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The ranger of the Night Watch glances around. The wights are almost defeated, the smell of burnt flesh filling the air. All five or six of them, slain by him singlehandedly. Any other time he would be proud. But not now.
He failed. He tried to perform that last kiss the red priests told him about, but the wights just screamed and burned when he shoved the torch into their mouths.
All for nothing. He willingly joined the Night Watch, he became a ranger, he volunteered to scout to the North, he left his brothers this very morn to face the wights alone, so no one stopped him from fulfilling his duty to R'hllor.
But he failed. The ranger sighs, it is time to return. Thankfully, he is still alive. His god will keep him safe until he does what he was brought back to life for.
Go to the land of the darkest night, and find the night's creature longing for light. Give it my gift, the fiery kiss, so that the power of R'hllor is seen by the unbelievers.
The dream that he saw just before he was revived to the great astonishment of red priests. He told them these words and they sent him to the Wall.
The Watch ranger sheathes his sword, his only left torch is almost dead, but it should be enough to make his way back, as the sun won't rise still in the next two hours.
"Th...th...th." The hissing makes him stop. He checks the surroundings once more. One wight is still alive, if one can say that. It crawls up and goes straight at him, not armed, its eyes, icy blue, focused on the torch. The ranger blinks, confused. The creature doesn't look afraid, but is rather watching the fire like a hungry wildling watches the loaf of bread. And it does look like a wildling woman.
"Th...a..th...amth..." It continues the hissing, and he be damned if he didn't just hear the word "warmth".
The night's creature longing for light? Can it be...? He is so caught in his thoughts, that he is not prepared when the wight comes up to him and grabs the torch from his hand. It clasps the fire tightly to its body, and...
The sudden drift of cold air filled with cutting ice particles quenches the flame in an instance, and the man's hope leaves him dying with the last bit of fire. This is the end, he realizes. There is no escape for him without the fire.
The wight seems to be lost. It glances at the ranger, confused. "Warmth?" It says again, and it is nearly plaintive.
Before the ranger can reach for his sword, the dead woman grabs his hands, staring into him with a hard stare. Her hands are strong and icy. He notices she has a hunting knife, and he is almost sure that will be the means of his death.
It is said often, the whole life flies before you when you are about to die. It is true, and the man remembers his previous life on Braavos, before that ill-born decision to go to Westeros. He was a merry man, a frequenter of ale houses and a hell of a charmer. He grins at last, remembering how he didn't need R'hllor back then to do a fiery kiss.
And...what the hell! The wildling woman should have been very pretty alive, and he is a dead man anyway, so he decides to go as a man he was before, not that devoted faithful guy he had sworn to be after the resurrection.
And no one can call him a coward for closing his eyes, because he will still be kissing a corpse.
The wight's lips are cold, sure, and the snow melts at his touch, the cool water running down his beard. The knife stab won't come still, and then he gets a strong fist blow in the belly, which causes him to open his eyes, panting heavily.
"Get off me, Crow." She hisses, not unlike before, but it sounds totally human now.
And wait...her eyes are grey and the snowflakes are turning into water drops on her pink cheeks.
He laughs, the mirth filling his whole being. The Light be blessed!
"Where am I? What is this sorcery?" She frowns at him, both scared and angry.
"It is not a sorcery, nothing near that vile thing," the ranger explains eagerly, inspired anew. "This is a miracle, you were revived by the will of our Lord of Light and Fire, R'hllor, me being his faithful servant." He adds more seriously.
"Fire?" The woman repeats, the only word she's understood, probably. "Can you build one, faithful Crow?" She looks at him with a challenge.
He smiles smugly. "Of course. Just give me a moment to..." He catches her chin between his fingers and kisses her one more time, this time enjoying the sight fully.
She breaks it fast, her glare fuming. "Just you wait before I get myself a spear, Crow." She threatens, and walks away to do it.
"Just living a moment, while you don't have one," he offers to her back merrily. "Name's Jorren."
She stops and glances over her shoulder. "You are bold. I like that." She replies in a light tone. Then she resumes her pace.
He crouches down to take the torch, for the remnants of the oiled cloth could be useful to build a fire. After standing back up he calls out to her: "I can be bolder."
Having picked a spear at these very words the wildling woman turns to him fully, leaning on her weapon casually. "Are you invincible or just a loud mouth, Jorren?" She wonders with a lopsided grin. "I am Daya."
He just can't help wondering if her fiery temper is a gift of R'hllor too.