You Win or You Die
There was no symbol for the Army of the Dead.
Winterfell had its own war table, and figurines to represent each of the major houses. Wolves, lions, stags, falcons, fish, serpents, even roses. Even years after Robert's Rebellion, Eddard Stark had decided to keep the dragon figurines. Jon Stark doubted that his father had expected House Targaryen to ever be a major player in Westeros, much less that player becoming an ally of House Stark. But he was grateful for it regardless. Because on one side of the war table was a castle marked as Winterfell, and before it, a host of wolves, falcons, lions, and dragons. Dragons that represented Dothraki and Unsullied rather than an actual standing force of House Targaryen, but dragons all the same. Looking at the table, Jon grimaced – he'd have given all the riches of the North to the gods if they would turn every one of those dragon figurines into an actual dragon. That way, they might have been on equal terms as the Army of the Dead.
The Army of the Dead. His eyes drifted up the war table to the lands that lay between the North and the Wall. Their scouts had confirmed that the undead horde was somewhere in the Gift. Possibly consolidating before marching south, possibly waiting for the snow to clear. Winter was the herald of the enemy of the living, but it was possible that even the White Walkers had trouble marching through six feet of snow. He wanted to hope that it was the case, but given what Edd and the few surviving members of the Night's Watch had told him, he doubted it. The Night's King had Viserion. Viserion had destroyed a portion of the wall with blue fire. Viserion, if the Night King willed it, could forge a path for the dead to march. And he suspected that the only reason that they hadn't was that either the Night's King was biding his time in the knowledge that the living had twice as many dragons as he did, or he knew that he could wait out the winter far longer than the living. Let the Long Night run its course. Let the living starve behind the walls of Winterfell before he came to add them to his army.
Jon stared at them. Nothing but small pebbles on the map – some craftsman were making skull figurines, but he barely cared. The Army of the Dead was a single force. The living were an alliance of houses that hated each other, who camped separately from each other, and wanted to kill each other. Wolves at Winterfell, lions and falcons eyeing each other warily, dragons striking fear and awe into those around them. Those that Jon knew were already making plans for the future should a future exist for them at all.
"Jon?"
He didn't look at Sansa as she entered the meeting hall. His eyes were fixed on the table. Looking for something. Anything.
"Jon, have you been here all night?"
Was this what Robb did, he wondered? Look at war tables, plan the destruction of his enemies? Had he done that for hours on end, only to be slaughtered? Had his brother died in the belief that he'd failed his people and those he'd loved? Arya had told him what had happened to his family at The Twins. Right now, just dying, and staying dead, seemed like mercy.
"Jon, you need sleep."
"Of course I need sleep," he snapped. He looked at his sister. "We all need sleep. We need sleep, and food, and warmth, and the Army of the Dead doesn't need any of that."
"Jon-"
He swept a wolf figurine off the table and collapsed into a chair. He rubbed his eyes. Sleep. It gnawed at him. Betrayed him. Conspired against him.
"It's not enough," he blurted out.
"Jon?"
"It's not enough," he repeated. "We have the forces of three great houses allied, plus an army of Dothraki and Unsullied, plus two dragons, and it's still not enough. And even if I could somehow bring every house in Westeros into the fold, it still won't be enough."
Sansa didn't say anything this time. Perhaps she agreed. Perhaps she didn't, but didn't know what to say. Which was a shame, because usually, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, knew what to say. She knew what to say to Arya, and to the soldiers out in the snow who just wanted to go home, kill soldiers from other houses, or do both. He couldn't swing his sword, Sansa couldn't speak, and the end approached.
"If we still had the Wall, maybe…" Jon trailed off. Sleep still gnawed at him. And part of him greatly desired to return to his chambers. To return to her. But the other part kept him up at night. Last night, this night, and many nights to come. Perhaps all his nights to come, however few there may have been remaining.
"Jon…" Sansa began. "I can't claim to know the Army of the Dead as well as you. Or be a commander. Or a warrior. Or anything like that. But…"
"But…"
"But there was a saying I picked up in King's Landing," she said. "That in the Game of Thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground."
Jon sighed. "We're not playing that game Sansa."
"I know," she said. She walked over to where the wolf figurine had fallen and picked it up. Cradling it. "And I know that it's a lie."
"What is?"
"That there's no middle ground, and victory or defeat is all there is. And do you know how I know that?"
Jon didn't say anything. He just watched as she put the wolf figurine back on the table. Right next to a lion.
"I only need to look beyond the walls to see the truth. There is a middle ground. It might not be a ground many like to stand on, but it's solid enough to support all of us. At least four great houses." She smiled. "I think you proved that to everyone."
Jon smiled as well. But only briefly, as he saw his sister's smile fade as well.
"And that's why I know you need rest, and you need to do the impossible again. Because…because I know enough to understand that this is a war where there really is no middle ground. We win, or we die. That's the game that matters."
"It's not a game, Sansa."
"I know it isn't. But maybe it'll make it easier for people to see it as a game."
"So once it's done they can go back to the games that don't matter?"
"That, or stop playing them altogether."
Jon closed his eyes. Daenerys had spoken of her desire to break the wheel. Maybe, by some miracle, that was a dream that could be achieved. The wheel would stop spinning, the dead would be defeated, and moats filled with wine would surround gingerbread castles. Or, more likely, the wheel would start again, and more bloodshed would occur before it finally stopped. Provided it stopped at all.
"Go to bed Jon," Sansa said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You need rest. The half-dead can't beat the all-dead."
"And the living can?"
"I think the living have a better chance."
Jon took her hand and squeezed it. Kept it in his while he got to his feet. Only let go when he finally headed for his chambers.
His sister was right – there was no middle ground. They would win, or they would die.
Right now, that was all that mattered.