backswing, too.

When Dacey reached the undead host, she swung her Morningstar at the nearest White Walker to the right of her garron and took its head clean off. She then slashed Bearswrath to the left side and obliterated half a dozen wights in one stroke.

Within moments, the whole of the vanguard was upon the sequestered company of the Army of the Dead. In a flurry of hacking, slashing, thrusting, and swinging, the undead were soon dropping like flies.

With Dothraki to the east and west, a wall of fire to the north, and Westerosi soldiers to the south, one hundred thousand wights and White Walkers were effectively trapped. As such, their living opponents had them totally at their mercy. Not that we will be showing them any mercy. Indeed, every undead being caught between those four barriers was vanquished without hesitation.

This whole process was Gregor's plan for countering the Army of the Dead. They would whittle away at the undead forces by separating a hundred thousand of them from the main host at a time and defeating those units in turn. The wall of fire would keep the wights in the main host from reinforcing or going to the aid of the trapped wights.

Fundamentally, the idea was to continue utilizing this routine until one of two things happened: The Army of the Dead was annihilated, or the Night's King was destroyed. Hopefully the latter will be the case. If only we could find that elusive bastard…

There were a few difficulties to account for in this strategy. Namely, the wall of fire to the north would not last indefinitely, and grass that had already been singed once would not burn again. Therefore, the wall of fire would have to be relit often, and a fresh patch of grass would have to be used each time.

Gregor, Dacey, and their allies were not about to let the Army of the Dead get any closer to the moat if they could help it. As such, the only way this tactic would work was if the people fighting on the side of the living were constantly pushing forward.

Needless to say, this approach would not be as straightforward as it sounded, seeing as how they were up against a formidable opponent who was just as resolute on advancing in the opposite direction. But I'll be damned if we let the Others gain even an inch over us.

Naturally, the biggest drawback pertained to the great difference in the size of their armies. The Cleganes and their allies were more than capable of eliminating a hundred thousand of the Army of the Dead's units. Theon Greyjoy managed to kill five or six million of them with a single arrow at Winterfell. Be that as it may, there were still around twenty million wights and White Walkers left. As such, they would possibly have to repeat this procedure as many as two hundred times. I pray we have the strength to accomplish such a deed.

Dacey continued swinging her Morningstar and Bearswrath at the nearest wights. Every time she caught sight of a White Walker, she concentrated on taking it down with her longsword. Sandor was just as deadly with Hound's Fang. Not a single undead warrior came within three feet of the Hound's garron. Whenever one got that close, he sliced it down. As for Gregor, he actually let the undead get within reach of his destrier, just so he could eliminate more of them with each swing of Summit.

Less than ten minutes after the Westerosi charged into battle, they and their Dothraki allies had utterly decimated the first one hundred thousand units of the Army of the Dead. Their timing was impeccable; just a few seconds later, the wall of fire burned out. Now there was nothing separating them from the rest of the Others.

Gregor then set the next phase of his plan into motion. He rode to the northern edge of the living forces and shouted "Dothraki, withdraw! Sellswords, engage!"

Even over the noise of the battlefield, his booming voice could be heard clearly. Gregor always did say that proper enunciation was important.

While the Dothraki were excellent fighters, even they did not have unlimited stamina. Gregor and the secret council knew they could not overburden the horselords. As such, whenever they blocked the Army of the Dead from veering off to the west or the east, they would alternate between sending in the Dothraki and sending in the sellswords.

At Gregor's behest, the Windblown, the Second Sons, the Stormcrows, the Golden Company, and all the other Essosi sellsword companies emerged from where they had been lingering in the White Knife and the Barrowlands. They, too, were on horseback, and they proceeded to gallop towards the Army of the Dead from both sides. Dacey observed them as they came charging in. They were not quite as impressive a mounted force as the Dothraki, but they were still remarkable.

While the sellswords were locked in combat with the Army of the Dead, the Dothraki fell back to the east and west. There they would regroup, and then they would ride a little farther north. After the sellswords served their purpose in trapping another hundred thousand wights and White Walkers, the two forces would switch off yet again. They would repeat this course of action until Gregor's plan arrived at one of its two possible aforementioned conclusions.

At any rate, the sellsword companies quickly cut another hundred thousand of the Army of the Dead off from the main host. That was when the dragons and their riders swooped in again. They put up another wall of fire between the isolated group and the main host. Gregor then reined his horse around and called out "Reform the column!"

Dacey and everyone else hastily got back into their ranks. They were lucky enough to have only suffered a few losses, so their lines were virtually the same as they were at the start of the battle.

As soon as the column was back together, Gregor raised Summit into the air again and announced "Alright, once more! Charge!"

Once again, the vanguard dashed forward towards the smaller company of the undead. They trampled over the first several hundred. Then they proceeded to put the rest to the sword. Although everyone was focused on staying alive and beating the adversary, the atmosphere was not especially tense. It was so finely structured and tame, in fact, that they could even hold a conversation in the midst of all the fighting. As it happened, they did.

"This is almost too easy," Rickard commented with a grin, removing his dragonglass sword from a wight's chest. Gregor had had that weapon made for him personally. He's as skilled with it as he is with any other blade.

"Don't get complacent, Rick," Dacey advised her firstborn, hacking at a nearby Other with Bearswrath.

"You needn't worry, Mother," the heir to Moat Cailin asserted, as he plunged his sword into another wight's throat.

"He's not incorrect, though," Sandor commented, reining his horse beside his nephew and clearing away a small group of wights. "These undead sons of poxy whores aren't nearly as troublesome as they were at the Wall."

"I agree," Obara Clegane declared, driving Swift Thrust through another White Walker's upper torso. After that Other shattered, she stated "Still, this could be even easier."

"How so, Aunt Obara?" Rickard inquired.

"We have dragons," the Dornishwoman pointed out, gesturing to the gargantuan reptilian beasts flying in the sky overhead, "Why don't we just use them to turn the Army of the Dead to ashes?"

It was Gregor who answered their sister-by-law. After slaying three White Walkers in the span of five seconds, he turned toward Obara and called out to her "It would not be wise to rely too heavily on the dragons. Believe me, Obara; I am sorely tempted to just unleash them on the Army of the Dead and smolder every last one of the Night's King's warriors. But I am unwilling to shoulder the risk."

"What risk, Father?" asked Rickard.

"The risk that the Night's King could bring the dragons down," Gregor answered their son.

"That is indeed a possibility," Benjen Stark concurred, fending off another White Walker and its party of wights, "The Night's King is deadly with throwing javelins. That was how we lost Mag the Mighty, Lord Beric Dondarrion, Mance Rayder, and Lord Commander Mormont."

"My source has not shown me the full extent of what the Night's King can defeat," Gregor admitted. Here he paused to slice another White Walker down the middle of its body. Then he continued with "However, both Lady Melisandre and Mollander have had more luck in this matter than I. Their sources have revealed to them that the Night's King is, in fact, quite capable of bringing down the dragons. What's more; he can reanimate them and incorporate them into his army, as well."

"Well, we certainly can't have that," Mother declared, swinging her spiked mace at a wight and smashing it into a pile of bones.

"Indeed not," Dacey remarked, driving Bearswrath into another wight's face. The Army of the Dead is already terrible and destructive enough with countless humans and animals in its ranks. I cannot imagine what type of untold damage the Others could cause with an undead dragon on their side.

"I thought dragons were meant to be the embodiment of fire, my lord," Jasper called out, after finishing off half a dozen wights.

"They are," Gregor confirmed, cleaving another White Walker in half with Summit. "But only when alive. Once dead, all their flames are extinguished, and their carcasses become no different from those of any other creature."

"That makes perfect sense to me," Robb Stark remarked. He wielded his own dragonglass sword, and he was fighting alongside his father, Lord Eddard, who was armed with the Starks' ancestral Valyrian steel greatsword Ice. His faithful companion Grey Wind was sinking his fangs into the bones of any wight who came close to his master. "Still… an undead dragon? Just the thought chills my blood."

"Understandable," Gregor commented, sawing yet another wight in half with Summit, "Truthfully, I would not have believed it myself, had Mollander and Lady Melisandre not told me."

Neither would we, my love, if you had not told us. But seeing as this information was supplied by the source, what choice do we have but to trust in it? As Dacey continued attacking the undead foes on the ground, she found her mind drifting towards the source.

So far, the source had proven to be reliable every time it had been employed. Recently, however, Dacey had come to realize something critical. At the end of the day, the source itself was only as trustworthy as the individuals who possessed it. After all, there was a distinct possibility that the source holders were misinterpreting their knowledge, concealing truths, or giving out false information altogether. There was even a small yet irrefutable likelihood that they would use the source for malevolent intentions.

Not long ago, it was discovered that the Starks' stableboy possessed the source. He had gone to great lengths to keep his own source hidden from the world. He had fooled everyone into believing he was a lackwit for twenty years, he had turned against the noble family he had sworn to serve, and he had even attempted to use his source to assure victory for the Army of the Dead. He may as well have declared himself the enemy of all humanity.

Thankfully, Hodor was no longer any threat to anyone. Bran Stark and the direwolves had neutralized and captured him. Now, he was confined to the darkest, most secure cell in the Reproach Tower, where he was kept under heavy guard.

Dacey felt as though Gregor was still being much too lenient. She and the secret council had suggested that he simply take Hodor's head instead. The Mountain had confessed to them that he was not entirely opposed to the idea. However, he claimed he was not ready to kill Hodor just yet. He argued that the stableboy was still of use to them, as Hodor apparently had the most powerful source to date. Even now, Gregor was holding out hope that he, Lady Melisandre, and Mollander could somehow coerce Hodor into disclosing his source. Maybe he would even reveal a way to end the Night's King for good.

So much for that belief. Since Hodor still has not spoken a word of his source, I suspect he'll never talk.

Despite all this, Hodor was not their greatest problem, even as far as the source was concerned. According to Bran, there was still one more person with the source at large. This person was already responsible for several fiascos, including the collapse of the Wall.

Currently, this person's identity was a mystery. As luck would have it, Gregor, Lady Melisandre, and Mollander had already managed to narrow the list of suspects down to a mere eighteen people. They had also found some very particular criteria which linked all the suspects. Whoever the last person with the source was, it had to be someone who was male, someone who was at least eight and forty years old, someone whose mother had suffered a miscarriage the year before his birth, and someone who fought in Greyjoy's Rebellion, specifically the Sea Battle off the coast of Fair Isle.

Only three of those eighteen suspects – Lord Jon Arryn, Lord Hoster Tully, and the High Sparrow – were south of the Neck at this time. Yet one's comatose, one's been bedridden for over a year, and one's lived most his life in a sept. Thus, it is unlikely that any of them is the guilty party.

The remaining fifteen suspects were now at Moat Cailin. Alas, Gregor, Mollander, and Melisandre were keeping very quiet about their identities. Even I still don't know who they are. Some women may have resented their husbands for keeping secrets from them, but Dacey was not such a woman. She had never been invasive of Gregor's privacy. She had always been a dutiful wife and respected it instead. There are some things I am better off not knowing. Aside from that, Gregor and the other two source holders had good reasons for not revealing the suspects' names. They claimed they did not wish to sow distrust amongst their own ranks, and they did not want to risk ostracizing the men who were innocent.

Whoever he is, we'll find him, Dacey reassured herself. No criminal in the realm can ever evade the Legion without Banners. Not even one who's been blessed with the source.

"In addition to that," Gregor remarked, swinging Summit again and beheading another White Walker, "It would be a bad idea to overuse the dragons' ability to breathe fire. Whatever gives them that ability, we cannot simply assume they have an inexhaustible supply of it. They may need time to replenish it."

"Well, it never hurts to be cautious, Father," Rickard conceded, impaling a wight through the neck with his obsidian sword.

"The less fire, the better, if you ask me," Sandor mumbled sullenly, striking down a White Walker with Hound's Fang. It had been eleven years since the Hound faced Euron Greyjoy in single combat at Fair Isle. He had emerged victorious from that duel, but not unscathed. Even now, he had not gotten over his fear of fire. Who would have thought the bane of the Others would be my brother-by-law's, too?

The entire time Dacey Clegane was having her earlier reverie, she and her allies had been continuously obliterating the foes on the ground. Shortly after her reverie ended, all one hundred thousand undead enemies had perished. Not one minute later, the second wall of fire dissipated. Time for the next wave.

"Sellswords, withdraw!" Gregor bellowed, "Dothraki, engage!"

The sellswords promptly made their way back to the White Knife and the Barrowlands. As soon as they left the vicinity, the Dothraki returned to it. Once the horselords separated yet another hundred thousand wights and White Walkers, the Targaryens and their dragons put up another wall of fire between them and the rest of the undead horde. Lastly, Gregor ordered the vanguard to charge forward once more, and they overtook the grounded enemy.

They repeated this pattern many more times that day. The Dothraki and the sellswords took turns approaching from the east and the west, the Targaryens established a wall of fire to the north, and the vanguard closed in from the south. Roughly one hundred thousand of the Night's King's soldiers fell every time, whereas the living side's fatalities were always in the low hundreds.

They're not so fearsome in smaller groups, Dacey noted. If we manage to keep our casualties to a minimum and remain orderly, we may actually have a chance of winning this battle. Dacey felt herself a fool for doubting the validity of Gregor's plan. I should know by now that the only plans he ever uses are those which he is confident will succeed.

However, the twenty-first or twenty-second time they went through this routine, something happened. Something absolutely unexpected and absolutely dreadful.

Dacey and her companions were nearly finished with the latest hundred thousand wights and White Walkers they had trapped, when the ground suddenly began to tremble. It was accompanied by a loud trumpeting sound. Dacey gave the tremor and the noise a bit of her attention, and both appeared to be coming from the northeast and the northwest. What could that be?

By this point, all throughout the battle, the dragons had only appeared to put up the walls of fire. Gregor had given the Targaryens explicit orders only to expose themselves whenever a new wall needed to be put up or whenever there was an emergency.

Just then, Ygrenyon emerged from the clouds to the north, and he flew close to the battlefield. He hovered above the piece of land where the Cleganes were gathered. Jon was leaning back with his eyes wide open, which indicated that he was presently warging into his dragon's mind. As Rhaenys held her half-brother by the shoulders, she frantically called down "Another wave of undead is coming! This one is worse than any before it!"

"What do you mean?" Gregor asked in bewilderment, "What's going on, Rhae?"

"Mammoths, my lord!" the eldest Targaryen answered him, "The Night's King is sending mammoths your way!"

At first, Gregor could only stare at the dragon princess in stunned silence. Then he said so quietly that only Dacey and Rhaenys could hear him "Are you certain?"

For our sakes, I pray she is mistaken. Alas, the trumpeting sound was getting louder, and the tremor was getting stronger. Both were coming progressively closer. Whatever's coming this way, it must be big.

"I am, my lord," was all Rhaenys said in response. She was trying to sound calm, but the desperation and panic in her voice was very much evident.

Despite that, Gregor did not lose his composure. He just calmly asked "How close are they?"

"They cannot be more than three miles away," Rhaenys informed him, "And they seem to be gaining speed. I do not know how long it'll be before they are upon you, but you have minutes at most."

"Can't you just use another wall of fire to halt their advance?" Dacey proposed.

"Dany and Egg already tried that, my lady," Rhaenys disclosed, "But the wall came to less than half the mammoths' height. They just charged right through the flames. Almost all of them emerged unharmed. Only a few succumbed to the fires, and those were the smallest ones in the entire herd."

"Did you try burning the mammoths themselves?" Sandor suggested.

"We did, my lord," Rhaenys answered the Hound, "Unfortunately, that is not as simple as we thought. There's hundreds of them, and despite their size, they're inexplicably fast. They are also being guarded by a group of giants. Whenever we fly too close to the mammoths, the giants try to knock us out of the skies."

"Well, we have to do something," Obara proclaimed.

"Indeed," Lord Eddard said softly. He looked to the tallest living person there and asked him "What say you, Gregor?"

"We must withdraw," Gregor promptly announced.

"You are certain?" the wolf lord said inquiringly. He sounded as though he already knew the answer.

Gregor solemnly nodded his head and stated, "We may be ahorse, but our ranks couldn't possibly withstand a stampede of that magnitude."

"Very well," Ned Stark declared, "If you say we must retreat, then we shall retreat."

Unsurprisingly, no one protested this decision. We all came out here prepared to die, but I'm certain most of us would prefer not to die by collision. Or worse yet, by flattening.

Gregor then gazed upward and called out "Rhaenys, I want you and your brothers and aunt to do everything you can to stall the mammoths! We'll need every second of time you can buy us!"

"It will be done, my lord!" Rhaenys acknowledged. Ygrenyon then ascended back into the air, and he flew off to the North.

Gregor then brought himself to the very center of the living forces, and he shouted "Fall back! Everyone, get back to the moat!"

"You heard him!" Dacey exclaimed, sheathing Bearswrath so she could free one hand for her horse's reins, "Fall back! Now!"

Sandor and several others added their own voices to those of the Lord and Lady of Moat Cailin. They all gave the order to retreat. All the while, the ground was shaking more violently, and the trumpeting noises became more boisterous. They're getting closer.

By now, the most recent wall of fire to the north had burnt out. As such, there were no obstructions between the Army of the Dead and the army of the living. The northernmost troops of the latter company were quickly overpowered.

Fortunately, the majority still managed to escape from the clutches of the wights and the White Walkers. But they were not out of danger just yet.

When Dacey began galloping south towards Moat Cailin with everyone else, she could just barely make out the outlines of the stampeding mammoths in the distance. Every now and then, she glimpsed over in their general direction out of the corner of her eye. The space between them got increasingly smaller every time she looked.

She could also see the dragons flying over the herd. The Targaryens were still trying to set the lead mammoths afire. They managed to bring down a handful, but not enough to make much of a difference.

When the riders were halfway back to their destination, the mammoths were upon them. Gregor shouted "Disperse! Quickly!"

At that, everyone broke their ranks, and they all rode in their own directions at their own paces. This made them much harder to hit, but the mammoths were still far too big for all of them to evade.

"Oh, fuck me," Sandor murmured bluntly. Just what I was thinking.

The undead beasts tore through the disorganized column. They trod over Dothraki, Essosi, and Westerosi alike. Scores were flung off their mounts. Scores more were crushed underfoot. Some were even thrown from their saddles by their spooked horses.

One mammoth came as close as within ten feet of Dacey. It trampled several of her fellow Northmen, including her friend Galbart Glover. A few seconds later, another mammoth passed her on the other side. This one took out even more people; one of whom was Dale Seaworth, Allard's older brother. Thirty or so feet away, Dacey saw yet another mammoth slaughter Ser Hosteen Frey and a number of his house's retainers. This is no longer a battle. It's godsdamn massacre.

"Mother, look out!" she heard a voice exclaim. She recognized it as Rickard's. In response, she cautiously gazed over her shoulder, and her eyes widened in shock. A mammoth larger than any she had seen so far was charging right at her.

Rickard's warning came a little too late for Dacey herself to do anything about it. By the time she decided whether she would veer her horse to the left or to the right, the mammoth would have already closed the gap between it and her.

For the briefest of moments, she honestly believed she was done for.

Then, all of a sudden, Gregor rode between his wife and the massive mammoth. He gripped Summit with both hands, raised it over his head, and swung it with all his strength. He sliced clean through the mammoth's gargantuan trunk and throat. The effect was almost immediate; the undead monstrosity ceased its charge, let out an anguished shriek, and collapsed onto its side.

Without either of them slowing their horses down even a little, Gregor turned to Dacey and asked her anxiously "Are you alright?"

"I am fine," she assured her husband, smiling at him. And I fucking love you.

By now, they were almost inside the perimeter of Moat Cailin. Once they got there, they would be safe. We're nearly there. Just a couple hundred more feet.

Right then, another mammoth broke through the crowd. This one's victims flew through the air and landed on the southern side of the edge of the moat's perimeter. Most of them were dead upon impact. The rest just barely managed to survive the fall. Hopefully, they'll be the last casualties of the day.

Once everyone was inside the perimeter, Gregor shouted "Thoros, light it up!"

All this time, the red priest had been standing on the Kingsroad, just inside the moat's perimeter. He held a lit torch in his hand. When he heard Gregor's order, he nodded his head and shouted. "As you command, my lord!"

He then tossed the torch forward. The instant it touched the ground, there was an explosion, and another wall of fire roared into existence. This one was much larger and more intense than any of the ones the dragons had made. It's not quite as hot, though. I guess it's true what they say; nothing's hotter than dragon fire.

Sometime while Dacey was in Essos, Gregor had sent a team of Legionnaires led by Beric Dondarrion north of the Wall to reinforce the Night's Watch and the Free Folk at the Fist of the First Men. To better their chances, he had given them nineteen kegs of black powder, which was their entire stash of the substance. Not that it ultimately did them much good.

Only thirteen kegs had actually been used at the Fist. Thoros of Myr was the sole Legionnaire to survive that ill-fated battle, and he had managed to bring the remaining six kegs of black powder back south with him. Today, they were finally being used.

Earlier that morning, Gregor had taken those six kegs, and he had distributed their contents across a hundred barrels that had been filled with a compound composed primarily of oil and pitch. The resulting mixture was so flammable that a lone spark would have been enough to destroy the Red Keep's portcullis. But, of course, destruction is not what he had in mind.

After bringing the mixture together, Gregor had then ordered his retainers to pour that mixture onto the ground along the moat's northern perimeter. It had been spread from the Bite in the east all the way to the Saltspear in the west. By now, it must have seeped into the ground, soaking the grass beneath the snow. Gregor had done this as a precaution, in the event that they were forced to make a hasty retreat. Thank the gods for Gregor's foresight.

A few of the undead mammoths were still reckless enough to charge through this new, enormous wall of fire. The ones who did burst into flames almost immediately. In effect, they squealed in agony, slowed down, and dropped onto their sides or backs. None of the other mammoths dared to cross over it after that.

Dacey smiled. As long as that wall burns, nothing – living or dead – will pass through it. That was just what Gregor had intended.

Many of her allies began cheering again when they saw that the Army of the Dead was stuck on the other side of the wall of fire. Some of our friends may be stranded out there, as well. But at least more than half of us made it back safely.

None of the Cleganes partook in the cheering. They knew better than to celebrate prematurely.

"Settle down, all of you!" Gregor proclaimed. After everyone quieted down, he announced "It is still much too early to rejoice. That wall of fire will not last forever. I estimate it will only last twelve hours."

The battle had begun in the middle of the night. By now, it was near sunrise of the following day. In other words, the wall of fire would last until the late afternoon or the early evening.

"We should use this precious time to treat our wounds, recover our strength, and reinforce our defenses," Gregor declared, looking around at the survivors, "For the next time we face the Army of the Dead, we could be fighting them on the grounds of the moat, or even within the moat itself. You all fought well today, but the battle is not over yet."

No, it has only just begun.

Gregor continued gazing around the area, and he stated "Anyone who suffered any sort of injury out there, have it treated as soon as possible. I will not have any of you dying of infection or blood loss."

Yes, our numbers are already few enough as they are, Dacey thought in amusement.

"That is all for now," Gregor pronounced, "I will leave you with one more word of caution. Though we may have up to twelve hours' respite, the battle could restart at any time. So, be prepared for that possibility. The moment the Others catch us unawares, we are finished."

Oh, I have no intention of relaxing until either we've won or I'm dead.

Everyone then went their own ways. Dacey stayed with her husband and son. As they dismounted, the dragons descended to the ground beside them. Their riders did not climb off just yet.

"Good work out there," Gregor told the Targaryens approvingly.

"Thank you, my lord," Jon said appreciatively. He was no longer warging into Ygrenyon. Rhaenys still had her hands on his shoulders, though. Rather protective of her brother, isn't she? "Is there anything more you require of us?"

"Not at present," the Mountain replied, "However, sometime later, I would like you to take the dragons back out there and burn more of those undead mammoths. If possible, try to burn all of them. The giants, too. They're perhaps our second greatest menace after the Night's King himself."

"You can count on us, my lord," Aegon assured Gregor.

"It shall be done, my lord," Daenerys conceded. Jon and Rhaenys simply nodded in acknowledgment. Let us hope they succeed. The human and animal wights are bothersome enough. At least with the mammoths and giants out of the way, our odds of victory are much more favorable.

The Targaryens then climbed off their dragons. They were about to head back to the moat. Before they could take more than a few steps, however, Dacey felt someone tug on her sleeve.

She turned around and came face-to-face with one of her husband's oldest vassals, Rafford. One thing Dacey knew about Raff the Sweetling; he was almost always smiling, even in the direst of circumstances. So, when she saw the nervous expression currently across his countenance, she could be forgiven for feeling a little perturbed herself.

"Milady, you best come with me," Raff told her uneasily.

"What's wrong, Raff?" she asked, trying to sound collected.

"It's your lady mother," Rafford revealed, "She's gravely wounded."

At first, Dacey was flabbergasted. Then she composed herself and demanded "Take me to her at once."

Rafford nodded and guided her to a patch of land near the wall of fire. Without hesitating, Gregor and Rickard accompanied her there. Dacey quickly realized he was leading them to the place where the last casualties had fallen. Those were the ones who had been flung several yards into the air.

When they got there, Dacey discovered that Lady Maege Mormont was indeed one of the people who had been knocked off their horses by that last mammoth. To her vast relief, however, her mother was still alive. Dacey's cousin, Jorah, and his wife, Nymeria, were giving her a helping hand.

"Mother!" Dacey yelled in alarm, rushing over to her. Initially, Mother seemed unresponsive. She asked Jorah and Nymeria "How is she?"

"She suffered a blow to the head when she fell," Nymeria revealed. Sure enough, Mother's temple was bleeding profusely. "She appears to have broken a few ribs, as well."

"She needs a maester immediately," Jorah declared, "Otherwise, she could die from blood loss."

"Nonsense, Jorah," Mother interjected abruptly, making Nymeria jump a bit. She looked up, grinned, and uttered in her usual husky yet good-natured tone, "It would take much more than some huge, hairy, four-legged bastard to get the better of this bear."

Dacey could not help but laugh. "I think she'll be just fine, Jorah," she assured her cousin, "But go ahead and take her to the maesters. I'll check in on her later."

"Alright then, Dacey," Jorah avowed. He and his wife then headed south towards the moat.

While Mother was being led away, Gregor turned his attention to where the last mammoth's other victims were gathered. Several men were looking through the bodies. Gregor told them "Take the injured inside. If there's a chance they can be saved, we shall not squander it. Toss the dead into the wall of fire. I'll not have any wights this close to the moat before the wall burns out."

The men saluted the Mountain, and they went to execute his orders.

Not long after that, Dacey, Gregor, Rickard, and the four Targaryens headed back to Moat Cailin. Eliaxes, Draegar, and Ygrenyon stayed close to their masters and mistresses. Ghost came along, as well. He walked between Jon and Daenerys. Dany smiled down at her nephew's furry companion and scratched him behind his ears. A gesture which the albino direwolf quite enjoyed. If she does that for Ghost, I can only imagine what she does for his master behind closed doors. Dacey chuckled at the thought, though she would never dare to say it aloud.

"I'm glad to see your spirits have not been dampened, Mother," Rickard commented, giving her a gentle smile. "I'm sure Grandmother Maege will be alright."

Dacey smiled back at her firstborn, and she wrapped her arm around his shoulders and held him close to show her gratitude for his kind words. She told him "I am grateful for your confidence, sweetling. I happen to share it. Your grandmother is a tough one, after all."

"No arguing with that," Gregor contended humorously, "She's the only woman who's ever made me sweat. Other than you, of course."

Of course, Dacey thought, giggling a little. Even in the dead of winter, the bedchamber at the top of the Lord's Tower can get plenty hot.

Dacey truly was reasonably certain that her lady mother would survive her injuries. At the very least, she should live to see the conclusion of this battle. Still, they had had a close call. Hopefully, we won't have any more of those for a while.

About twenty seconds after she had that very thought, she and the others reached the moat's concrete wall. Once they passed through it, they encountered Bran Stark. Right after that, they were then accosted by the Tickler. He seemed out of breath. Then again, so did everyone who just came from the battlefield. However, she did not recall seeing this man on the field of battle. He's better suited for a torture chamber, anyway.

"Milord, are you busy right now?" the interrogator asked.

What kind of question is that? He's the Lord of Moat Cailin, the commanding officer of the Legion without Banners, and the Master of Order. As such, he is always busy. Based on the expression upon Gregor's face, he was considering giving a similar answer. But in the end, all he said was "Not at the moment. Why do you ask?"

"I must request that you accompany me to the Reproach Tower at once," the Tickler told his lord, "Less than an hour ago, Lady Melisandre, Ser Mollander, and I went there to conduct our daily interrogation on Hodor."

"And how did that go?" Gregor enquired.

"Put simply… it didn't," the Tickler responded.

Gregor raised an eyebrow in bewilderment. "Explain."

"When we got there, we found him dead," the Tickler said straightforwardly.

Gregor froze at that. As did Dacey and everyone else within earshot, including Bran. Dead? Did he just say the person with the most powerful source is dead? After a few seconds of unpleasant silence, Gregor softly muttered "What?"

"He's dead, milord," the Tickler repeated, "His guards are dead, too. Apparently, there was a fire in the cell block. But it was no accident. After we got the fire under control, I took a closer look at the bodies. All of them had been stabbed in the head. Except Hodor. His head was actually sliced open."

Gregor swore under his breath. "How could this have happened?"

"We don't know, milord," the Tickler confessed, "We were hoping you or Lord Bran might be able to reveal more."

"Now, there's a thought," Gregor thought aloud. He turned to the youngest person in the moat, and he queried "Bran, could you use your third eye to search for the murderer?"

"I'll certainly try, my lord," the wolf boy answered him, "But as you know, whenever the source holders are involved, there is only so much I can see. Nevertheless, I will still try."

"That is all I ask," Gregor assured him.

Bran leaned back in his saddle once again. This time when he opened his third eye, he kept it open for a full five minutes. After that, he sat back up and turned back to Gregor. He did not seem very pleased. He revealed in a somewhat morose tone "I'm afraid I cannot see a thing, my lord."

"What do you mean?" Gregor asked.

"It is as though one moment, Hodor is sitting in his cell under heavy guard," Bran elaborated, "The very next moment… he and all his guards are dead, and a fire has started out of nowhere."

"Could you see anyone enter or exit the Reproach Tower?" Dacey said inquiringly.

"No one, my lady," Bran glumly admitted, "The only people I saw going in or out of the building were the Tickler, Ser Mollander, Lady Melisandre, and a number of your household guards. Several of whom only went in."

"Then who could have been responsible?" Aegon wondered.

"I think I know," Gregor muttered grimly, folding his arms, "There's only one person who could have killed Hodor and his guards and escape everyone's notice, including that of the Three-Eyed Raven."

"Who might that be, my lord?" Dany enquired.

"Isn't it obvious?" Gregor asked rhetorically.

It may not have been so obvious to everyone else, but at the very least, it was obvious to Dacey. She knew precisely where her husband was going with this argument. So, it would seem the final person with the source is here, after all.