"Aaah!—" Oliver screamed.
"What happened?" one of the Night's Watchmen turned back from his search.
A wight in the black of the Watch sank its teeth into Oliver's hand. Oliver howled in pain and struggled frantically. The wight bit off his fingers with a sickening crunch, chewing them with grim satisfaction before swallowing them whole.
"Stranger save us!"
The black brothers let out a long, mournful cry.
"Stop searching! There's a wight here!" someone shouted as they rushed toward the creature.
The wight staggered to its feet, its movements stiff and unnatural.
A brother drove his sword into the thing's chest, forcing it back against the wall.
The wight cocked its head sideways, staring at his former comrade with empty, confused eyes. It reached out and grabbed the brother by the shoulder, yanking him close.
A scream tore through the air.
At that moment, seven or eight more brothers threw themselves into the fray, pinning the wight down.
Ser Maynard hurried over. Watching the undead creature struggle, he couldn't help but silently praise Ser Davos's wisdom and experience. If the sailors weren't all sworn brothers of the Night's Watch, Maynard would've gladly handed over command and joined those four rowing out to act as bait.
"Quick!" Maynard ordered sharply. "Throw it overboard!"
Several brothers hoisted the wight, carrying it through the gathered crowd onto the deck. With a heavy splash, the creature hit the water like a stone.
Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Maynard instinctively looked up at the sea.
"Seven hells. We're too late."
A colossal shadow appeared on the horizon—
The Ship of the White Walkers, emerging into view.
The early morning sun was bright but not scorching, casting the clouds along the horizon in a faint golden glow.
The ship didn't slow. It sailed straight for the Mermaid Maiden.
"Sail! Sail! Sail!"
Ser Davos Seaworth stood at the bow, his beard shaking as he bellowed,
"Port ten! Full speed ahead! Full speed!"
The Mermaid Maiden surged forward in a desperate flight.
Behind them, death gave relentless chase.
Ahead, the outline of Skagos Island was already visible.
But it was too late. There was no way they could outrun the Ship of the White Walkers.
At the end of these tales, the helpless maiden never escaped the villain's grasp.
Maynard began to regret not pushing harder, not urging full sail through the night. If they'd just pressed on for fifteen more minutes, maybe—just maybe—they could've bought themselves a chance.
He walked to the prow.
Like every true captain, if death was to come, he would face it with his ship.
As the sea swallowed the Mermaid Maiden, he would stand tall, watching her pass into the deep, and follow her to the end—
Just as she had carried him across this voyage through the stars and sea.
"Ser Davos," Maynard's voice was cold and resolute, "Order the ship scuttled."
"Scuttle the ship?"
Davos Seaworth—Lord Commander of the Narrow Sea Fleet, Earl of Rainwood, the King's Hand, Onion Knight, smuggler—looked puzzled.
He clutched a rope tightly in one hand, a dagger in the other.
"No."
He rejected Maynard flatly.
"Slow down! Hard to starboard! Hard to starboard! Slow!"
Davos shouted new orders.
The Mermaid Maiden lurched violently to one side, nearly tipping into the sea.
Sailors screamed, tumbling across the deck.
Then—
Miraculously, she righted herself, forging ahead once more.
Had they been even a heartbeat slower, the ship would've capsized under her own weight before the White Walkers ever touched her.
"Steady rudder! Full speed ahead!"
"Port ten! Full speed!"
"Steady rudder! Full speed!"
Orders came rapid-fire.
The men didn't spare a thought for the horror chasing just steps behind them; they obeyed Davos without question.
The Ship of the White Walkers was so close now, it felt like a hand could reach out and seize them.
Davos took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and roared into the wind,
"Come and get us, you bastards!"
Maynard hadn't even reacted yet—
With a thunderous crash, the Ship of the White Walkers jolted violently.
Maynard froze.
It had struck a reef!
Only then did realization dawn.
The wild, sharp turns Davos had ordered weren't madness—they were a desperate gamble to dodge the hidden reef.
The tension had been too overwhelming.
Maynard hadn't noticed the rocks at all.
Shame burned within him.
Had he been in command, it would've been the Mermaid Maiden dashed upon the stones, not the enemy.
Even a vessel as unnatural as the White Walkers' ship—
Enchanted to move without sailors, light as a bird on the waves—
Was still just a ship.
And now, her speed had become her doom.
A gaping hole ripped open at her prow, wide enough for a man to crawl through.
Seawater gushed in by the barrelful.
She was pinned against the reef like a drowning man clutching a rock.
But she wouldn't hold forever.
Soon, she would slip free and sink into the endless deep.
"You saved us, ser," Maynard said, voice thick with emotion.
This felt even more like a true escape from death than Hardhome.
There, he had seen White Walkers only from afar.
Here—he had nearly touched the hair on their legs.
"No, ser—you saved us," Davos Seaworth replied humbly.
"If you hadn't pulled me from the Rockborn's clutches, I'd have been dead long ago."
Davos's mind flickered to a face.
If not for that man's orders to send Maynard, none of this would've been possible.
Davos, a devout believer in the Seven, often saw the hand of the gods in such things.
The old crone is guiding Jon Snow, Davos thought.
Three days after the Mermaid Maiden had fled the waters around Skagos,
beneath a night sky brilliant with stars—
The water rippled.
Concentric rings spread outward.
First to emerge was a mast tangled in seaweed, encrusted with shells.
The tall mast seemed to pierce the heavens themselves.
Then—
The hull.
The gaping hole had been crudely patched.
A giant sea turtle shell sealed it shut, fused to the wood like an immense, armored shield.
At the bow stood the White Walker—
Motionless as a statue.
Behind it, a dozen wights.
If any maester were to examine them, he would find they were once the fanatics who died around the altar.
One figure stepped forward, keeping half a pace behind the White Walker.
"Master," croaked Mother Mole, hunched over.
"We are ready to march south and shatter mankind's rule.
We will raze White Harbor.
We will burn Oldtown.
We will drown Greenstone beneath the waves.
And we will send the Ironborn to meet their Drowned God."
The wights had no mind of their own—
Only the dead bodies remained.
Yet Mother Mole had somehow retained a sliver of consciousness.
She had, in some twisted way, achieved her dream—
A form of immortality.
The White Walker spoke.
Not in the Common Tongue, nor in the Old Tongue—
But in a language more alien and jagged,
As if it hailed from another world entirely.
"Yes, master," whispered Mother Mole, bowing lower still.
"We will not repeat our past mistakes.
This time, mankind will pay for their folly."
Around the Ship of the White Walkers,
dozens of figures floated on the water's surface.
They had human bodies and human faces—
But their ears were gills, their lips thick and blackish-purple,
Dead fish eyes stared blankly from bald heads,
and from the waist down, they bore powerful, scaly fishtails.
The legendary mermaids.
The maesters of Oldtown had insisted on calling them only "merfolk"—
And for once, the maesters' mad minds had been right about something.
At least on this point.