Chapter Text
The Stranger comes for us all, and when the cloak of death blankets the living, it can be a mercy, or it can be a cruelty.
Mother. Father. Maiden. Warrior. Crone. Smith. Stranger. The Gods established rules to abide by, but like the laws of men, crimes are oft committed.
“What have you done?” The Mother’s voice was a whisper, but it trembled with rage. Pale cheeks moist from fresh-fallen tears began to pimple as a cool breeze cut across the field, and when no reply came, the Mother glanced over her shoulder.
Silent as ever, the Stranger turned away without a trace of sympathy; the reply the same as it had been countless times before. Exhausted by another failed battle on the birthing bed, the Mother stood on shaky legs. Refusing to be ignored she cried out, “She was not yours to take!”
Mountains quake before the Mother, and her wrath threatened to flatten the land. Fresh tears filled her eyes, spilling when she spoke again; her voice scarcely heard. “She was not yours.”
Just as the Warrior chooses his victor in battle, the Mother chooses women to conquer the birthing bed and women to succumb to it. Sometimes, the Stranger plays their own games.
Turning her back to the Stranger, the Mother gazed down upon death’s latest victim. She was a poor woman, nameless to most and alone in every way. The babe she birthed was the product of rape, and without his mother’s warmth, the boy would soon feel the Stranger’s cold embrace.
No babe could survive the night in the frigid northern climate when exposed to unforgiving elements. No mother should die knowing such a cruel fate awaited her child.
The Mother had her own rules to govern matters of life and death, and when she chose death, she ensured there was a surrogate source of warmth to take new life into loving arms. Those rules ensured the world did not become too bleak and devoid of love, but the Stranger’s latest victim was not the first time the Mother’s decisions went ignored.
To the Gods, time held no meaning and stretched on for eternity. Despite that, the Mother remembered every face claimed by the birthing bed. It hurt, but there needed to be balance for life to exist. Death paid for life, and sometimes, good women died.
Of late, the Stranger seemed to be ignoring more than the Mother’s choices where life was concerned. Fathers, warriors, maidens, crones, and smiths were dying faster than they were chosen, and the balance of power amongst the Gods was shifting.
The Stranger’s army of death, the Others, was growing at an unprecedented rate. Though the Gods could equip the living with the necessary skills to defeat death, the need for magic had become clear.
Closing her eyes from the scene before her, the Mother took a deep breath and reflected on those still among the living and those lost to them. She needed to help equip the Warrior for battle, and love was the greatest weapon.
Azor Ahai had been one such warrior equipped with the truest power accessible to the living. Over time, tales told were distorted and history twisted until it was no longer fact, leaving only fragments of truth. In the living’s first stand against death, it had been the Maiden’s love which gave the Warrior the weapon his named champion required to emerge victorious, but in this lifetime, the Mother would supply a different kind of love.
The dragon must have three heads, she whispered to herself.
Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, was one of the dragons in question, and the three heads Daenerys needed were quite literal. Drogon. Viserion. Rhaegal.
With the help of the Crone, magic had restored dragons to the world and three beasts roamed the skies with enough fire to destroy anything the Others employed against the living. Still, it would not be enough. Dragonfire could not destroy the Night King or his Wight Walkers, but there was another dragon in need of three heads.
Jon Snow, the motherless bastard-prince, would need three warriors to shield him. Three motherless Warriors. Three motherless Warriors who, like Jon, were left in darkness when the Stranger came for their mothers on the birthing bed.
Barristan. Jaime. Brienne.
Like the newly deceased woman robbed of life in the frigid north, the three women who birthed skilled warriors had been marked to survive by the Mother. Had the Stranger seen something in those babes?, the Mother wondered. Did the Stranger take those women to temper the flame in those babes destined for greatness? Flames strong enough to defeat the army of death?
Like any god, the Stranger had a weakness, and the Mother sought to use it to her advantage. Despite death’s power, the Stranger could not take the one thing that mattered most. In death bodies were claimed, but not souls. Similarly, when the Night King raised the dead, he controlled only their mortal shell.
The wights were soulless cavities with no independent thought, emotions, or instincts. Like his master, the Night King could never truly conquer life, but he could control soulless vessels of decaying flesh and bone.
In death, souls were cast down into the Seven Hells or raised to the Seven Heavens. They could be called upon once more by Mother, Father, Maiden, Warrior, Crone, or Smith, and sent back to the living when the Stranger claimed another victim. When death paid for life.
Now, the Mother went in search of three souls. They would not be reborn into new bodies and start life anew amongst the living as a newborn, but they would instead fulfill their destiny intended before the Stranger came too soon.
The Mother would restore maternal love to three motherless warriors in desperate need of guidance. The Warrior’s chosen three would hear whispers from the past and see faces lost with time.
A dense fog gathered, and with arms outstretched as if feeling her way forward, the Mother walked into a field of winter roses, fingers dancing delacately across cold petals. With death’s icy grip spreading across the realm, the Mother would use the winter rose to restore beauty to the world.
The flowers were the most beautiful varietal to grow in the harsh climate and they represented life surviving inhospitable conditions. Like the three souls to be sent back, the flowers were a symbol of love and hope reflecting the warmth of a mother’s embrace.
As she walked, the Mother hummed a tune oft used to soothe souls taken on the birthing bed. The living had given the song a name, and lyrics were created to accompany the Mother’s melody.
Jenny’s Song. The Mother hummed the melody softly as she walked through a field that stretched on for eternity.
And she never wanted to leave… never wanted to leave… never wanted to leave… never wanted to leave…
A warm breeze kissed the Mother’s skin despite the frosty field surrounding her, and as the fog lifted, the Mother saw a woman with golden hair and skin to match sitting on the edge of a snowy cliff overlooking the sea.
“Joanna,” the Mother whispered. “Your eldest son needs you.”
The Stranger would not be happy, but the Mother did not care. The Mother’s children needed her and not even death could overcome a mother’s love.
Joanna stood, the cliff and sea fading away until only a field of winter roses remained. “Did the Stranger take him?” Fear was thick in Joanna’s voice. “He has not yet felt true warmth.”
The Mother extended her hand towards Joanna. “Help me and I swear to you that your son will not die without finally feeling true love’s embrace.”
To honor that promise, the Mother needed two more souls, and then she needed the Crone to use magic born of the Stranger’s hubris.
The Crone thought the human form uncomfortable and inconvenient. Wisdom was wasted on the youth, and the Crone’s human body reflected countless years of experience.
Time caused a deep ache to spread through an ancient body. Puffs of air pushed past her lips, and an unforgiving northern breeze cut through shoddy furs.
Onward the Crone walked, determined to fulfill the Mother’s request. Of late, the Stranger had been reckless and acted beyond their reach. The Crone was eager to help a fellow god restore balance to the world, and that such request came in the form of aiding Jenny’s soul, the Crone was happy to oblige.
In human form, the Crone had many names, but of late most referred to her as the Ghost of High Heart. Guiding those with the power to affect great change did not come easy, but the Crone was pleased at her successful efforts to guide Jaehaerys Targaryen, grandsire to Princess Daenerys; the princess who was chosen to lead the war against death.
A bitter wind cut across the open field and the Crone paused to let it pass. Glancing through her lashes to assess the remaining distance, she saw the Wall just ahead and stretching towards the heavens. The structure was a physical divide between life and death, and the realization sent a tingle down the Crone’s spine.
At no more than three feet tall, the Crone felt like an ant standing before a large oak. Red eyes narrowed as she searched for the section of the Wall where three winter roses grew from chinks in the ice.
A small smile stretched across the Crone’s face as she found the very spot necessary to aid the Mother’s quest. It was just as the Crone showed Princess Daenerys in the House of the Undying.
An excited energy compelled the Crone’s stubby legs forward and towards the Wall erected by Bran the Builder and bound by magic. Magic came in many forms with green and red being among the most powerful, but that day the Crone would use a bit of blue.
When at last the Crone reached the wall and touched its icy base, she smiled, gazing up at the heavens. I’m here, Mother. I hope you’ve found them all, for I can feel the Stranger’s icy breath upon me.
The Stranger could raise bodies, but that day, the Crone would raise souls. Still, there needed to be balance. Death for life. Bodies for souls.
Glancing up, the Crone waited for the Wall to weep. It wept more often of late, and the Crone feared its looming collapse. With every body raised to add to the Night King’s army, the Wall weakened, shedding icy tears for every body taken before a soul could reenter the world in a new vessel.
A teardrop began to form high above, and the Crone reached out to place her palm over the petals of blue winter roses jutting out from the Wall. Countless souls of mothers claimed too soon watched from the heavens, all hoping to have been chosen, but only three were.
As the wall wept overhead, the Crone chanted quietly in Valyrian, hoping the Stranger’s greed would ensure three more bodies were taken to enable three more souls to return. Puffs of condensation from the Crone’s breath reached the Wall as it began to crack, not much, but enough to free the flowers which drifted slowly towards the ground.
Blue petals sprawled outward as they touched the snowy field, and an incredible winter wind cut between the Crone and the Wall. Stepping backwards, the Crone shielded her eyes from the howling gust, and when it passed, the Crone watched three women stand from snowy drifts, their bodies draped in a soft blue fabric.
The women’s features were altered by time and did not reflect the age at which they were claimed by the Stranger, but rather, the age they’d have been that year. Around their necks hung pendants the color of blue winter roses which would aid their quest and allow them to commune with the living.
The women were not truly alive but stuck somewhere between life and death. Apparitions that could take human form, but not capable of touch. A small smile tugged at the Crone’s lips as she appraised the women, but one stood out more than others.
Stepping towards the woman, the Crone lamented her inability to reach up and grasp at long, delicate fingers. She gazed fondly upon the vessel carrying Jenny’s soul, though in her most recent lifetime, the soul had been given the name ‘Arianne’. In mind alone, the Crone heard the Mother’s melodic humming, Jenny’s Song, and she smiled at the familiar tune.
The Crone’s aged face wrinkled more as she smiled upon the women. “The past is like an echo, fading with time and difficult to understand the further you stand from its origin. Make them hear you now, for your children have been without a Mother’s love and guidance for too long.”