Jon stares as they arrive—not because the telling of the winds but the foreboding rising in his chest as the day again wanes and they are all left soon to darkness. From over the hills to the east, the final partings of the sun shine lastingly, but Jon feels himself praying for the first time in many years that a miracle would occur...that they could last a day longer.
A shadow overcomes that gaze to the east as another Northerner steps up beside him, and Jon's slightly grateful that he cannot watch the horizon like a clock. Jorah bears the brunt truth, "We'll all freeze soon. And so will the water."
"Gabrielle can crack it again," Jon reminds him, and maybe that's the fact alone that keeps him waiting patiently.
"Unless the Night King comes," Jorah says, and Jon turns to him with something akin to deep worry for not realizing the Night King would be more powerful than Gabrielle—that they stand no chance once he comes upon that horizon. His eyes fall shut, but apparently Jorah is not finished, asking, "When you killed the White Walker, almost all the dead that followed it fell. Why?"
"Maybe he was the one who turned them."
"We can go for the Walkers," Jorah perceives, having never seen the Walkers in battle and Jon wants to call him daft, "Maybe we'll stand a chance."
"No," Jon shakes his head heavily as Beric appears next to Jorah with a listening ear to Jon's words. "We need to take that thing back with us. There's a raven flying for Dragonstone now. Daenerys is our only chance."
"No. There's another," Beric replies, pointing to the last thing Jon wants to see—the maker of the whole disastrous plot they now encompass as the Night King appears over that hill with a blank facade that marks the ignorance he holds for murder. But Beric believes in the folly, "Kill him. He turned them all."
Gabrielle turns up at Jon's side before he can warn her otherwise, paying no glance at their lot of human company but staring with stiff expression at the Night King from afar as he locks eyes with Jon. His heart wavers and he momentarily wonders why, but it gets the best of him as he tries to draw the Night King's eyes anywhere other than Gabrielle—by returning to Beric, "You don't understand."
"The Lord brought you back. He brought me back. No one else. Just us, and his kith," Beric responds, looking over to Gabrielle whose eyes reflect thought as she stares at the army before them. "Did he do this just to watch us freeze to death?"
Gabrielle shakes her head at the question silently meant for her, knowing better than to suppose that an intelligent and powerful creature would silently watch them into death. He wants to understand... but what? Human interaction? Their preparation? But it comes to her then, and she speaks it aloud, "He wants to see how we play our southern games—he wants to see how we will fight our imminent deaths."
None of them turn to her, but their eyes lay locked on the Night King whose entire facade looks posed to understand them from this far away—and maybe he can. But Jon does not believe this to be so—for the other King to possess such power as super hearing and sight. If he did, he'd see Gabrielle's eyes—and Jon is certain that would change the tide of their situation.
"Careful Beric, you lost your priest," the Hound sounds from behind the line of four, and his eyes glare in a taunt of Northern bravery. "This is your last life."
But Beric is not one to be stooped by such a thing and even without his friend and priest, his heart still burns for the Lord of Light, "I've been waiting for the end for a long time. Maybe the Lord brought me here to find it."
"Every lord I've ever met's been a cunt," Sandor shakes his head. "Don't see why the Lord of Light should be any different." But Gabrielle wonders if the 'Lord' brought them here because he's a cunt.
/////////////////////////////////////////////
Daenerys watches him apathetically—yet furiously—as Tyrion begs her from the ground, Drogon calling to his brothers and foretelling a battle to come and a thousand miles to travel. But Tyrion prevails over the animalistic cries, "If you die, we're all lost. Everyone, everything."
"Gabrielle Baelish is the only one capable of destroying them, and she is there," Dany shouts in the most intense reminder he's received from her—and he understands the consequences, but what if this battle is already lost and Daenerys is flying to her death? What if they lose both the child of Walkers and Dragon Queen in a fatal blow? They're done. But she cannot hear him over the insistence of her own words, "If I want Seven Kingdoms, I must go. I'm not doing nothing again."
She heels the scale over Drogon's neck and Tyrion watches as the beast charges away into flight, followed soon after by the two brothers who will soon be reduced to one.
/////////////////////////////////////////////
It's become a bit of a game of hide-and-go seek for the enemies—a game of such dangerous consequences Jon wants to yell at her childishness but that would ruin their entire front. And really, she was doing it with the best intentions. For while the ice was reforming quickly upon the return of the Night King to that hill, Gabrielle had to ensure their safety for another long night—or so it seemed. But how does one do so while hiding their identity?
She'd found a way to hide between the masses of the men while attempting to break the ice away from their small island until Dany's arrival. It had taken a few hours—a few hours in which she held her breath...but the Night King had finally realized the cause of the concern—and from the top of the hill, he had encroached upon the very edge to peer upon the collection of less than a dozen men, all which may be responsible. It was inevitable that he'd find out, but there was a freeing feeling of knowing that the Night King understood but could not spot her difference. And perhaps she took it a bit too far by taunting him with the sharp icicles that now befitted the shore. But...no, Jon was right about that.
Yet even now Gabrielle feels herself losing her grasp on her abilities, losing the ability to keep the water melted and storms at bay as the hours tick by. And a nervous energy had overcome them once the others realized as well, most potently in Sandor Clegane who'd taken to throwing rocks at the enemy as the ice grew thicker around them—imperceptibly in the dark.
"Dumb cunt," Sandor hisses as one of the wights fails to fall at the loss of his jaw from one of those rocks. Letting anger overcome him, he throws another, just a bit too short as it skitters across the surface—and each tick of stone on the ice restarts their hearts in fearful anticipation. They slowly stand and no pains are felt like a fire smoldering beneath them, as the wight steps forward—once and then twice—and proves it thick enough to prevail. The wight meets eyes with the Hound and he barks, "Oh fuck."
She unsheathes her sword and clambers into a circle with the others as more wights pass onto the ice with increasing frenzy and her growing irritation, "Damn it, Sandor."
Gabrielle takes out the first one with just one swing, and then pauses to wait for the next—and yet she knows it shall become an unmovable force as the moments count by. The next is nearly as easy—and the third as well, but closer in proximity as more follow at greater speed. And before she can so much as breathe between swings, Gabrielle is overcome with this enemy and she cannot find the others amid the mass of bone and death, with screams ricketing her ears and the shouts of Jon over all, "Fall back! Fall back!"
She kicks the wight above her before following after it in due pursuit, doing away with its head and throwing her sword back to hit another as she climbs the small island towards the top. But seen to her, she notices the wildling pulled under near her, jumping from the higher ground and sending a shockwave through the ground that sends the wight away from Tormund. Grabbing the man under his shoulders, she helps him lumber to his feet as the wights return to their steps and Jon pulls Gabrielle to the top by tugging at her shirt, stabbing the one lingering behind Jon as a wildling falls into the pit of wights below...and promptly becomes one himself.
They mustn't be touched to be turned. They must be—Her mind blanks and ears silence as her eyes close heavily and a thousand thoughts stream through her mind at the sudden flow of magic and remembrance into her veins—and those thousand thoughts only prove a singular answer to the struggles they now face. And her body drops to the ground, not to press her fingers into the blood-littered snow or to place a seismic surge straight into the waves of wights—but to encroach upon death itself as she doesn't tug at the string in the living wights whom are protected by the invisible magic of the Night King, but to tie the string that her sword cut with each blow—to tie the twice-dead back to life.
And suddenly, Jon turns back and there is no enemy to face him—but a hundred wights with their backs turned to him and fighting down the enemy the Night King reigns. Whipping around to the top ledge overlooking the masses, he sees the glow of Gabrielle's eyes as she raises one creature after the next in ever increasing numbers as the bad are replaced with the better—and he's never felt such hope as this.
The wights raised by Gabrielle Baelish circle out from the island, laying blows and providing blocks—forward and back—like the beating of her heart. And for the few that make it through, a deadly blow is paid and another wight is risen as the company of Northerners, Southerners, and outsiders gaze in awe of the woman before them and hear little else but the tolling of history—the whistling of winds—and the wings of dragons.
Drogon screeches above their heads, and suddenly the world brightens with hope and dragonfire as dangerous lungs yield liters of death upon the melting seas of Northern ice—first Drogon and then Viserion. Gabrielle's eyes fade as her mind refocuses at the lesser expression of her power—the wights of herself and the Night King burning high as individual torches to light up the dusk sky—snuffed out as the icy water swallows them whole. Another vast ray of fire becomes their faces as Drogon comes to land upon the small island, and the tilting of his head reveals a horrified Daenerys Targaryen. Tugging Ned's arm, Gabrielle jumps off the higher ledge and towards the awaiting vessel of their travel, in quick step up to the offered arm of Daenerys—but stopping at the perception of Jon nearby, still fighting.
She brushes around the others while Ned yells after her, paying him no mind as she jumps into the frey nearest Jon. Attempting to pull his attention back to her, she slashes through the wight between them and dodges beneath a makeshift club before reaching out to grab him on his shoulder, their eyes just meeting when they hear the screech. Panicking, Gabrielle's eye shoot skyward with a hope that it's a good sound—please do not pain us more. And yet, how else could one describing the dying of a dragon but in terms of painful suffering? Her lips gape open and her heart tightens in a firm grasp as Viserion tumbles from the sky and blood sprays the land red—endless and Gabrielle just wants it to stop as her heart breaks and tears sting against her lids.
And eventually he does, the dragon falling into a heap upon the half frozen ice that sends all but herself to the floor—and Viserion begins to sink into the depths of cold ice as his blank eye stares at Gabrielle. But like a punch in the gut, she's driven to extreme ends and she knows she can raise the dead—as her feet come out from beneath her and she's sprinting towards the dragon as Jon screams and Dany cries and the world becomes still as the voices of humans scream in her ears—and she hears nothing of warning before he's upon her.
A sword falls a moment too slow in a blur of snow and ice that has her reeling around to the blue eyes of the Night King as he dislodges the ice blade from the ice beneath them, and she grasps for the only weapons she has left—the dagger. Pulling it from the waist of her trousers, she falls back into an arch as the monster swings the sword intentionally at hip level and just barely manages to miss her as she twists around and throws the Night King back into the wights nearest the gaping scene. But returning with ever increasing fury, the monster rises to his feet and his head tilts, meeting blue with blue and ensuring an ugly battle.
Jon wants to run to her—wants to rip her from the grasp of battle as the two become a flurry of flying arms and armor distinguished only by her hair, their blue eyes, and the black of the dragonglass. But behind them—dear god—he sees what could only ensure such imminent deaths for them all, and he begins shouting at Daenerys before he even fully grasps that another Walker's prepared to kill Drogon nearby: "Go! Go now!"
Dany hesitates at the pleas of a King and the mighty fight of a woman who's risked her life for the potential to save Viserion. And by gods does she want to stay, to ensure Viserion returns to her, lives by her, but she sees the panic in Jon's eyes and the cause of the tragedy befalling them: the Walker with the spear. And it takes no less than a threat to her other child to duck her head and turn her back to the battle as Drogon lunges off the ground and into the skies as another spear is released...and Drogon shifts to dodge it. Behind her, she hears the screams of the lasting company as bodies are thrown haphazardly in the wailing of the two dragons, before they part over the nearest hills and return to civilization—a civilization that has yet to see and taste the true Winter that is death.
Jon lets himself breathe easier but with an encroaching panic as they're left by the only possible salvation and another swarm of walkers befalls him and he's drawn from keeping Gabrielle's back to simply keeping his life. His muscles burn and each swing of the sword almost threatens not being able to swing again as he's twisted into the depths of them, pulled and tugged and thrown over bodies that cannot belong to him.
But all that—all the senses that befall men and make perceptions reality—it's really nothing to the pain he hears in that scream, the pain he feels in his heart—and Jon spins around as the ice sword is pulled from her chest and she stumbles to the ground amid the cracking of ice and snow and the screech of the wights as the fire rider gallops into their ranks. Rushing—sprinting—Jon makes for her and sends blows without a shred of pain or misery at the sheer silence that has become Gabrielle in unconsciousness and as the Night King is driven back by the man upon a horse and the flaming mace that seems to scare them all.
Roughly trying to push past the man who's suddenly holding him back, Jon pays no mind to the voice before he even can touch her—and the man's ears seem far truer than his own as he releases Jon to grab the woman to him, to pull her into his arms amid the sordid sight of bear-bone injuries he does not wish to see upon her. But turned from understanding her chances of life, the hand is upon his shoulder while the other unwraps the scarf from around the man's face—and Jon wants to think this is all very convenient and ridiculous that his uncle just now appears.
But he cannot speak and she feels heavier in his arms even as Benjen grabs her, shoves Jon onto the horse and then hands Gabrielle to him, limp and almost lifeless by the pallor of her skin and seeping of her joints. Jon's ears ring as he stares, and his heart races at the encroaching wights, upon that horse who is not that big—but can hold more.
"Come with me," Jon calls to Benjen—but Stark men show no self-interest such as this, even as Jon moves to allow Benjen to mount, and the man turns on his heel to hit the horse on the rear.
"There's no time. Go!" The horse whinnies before galloping off in the direction of the pass—the pass to Eastwatch, and Jon does not let his eyes waver from his uncle until he sees him overcome by the masses of wights and promise of this horrible fate, and only then does he begin to hit Gabrielle's shattered chest and breath life into her lips as the cold seeps into his bones from the kindred borne within her.
/////////////////////////////////////////////
Dany's breath is haggard in the wind—as if the escape is still imminent and their safety is not reassured back at the fortress of Eastwatch by the Sea. But Dany knows that even the Wall could not hold the Army back—could not hold back the army that killed a dragon. And her heart aches in fiery warmth not fitting of the ice blowing across and almost through her cheeks and wind whipping through her hair—a mess of tangled white within moments of stepping onto the top of this fortress.
But how could she leave, even as the frost begins to cling to her fingers and she loses feeling in all extremities? How could she leave when hope still exists in her heart: that her child still prevails on the other side of the Wall? And Dany does not know what truly drives her to this point of stubborn need to stay as Jorah begs at her back and she shakes her head mutely—surely Viserion, but Jon and Gabrielle too? The King in the North, and the woman who meant to save her child...
And so, when Dany sees the horse with two riders—one upright and the other slung in his lap—she cannot help the deep hatred that seeps into her heart...that she did not succeed in saving Viserion. And she knows it is horrible—and hates herself for it—as Gabrielle appears to be near if not joining death—a fate unlikely to have occurred if she did not race after the white-coloured drake.
But despite the self-loathing and moral compass she possesses, Daenerys Targaryen hates Gabrielle Baelish in that moment of weakness as she turns into the castle, grief only then taking her soul.
/////////////////////////////////////////////
The first thing she remembers is the cold which had finally touched her as the Night King moved a moment too fast for her inexperienced mind and laid a blow to the center of her chest—and then the glow of fire and screeching of wights—the jostling of a horse beneath her ribs—talking voices as colors flashed in rapid distinction beyond her eyelids—and then silence as the ship rocked beneath her back. But in the moment, she really remembers nothing more than her breathing and living reality as she's awoken to the sound of her own breath and warmth of the furs over her chest as her eyes gently flip open to the wood of the ceiling above her and a dwindling morning light from the window at her right.
Knowing the ship and her chambers as well as a need to understand, Gabrielle slowly acquaints her elbow on the bed before pressing herself up in a dull ache of her bones and hissing beneath her breath. And suddenly the light is extinguished by a coat of fur, and arms are wrapping around her waist as a homely chest helps her sit upright. She breathes heavily in his ear and lets her nose linger in the scent before prying away to look at the worried brown eyes of Jon Snow and a face cast in trauma.
"What happened?" she asks as the numb of moments ago is replaced with a layer of pain that makes her question how bad it truly was.
"The Night King stabbed you," Jon responds haggardly—and only then does she notice his dark circles—as he pulls the chair closer to her bed and takes a seat, eyes wavering down to her chest, "You should be dead."
Following his glance and noticing the pinnacle of her pain in the stretches of her abdomen, Gabrielle looks down at her bound chest and flinches back with the tightening of her stomach muscles at the horror her skin's come to possess—a mass array and almost mosaic of shattered blue and green ice that leaves no skin remaining, a permanent reminder of her identity. She tenses and the muscles follow as her heart begins to beat faster and lungs begin to heave upward—increasing in pace as the body proves to be her own at the sight of her own exertion.
Calm down, she breathes deep and tries not to flinch as her stomach rises and falls with the repeated phrase, over and over. Casting a glance at Jon, his sharp eyes are not on hers but on her barely covered abdomen at the sight he cannot quite grasp as real, survival that should not be possible. And though it hurts in the moment of weakness to see him regard her in such a way, she realizes the reason and embodies it at a deeper level—the feeling of that ice sword puncturing her skin and she remembers thinking that was the end.
But as a woman who's been proven to not truly embody the powers of man, she knows that such perceptions of hers cannot all be true, and she reasons with the perception of this life she's sustained and verbally relates, "Ice and fire can't kill me. Only the dragon-made products."
"We didn't know that," Jon resounds—and she supposes this is true as her blue eyes turn to his with an unguarded expression that foretells her consternation and confusion: we know now.
But Jon's eyes reveal more than she had wanted, a dilemma and confusion she did not want—where was the hopelessness and heartbreak? And though she sees those expressions buried in the brown of his eyes, she wonders how long has passed and what has happened in her absence. Aloud, she questions, "Are you mad at me?"
"Aye, you put yourself in danger to save me," Jon responds gruffly but his hand rises slowly and then certainly as he grabs her own palm and moves it between his own, warming her skin and making her flush. "I will not deny I needed the aid, but I could never wish for you to take your own life to save mine."
"You would have done the same," Gabrielle responds, and his eyes turn from confused to concerned—drawing away those fears she harbors as he nods slowly at the mention of his own character. She follows, "It's what we do for love—crazy and stupid thing, it is."
Jon lets himself crack a grin for his woman alone, and she smiles back softly just as the door opens behind her back to the anxious Dragon Queen—a Queen who's learned little from Gabrielle's sleep. She had hoped for shouting in the night, for nightmares to foretell the girl's true allegiance. But in the mere moment it takes the Mock Queen to realize, Daenerys sees the unmasked expression of Gabrielle—of the weak woman behind the facade, however firm her typical composure.
And yet, it is but a glance and Gabrielle soon turns to her with a look of shock—fake—at the woman's entrance. But moving to the edge of the bed, the woman does her best to stand with Jon Snow's help as they make their way to Dany and Gabrielle pulls the woman into her embrace—cold. In her ear, the Mock Queen offers her deep sadness that Dany does not need, "I'm so sorry."
"They were my children. The only I'll ever have," Dany responds, muffled in the woman's bare shoulder as the tension fails to fall between them and both attempt to reconcile the obvious distrust borne between them in Dany's part.
"We'll take measures to ensure the others are safe from harm," Gabrielle swears as she pulls back from the embrace but keeps her hands embedded on Dany's shoulders, "I promise he will not take another. Not while I live."
The Dragon Queen smiles as softly as she can manage as Gabrielle's arms drop from between them, shifting her weight back to move closer to her lover as Jon watches them both with a conflicted expression. But as Dany's eyes flash in a silent gesture to him and he stumbles to look at Gabrielle, the woman watches the two with ever narrowing eyes that sends chills up Dany's spine.
"I've decided to bend the knee," Jon admits as his brown eyes meet the unnatural blue, brightening as her eyebrows quirk in silent surprise at the change in stance—and she wonders why. "Mance Rayder killed thousands of his people by refusing to bend the knee for Stannis. I will not do the same to our people."
Gabrielle stares at him without emotion for a mere moment, but perhaps her eyes reveal more than what Dany sees from the vision of the woman's profile. And though the moment is short, it seems to last eternally before a smile quakes Gabrielle's face and she stares contentedly at Jon—as if proud.
Shivering at the sudden drop in temperature and sudden blaze in Jon's expression, Dany shifts in preparation to leave and imparts the news of their travels, "We shall arrive in White Harbor by tomorrow's end, at which point the Dornish will meet us. Before then," Dany's eyes shift to Gabrielle who turns to watch her properly— "we shall kill the wight so you may control it properly. It'll be safer that way."
"Of course, Your Grace," Gabrielle bows her head honestly and hides her flashing eyes from the Dragon Queen.
"Then I take my leave."
The two watch the outsider leave and listen quietly until her footsteps fade from between the wood and their ears, and only then do they turn to one another with confliction stemming in each expression. Releasing her hold on Jon's arm, Gabrielle limbers over to the nearby chair where a robe is waiting, throwing it over her shoulders and tightening the belt before moving back to glance at Jon.
"He knew who you were," Jon recognizes, but her eyebrows narrow in confusion at all the males that she knows, and thus he clarifies, "The Night King. He knows what and who you are."
"Yes, and that's why he attacked me alone," Gabrielle complies, grabbing Jon's horn of ale from the bedside table as she takes a seat on the bed and pours some down her throat. "I suppose he wanted me dead; I'm the only true danger to his conquest."
She says it so offhandedly—as if not knowing the Night King will go to the edges of this earth to kill her. Jon stares at her as she quickly finishes the ale meant to be split between them when she awoke, her eyes appearing guarded in a way he's not faced in some time—and he supposes it may be due to the negotiation he made with Dany while Gabrielle was still unconscious. But she doesn't know what he's done for her—how he never left this room, how he brushed her hair and cleaned her body, how he refused to leave her at Eastwatch when Daenerys insisted they travel alone.
And mayhaps he will someday tell her, but Jon believes that is the last thing Gabrielle needs on her mind right now—the division paramount between Mock and Dragon Queens. But it does not negate the need he feels pressing into his chest and begging him to move—to ensure and trust and believe in Gabrielle alone and for all eternity. And Jon Snow is weak for her, a coward in wolf fur, and he can believe that he would do this now—stepping forward and pulling her into his chest from upon that bed as her eyes revolve in surprise—and stare in shock—as he asks, "Marry me."
She almost hits him—for only Jon Snow would properly propose to his lover after discovering she is a White Walker and almost dying. And she is more than certain he can see her disbelief in that moment, for instead of staying firm with a look of deep conviction, he lets her see past his firm facade—from the weakness she is to him, and to the depths of his emotions that are often hidden behind a brooding facade. And who would she be to deny the love of her life this one wish—the one thing he has ever asked? And Gabrielle is weak in that moment and caring little for the other games at play as she lets her heart lead her mind and pull words from her lips, "After this is all over. When the Night King is destroyed and we are home, yes, I will marry you."
It's all worth it as his eyes crinkle in happiness and she loses herself to the blind depths of love that cannot overcome all power, despite what the tales may say.
/////////////////////////////////////////////
Later that day, Gabrielle finds refuge from her 'sick bed' on the deck of the Northern skooner, redressed in her blouse and trousers that wrap her from toes to fingers but still reveal the lines of mosaic ice that she doubts will ever disappear. And though the men stare in awe and wonder without truly knowing the cause, Gabrielle feels nothing different in her skin but its texture when she presses her fingers against it—cold. Taking her perch on the railing overlooking the fast seas, she lets her eyes trace the paths of the remaining dragons in the sky—silent for once as they certainly mourn their brother whose fate she fears more than anything.
And because she is so lost in the worry that Jon tried to ease away, it is only when he approaches her that she notices Ned Stark's company, the man looking no more content or worried than his typical stern expression. But all the same, she will always gladly accept his company if not for his great ability to listen when she aches, then for his ability to relax in silence like she so prefers.
And yet, today is not a day she wishes to continue on in silence—and it only takes a moment to realize as much before turning to him with the echoing of her rapid thoughts from above her eyes, "The storms and ice—I don't think I could control them well with my magic because of the Night King. He is more powerful than I am."
"I don't think so," the man quickly shakes his head as he watches the sails brush through the wind with great speed in help of Gabrielle's reawakening. But turning to meet her eyes, he prompts her to consider the cause of her downfall, "He has millenia more experience than you do."
"Are you saying I need to practice?"
Ned does not want to be the one to place this burden on her shoulders, to be the one to give her that fear—but Ned cannot trust Jon or Dany or Tyrion or Oberyn with this. Gabrielle needs to know that they are helpless without her—that their survival depends on her abilities, depends on her progress. And though her words of practice had been a taunt, she knows it needs to be taken without a grain of humour as he turns his stiff and worried grey eyes onto her and breathes life into the training she so needs, "Yes, you need to become the best before they march South. You need to be able to bring and defeat the greatest blizzards, topple towns with the size of your earthquakes, forge your surroundings into ice, and raise hundreds of wights at a time—all while still fighting. Without you, we would have died. Westeros is helpless without you, but first you must fit that role."
Gabrielle lets her eyes linger as the final words seep into her consciousness, recognizing the plea for her powers as she moves to look at something—anything—else than those grey irises. And he watches her all the while, ensuring that the words reach her inner strings that drive her decisions and make her plans—and proving to resound throughout her body as her eyes shift to reflect a strength and intent that maybe they can survive, her jaw rising in pursuit of the challenge, the lines on her neck glimmering to reveal the edges of a mosaic overlying her skin—strangely beautiful.
She watches purposefully as his eyebrows narrow, and promptly questions what he is surely considering, "The green?"
"Yes, I was just wondering. Where do you suppose it comes from?"
"I have limited ideas," Gabrielle responds and finally turns again to meet his eye without a hint of jokes that so often shakes her appearance, and serious intention permanent for his approval. "The White Walkers are the sons of Craster, meaning there are no women. How then do I exist?"
Ned wonders when she had connected this puzzle as he eyes her warily before turning instead to the question she proposes—assuming she is correct about Craster—as he remarks on anything he knows, "There might be women Walkers hidden away by the Night King. We cannot be sure."
"I suppose so," she huffs irritatedly. "I just find it strange that while the Walkers and Night King look like emaciated and frostbitten humans, I appear like this."
Ned does not follow her arms as they gesture to her body, knowing well what she means by her words—for in no way does she now resemble the Night King or his men. But all the same, he imparts valuable words that she could not have known, "You haven't always. When you were turning the wights, you looked like one of them—skeletal and all."
Her eyes widen and she looks down at herself as if waiting for the change to happen again, though Ned knows she is smarter than this—that she is hiding her thoughts behind the dropping of her eyes. And to the same extent where this shows a distrust of him, Ned is reminded instead of the trust she does have for his silence as she thinks aloud, "It must be some time of magic then."
"Not White Walker magic."
She shakes her head, "No. But that means they have or once had allies."
Ned stares worriedly at her as his eyes reflect thought, mirroring her own as they lapse into silence and consider the histories that never spoke of allies. So how may they understand if not for books? And Gabrielle just then realizes the only other words they have to recount such a time are not written, but spoken.
"Gabrielle," Jon calls from behind her, and the two members of this quiet company turn to Jon with a small flinch and expressions of surprise. His eyebrows waver at his father before turning to Gabrielle with the reminder, "The wight's ready."
Only Ned can hear her as she breathes loudly but nods without a revelation of any worry, sliding off the railing and to her small feet as her eyes move from Jon to Ned and she stares at him for a moment longer. But finally—before she steps away to her duties—Gabrielle turns to Ned with her insight, "The histories may not have told it, but I heard the Three Eyed Raven hears all."
Her eyebrows straighten and jaw tightens into a slight smile before bowing her head and moving after Jon, all while Ned stares in sudden understanding and wonder at this key they possess. And thus, turning on his heel, Ned Stark rushes from the deck and into his quarters where his trunk awaits to be packed for their arrival at White Harbor.
/////////////////////////////////////////////
Dany carefully edges into the small and dark quarters lying lowest in the Northern ship drifting quickly towards King's Landing. And she ensures her heels are properly clicking over the wood planks as the sound of waves echoes above their heads, at the notice of the two women and not the dead man as she finally comes into view of the full desk of notes and supplies, bookish woman, and wight. Rather shocking to her, the wight does not move from its makeshift placement upon the chair, but stares straight into the wall as Gabrielle scribbles another note into the roll of parchment with due fervor but an obvious eye at the company.
Coughing above the scribbling sound, Dany asks, "Have you found anything?"
"Nothing good for humanity," the girl turns and her hair rakes along the desk—forcing paper from their position as Gabrielle pays no mind. "They do not have a heartbeat and their blood is frozen into the vessels. When I hit it in the patella tendon, there's no reflex. These wights are not being 'raised' from the dead so much as magic is stringing them up like puppets."
Daenerys has no clue as to what anatomy the woman if referring to, but from the rather hopeless expression on Gabrielle's tired facade, she realizes the truth of the matter as nothing more than negative, and asks, "So their 'self' is gone?"
"Yes," Gabrielle turns a look of sadness to the woman before glancing at the silent and steady wight, "they are nothing but a shell. I'll keep trying, of course, but until I can understand and harness my own magic, I fear the wights are walking lifelessness."
"And how is that?"
Gabrielle huffs, "I've always been attuned to science, but with this imperceptible matter—magic—" Dany blinks and the girl's hands are suddenly icey like the monsters in the North, "—I've lost my wits. I cannot see it, so I have a hard time understanding. No blade but valyrian steel and obsidian would be able to cut through my skin—to see—and even then, I fear I'd entirely shatter myself."
Dany watches carefully as the girl thoughtlessly raises her fingers to brush against the line of her collar where cloth gives way to broken flesh frozen over. She does not believe it truly hurts Gabrielle—but Dany does see the flinch of the woman's shoulders at the feeling, and steps forward with the sudden understanding of loss, "Don't do that. I still need you."
Gabrielle slightly grins as her hand drops back to her lap and her blue eyes turn to Dany with amusement, "I shall stave my curiosity then, until you find someone to replace me."
"There is no one."
She looks doubtful but still bows her head in grateful recognition despite lingering tension and the rather blatant dismissal as Dany watches, "My Queen."
Daenerys stares a moment longer before jutting out of the room as her skirts part between her legs and she considers again at what cost they need Gabrielle—at what cost to her must she keep the Mock Queen if only for the chance for Viserion back.
Ultimately, she'd give anything.