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He sees a fire burning in the north; constant, vivid, and blood red. It melts the snow, and it melts the Wall, gathering crows to its heart. But beyond it something is stirring, reawakening, and reaching south with icy fingers that, he knows, only the fire can melt.
Jehan Tyrell opens his eyes, and he knows. A pale spring dawn is just colouring the sky as he quietly slips out of bed and pads down the hallway in his nightshirt and leggings, heading for Cosette’s room. He knocks gently on the door, and when he opens it the Tyrell’s ward is sitting up and blinking sleepily at him.
“Jehan,” she sounds warm, if a little surprised.
“I’ve had a dream,” he moves to sit on her bed, taking one of her hands in his own, and she is instantly awake, looking at him with serious blue eyes, “One you think will come true?”
He nods, glad that their friendship is such that he doesn’t have to explain himself, “Yes. I hope it will come to pass. Cosette,” he sounds determined, excited, and something has sparked within his usually peaceful eyes, “we must go to the Wall.”
*
“Grantaire? Grantaire!”
Grantaire groans as the sound of his name drags him into consciousness, and buries his head deeper into the crook of his arm, clinging to the dregs of sleep that cloud around him.
“Grantaire!” he feels two hands on shoulders, and then he is being pushed upright, and he’s shaking his head, trying to tell the person that ‘No, he’s not Grantaire, clearly they have the wrong man.’
“Grantaire,” he finally focuses on the person in front of him – and realises with some sentient part of his brain that it’s Eponine, and this means he can’t hide.
“What?” he croaks out, “What do you want with me?”
She huffs and gives him a stern look, “Yesterday you told me that you had a dawn patrol – yet you’re still here and dawn is –” she glances at the window, “– not far off.”
His mind snaps into focus, as it often does at the word ‘patrol’, and he scrubs his hands over his face, scratching at the stubble on his cheeks. His body is stiff, and his left hand numb from where he was lying on it – meaning that he’s spent the night in Thenardier’s tavern in Mole’s Town. “Where’s Feuilly? Bossuet? Didn’t they cart me back to the castle? Gods, have you got any water?” Some ale wouldn’t go amiss either, he thinks, but, no, he’s got a patrol to run.
“They left you here apparently. Can’t imagine why.”
“I’m not that bad –” he pauses, considers, and concludes sadly, “well, perhaps I am.” Usually his friends would make sure he got back to the castle at night – especially when he was on patrol. Grantaire can’t remember much of yesterday’s evening, but he suspects that he was probably a lot more drunk than usual. He doesn’t really blame his friends for leaving him. He sighs, “They better not have taken my horse.”
“Come on – let’s go see.” He nods and stands – lurches a bit – but then straightens his black jerkin and plods after the girl to the stable that connects to the inn.
“Why are you up this early anyway?” he asks to her back, and then sees her tense slightly, and ball her hands into fists. Grantaire curses himself, because, really, there’s only one reason she’d be up this early, and maybe if his head wasn’t still reeling in last night’s drinking he would’ve thought before he’d asked. One of these days he’s going to knock Montparnasse’s head in, and the man won’t have even said a word to him.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Eponine replies lightly.
She should go to King’s Landing, Grantaire thinks, or High Garden – or Dorne, she’d have a good time in Dorne if it’s anything like they say it is. He thinks she should be somewhere warm, somewhere away from this disgusting inn and her horrible family – somewhere anywhere other than here. But really, he can’t believe that anywhere is much good when you’re a pretty innkeeper’s daughter with no Lord or Lady to watch over you. He doesn’t know what she’d do in Dorne, or King’s Landing, or how she’d even get there. It’s just an unreachable want for her to have something better – but there are no words for him to tell her that, and now they’re in the stable, and thankfully his horse is still here, and she’s giving him a wry smile, even though she looks cold.
But who doesn’t look cold in the North?
His black cloak is also hanging in the stable and he grabs it and fastens it around his shoulders, saying “Thank you for waking me, Eponine.”
“It’s the least I could do. We’re meant to treat regular clients with respect anyway.”
He raises his eyebrows at her, stifling a smile, “And friends?”
“And friends we’d give hot soup to!”
“Oh, some hot soup would be lovely.”
“Fresh out – you’ll have to go hungry this morning.”
“And every morning,” he says desolately, leading the horse from the stall. The horse is also black.
“Get on with you! You have a patrol to do!” but she’s laughing as he grabs her in a quick hug, then braces himself for the cold, and steps outside. With a wave she shuts the door quickly behind him, and he’s left standing in the grey-brown town that’s still edged with heaps of snow. He goes to the well and draws some water as fast as he can – hastily splashing some on his face and taking a gulp or two, before swinging up into the saddle and urging his horse north – always further north – back up the road to Castle Black.
It might’ve been a nice ride – with the sun rising to his right, making the frosting of snow sparkle from the ground – but the hammer of hooves is beating at his brain, and all he can do is stare resolutely forward and keep his seat; the horse knows where it’s going.
His mind wanders back to Eponine, and he dwells again for a moment on what could be... but most likely she’d end up in a ditch somewhere, her body cold as any winter wind. He’d have hope if anyone cared – if the nobles gave one fuck – but they don’t. He’s the proof of that. He’d have hope if the distant sun actually warmed him – if the men around him believed in something better... but the creeping ice kills dreams as well as any sword – and what is the Wall, if not ice?