The Last Stag • Game of Thrones

41.

Chapter Forty-One
No Fear. Only Fury.

The cold of the night bit at her nose. 

Overhead, pregnant clouds hung low in the sky, the rumbling cries of Rhaegal and Drogon filling her ears. The wind was uncomfortably still, the bone-dry cold chapping her lips. Despite the freeze, Renfri's sweat stuck to her neck, her chest rising and falling with deep breaths as her eyes flickered amongst the dark in front of her.

Hundreds of Stormlander men flanked her on either side, staring into the dark. Ahead of them, the Dothraki horses kicked the ground, anxious to move. Behind them, the Unsullied were still as statues.

She rubbed a gloved thumb over the hilt of Staghorn. Her jaw locked and unlocked repeatedly. This wait was agonizing. 

Renfri had a duty to her men. She had sworn to fight by their sides. And she would. She just wished that she had planned their flank to coincide with someone she knew better than the Stormlanders.

Someone she could talk to in what might be her final hours.

Underneath her, Goji let out a low growl, moving from a seated position to all fours. 

Renfri wanted to growl too.

Still, she reached out, scratching his ears.

"Hush now, old friend." She murmured. 

She removed her glove, feeling his soft fur between her fingers. They had come so far, the two of them. 

But they had not come this far to just come this far. She still had something to do.

Renfri lifted her head. Something was happening.

Ahead of them, thousands of Dothraki lifted their swords into the air. Their scythe-swords burst into flame, lighting the clearing up with the glow.

A small smile stretched onto her face.

With a great cry, the Dothraki began to move. Riding forward, their flaming swords thrust into the air.

Underneath her, she felt Goji tense. Ren straightened her back, pulling her helm out from under her arm and situating it into her head. The dragonglass helm shielded her face, two antlers decorating the crown of the headpiece.

Renfri cleared her throat.

"WALL!" 

Her voice was louder and darker than it had ever been. 

The first battalion stepped forward, their pointed yellow shields sinking into the dirt as they formed the wall in front of her and the eighth. 

"HOLD!"

The Dothraki moved further and further away, leaving the Stormlanders heading the front. She peered over the heads of the men in front of her, blood pounding in her ears as the catapults began to swing burning barrels towards the invisible onslaught ahead.

"C'mon." She whispered to herself. "Take them here."

No. Something was wrong. The lights began to fizzle out one by one, as if they were being absorbed by the blackness. Cries of 'cease fire!' rang in her ears.

The lights were gone. Darkness stared back.

The field was deadly quiet. 

Slowly, scattered hooves began to approach back at them. She watched, her eyes struggling to make out what was happening in the darkness.

Jorah Mormont rode straight past her, pure fear etched across his face. 

A few horses and dead-silent Dothraki stragglers rode back with him, their eyes wide, their faces aghast. The Dothraki, dead silent.