Part 10
Soon this thick cold fog around them would clear, Jon hoped. The journey over land was miserable enough as the men cross the road damp and frozen, knowing the pace they took would never be fast enough to reach Winterfell before the dead. And still bone-weary and chilled the host was tireless and still pushed forward.
Above them Rhaegal soared, fighting against the biting wind and ice.
In the distance, Jon saw the lone figure on the side of the road, curled inside a thick cloak that would barely help with warmth. He called to the man, jerking slightly at the reins of his mount to slow. When the man had no response he dismounted. Had the unfortunate fellow met his end on the side of the road then his body at least needed to be burned, lest walkers find him.
As he drew closer Jon shielded his eyes, squinting against the cold air. He recognized the form, at least, and the cloak was far too common to made a judgment.
"Sam?" he prompted. When there was no response, Jon shook the body hard. At his touch the man scrambled to his feet. "Sam."
"Jon!" replied his friend. And Jon was glad against this bitter winter there was a friendly face. "I just came looking for you," Sam told him in a rush. His teeth chattered from the cold.
Ser Davos tossed a thick wool horse blanket towards the new arrival, and Samwell caught it with his hands. Unfortunately, this caused his tightly wrapped package to fall to the ground. Samwell tucked the horse blanket under his arm and reached for bundle on the ground.
"Winterfell," Jon said. "I left you in Winterfell, so you can receive my ravens." He had taken the maester with him, so he could dispatch messages from the battlefield. "What are you doing here?"
Samwell took a few deep breaths, as if to calm himself. "I escaped when the wights broke through the gates and started pouring in," was his shamed admission. "They need you. There's too many of them."
Jon's hands balled into fists. Daenerys had brave men around her, elite bowmen trained by Ned Stark and strong combatants from Essos. "Where's my family?"
"Your siblings were there, inside the keep," he answered. "I saw them with Daenerys Targaryen. Your family will be safe as long as they're with Queen Daenerys." Samwell's voice was timid, uncertain. "Her army will protect her. The last thing I saw was Ser Jaime fighting the wights that tried to get to her."
Jon cursed under his breath, then pulled himself up on his mount again. He nudged the side of his horse and gave a form pull of the reins, his horse breaking into a gallop on the icy road. Behind him, he heard Samwell clamber up on his now rested horse.
Dusk fell, and as the night turned darker and they lost sight of the road, still Jon punished the horse below him. But the beast had its limits and despite Jon pushing for more, the horse slowed into a trot and finally listlessly walked about. Jon led the horse to the side of the road, looked up to call for Rhaegal who did not come. From the distance, Jon could see that the dragon took advantage of the brief pause in the snow and flew in the distance. His breath came deep and fast as he struggled to contain himself. Ser Davos would arrive with a part of the host in time, and Jon could take the freshest horse they had. Fuck their reservations in charging as a lone rider. Fuck the need to lead the host, and fuck thinking wisely.
Winterfell was crawling with wights and he was acting rationally. Strategy could fly in the fucking winds. His wife was in Winterfell… his siblings… his child.
His face was chapped and frozen now as he waited in the night. Finally he saw the small group of men coming, and he called Ser Davos for another mount. There was no mount for him, no beast that had taken rest in the punishing hours on the road.
Jon stalked towards Ser Davos and pulled another thick blanket from one of the animals, then pulled it over his fur cloak, tightly around himself. Jon reached for a flask and gulped a healthy measure of the brew. His jaw set, he turned his back on the men and walked.
Samwell followed closely behind him. "Jon, Ser Davos is right. Wait a while and soon you can take another horse."
Jon did not respond. Instead he hiked down the Kingsroad on his way to Winterfell. "I tried to fight, Jon. Really I did."
"No matter, Sam," Jon gritted out. "Stay with the men and you have nothing to be afraid of."
Samwell panted as he kept pace with Jon. He grabbed Jon's arm, and then Jon stopped and glared at him. "I didn't want to run, but my father was right. I am a coward." Samwell raised the tightly wrapped bundle and quickly undid the rope, then bared the beautiful weapon. The hilt was worked into the huntsman sigil of House Tarly, crafted like a bow and arrow. On either sides of the hunters in the crossguard were animals representing the other houses, such as a lion and a stag. Arrogantly enough upon the creation of the weapon, one of the preys appeared to be the three headed dragon of House Targaryen. He unsheathed the weapon, then thrust the five hundred year old greatsword towards Jon as an offering. "I don't deserve Heartsbane. It's useless on me. You should have it for the war. It's Valyrian steel."
Jon's gloved hands touched the precious blade. Headfirst into the thick of the Night King's army, any Valyrian blade could save lives. Next to Ice, this was the largest and most elegant Valyrian weapon he had seen.
Jon Snow pushed on the blade firmly and refused it. "I've taken one family sword from the heir of a great family," he told Samwell, touching Longclaw at his side always. "A bastard would need only one. Keep it. Pass it on to little Sam."
When he turned to look back at Ser Davos and his party, Jon suddenly found himself out of the open road and into a damp, dark room. His eyes adjusted to his environment, and slowly recognized the flickering light that bounced off the walls. He looked down at his boots and found paws angled on the stone floor. Beyond great stone figures he saw them, heard his brother yell.
And then the Night King's arm shot out, fingers tangled into Daenerys hair. She cried out at the sharp pain as she stumbled backwards. Jon felt the deep growl in his throat and he lowered himself on the cold stone. And then he bared his teeth and leapt over the stone status, lunging forward in attack.
~o~o~
Daenerys could feel the eyes of the Kings of Winter, watching, guarding.
"Run!" Bran cried out to them.
Beside her, Arya grasped her hand and turned to bolt. Daenerys screamed in pain when the Night King's long reach twisted and tore at her hair, holding her back and towards him. And then the large shadow loomed from behind the statues. Next she found herself grappled to the floor, her shoulder screaming when the pain burst where she hot the stone. Daenerys pressed her lips together to muffle her cry and she gripped her arm and rolled onto her back.
She turned her head, and that is when she saw the glowing red eyes stark against the bright white fur. She choked back her tears, but recoiled when the giant direwolf sniffed her neck. Daenerys froze in place. "Ghost!" Arya whispered. Jon's direwolf, she realized, remembering the stories Jon shared of Winterfell. She reached forward and buried her fingers into the white fur. The giant animal turned and growled at the intruder. With the animal's back to her, Daenerys squirmed backwards, deeper into the crypts.
When she was far enough it was Sansa that helped her up to her feet. And then the elder Stark girl turned to her sister with Tully blue eyes. Sansa cupped Arya's cheeks in her hands. "Listen," she said, with a strength in her voice that Daenerys rarely heard, "you need to go. You know the crypts best. I'm going back for Bran."
"No," Arya protested. "We go together. That's what you said. We stay together to survive."
Daenerys looked back towards the white direwolf, still growling, pacing back and forth the narrow corridor. To her amazement the Night King merely stared back at the wolf, refusing to take a step forward. When the direwolf moved forward, the Night King stepped backwards away from Bran and towards the steps.
Sansa smiled, and placed a kiss on her sister's forehead. "That's why I need to get Bran." She nodded towards Daenerys. "There will be no lone wolves tonight," Sansa declared. "The queen is Jon's wife now, and if there is anyone that Jon trusts to protect his child, it's you." Arya's eyes flooded. "And you know it."
The words lit a fire in the dragon that she was, but this was not the time to stand tall and insist that it was only in Daenerys she had faith in. She was a part of the pack now, and with her army returning the Starks would need her protection as much as she needed Arya to guide her through the crypts.
And then Sansa dried up her sister's tears with her gloves. "Maybe there's use for all those days you were lost exploring the crypts."
Arya nodded. With one last look at Sansa who had edged closer to Bran now, Daenerys and Arya run deeper into the dark crypt. They reached another set of steps, taking the flight down, then another and another. The crypts were ancient, Arya had told her, far larger than the castle above it. Even Old Nan, who had lived the longest of all the people in Winterfell, could not tell how truly deep and vast the crypts were, nor could she say what else was underneath.
Finally, there were no more flights. Faintly, above them, they could hear the noises until they too were silenced. In the deepest recesses of the crypts, the torches dimmed for lack of air. Down there below, the air was as cold as it had been beyond the wall. Impossible, Daenerys thought, because snow blanketed the world out there but here at least enclosed and deep in the earth, close the the natural hot springs, it should have been warmer still. But the dead was cold and cold it was below.
Every breath was labor now, so cold and dead it was. She heard a whisper, faint, like a spirit. Daenerys turned and found only emptiness around her. She lifted the torch and pressed forward but save for statues so old they crumbled and crawled with lichen, there was nothing. Arya's hand closed over hers.
Daenerys swallowed. A cold finger crawled down her spine. In the still air the flame of her torch danced happily, as if in welcome celebration.
She wondered if Arya could feel that presence, hear the whisper in the deep stillness.
Daenerys wondered if it was just a touch of madness.
Finally, they reached a dead end. Arya reached forward with her torch and saw the collapsed rocks blocking the tunnel. On the wall, there was a large carving. Daenerys peered at it, but it was too large to see properly. The younger woman searched for any opening until finally, Daenerys spied a corner where they could step through.
"I will go," Arya offered, "to make sure this is the path."
"Have you been here before?"
Arya shook her head. "I had never explored farther than a few hundred years. The crypt has been here since Bran the Builder."
No one knew exactly when. It was legend more than history. Nothing before Aegon conquered Westeros had been written down. There was no history before the Targaryens.
Arya crawled into the opening, and Daenerys soon followed. When Arya objected, Daenerys told her, "There are no lone wolves tonight. I need a savior only as much as you do. You are not here to protect me."
Arya was certain they had reached the very end of it when they happened upon an open vault. Unused, obviously, since there was no statue or marker there. The flame of Arya's torch flickered and died. Deep in the darkness there was only one flame now. Daenerys knew they needed rest. Perhaps in the morning by some miracle some light would peer through. While it was improbable Daenerys hoped at least with some rest they would have enough will tomorrow to forge forward and find the steps that would lead them up, away from the siege. If not, at least they could make their way back.
Soon Jon would return, and he would have the most powerful army behind him. Her army. And they would crush the Night King's army and retake Winterfell.
Daenerys and Arya agreed to rest a few moments on the stone floor of the open vault. As Daenerys spread the white fur on the ground, Arya told her, "He will be home tomorrow. I know."
"How do you know?" Daenerys breathed, even if in her heart of hearts, she knew it too.
"Because it's Jon," came the lighthearted response. Arya's chuckle came unexpectedly to Daenerys. "One day, when we are out of here, I want to know how the mother of dragons came to be married to the bastard of Winterfell."
One day when there was time.
One day when the war is won.
She and Jon loved to promise a day that seemed to never come.
"One day," Daenerys repeated. "What if I tell you now?" She closed her eyes and called his face to mind. Arya's stubborn brother, filled with so much pride he could not bend the knee, and as much honor that he did. She could not remember when it was she loved him, but soon enough she did, and her world was forever changed. Daenerys could not know how much of it she told Arya that night, and when it was she finally allowed sleep to claim her from exhaustion.
It could have been morning when finally she woke, or it could have been midnight then. There was no way to tell in the pitch blackness around them. The torch flame had faded out. She called Arya's name, but the young woman did not wake. Daenerys had seen how Arya lit the flame several times.
She felt beside her for the torch, then from the handle grasped the rough metal used to ignite it. Daenerys sat up blearily and tried it once, then twice. And then the small flame jumped and woke, slowly growing in the darkness.
And then light climbed the walls of the open vault. Daenerys felt it before she saw it. There in the corner, embraced by the dark shadows.
"Arya," she called again, but it was as if she was voiceless.
Daenerys's throat closed. Her sight panned the empty walls, and then the flame danced and shivered until she could see into the shadows. Then, slowly, Daenerys drank in the sight of the lone woman there—moon white translucent skin in the thin white shift she wore in tatters and a shock of silver hair covering her face. And then Daenerys saw the chains, dark and rippled, easy enough to recognize Valyrian steel, but not to know why such precious metal would be used to hold a perfect corpse.
She stood and stepped forward, towards the figure.
But they were eight thousand years down in the crypts, she realized, in a vault cut off from the rest by the aging, crumbling, wall.
Eight thousand years, and she was flesh and skin.
Flawless.
And then Daenerys saw herself staring back at bright blue eyes against a face she had dreamed before. It was the first time she had ever seen one so beautiful.
And then the corpse lunged.
~o~o~
Even from afar, Jon could see the gray smoke curling against the white sky. He took a trembling breath. Rhaegal did not come at his command the last few days Jon tried to call for him, but right then even without his call the dragon had allowed him on his back and gave him a view of the destruction of his home from above. Jon saw the scattered bodies within and outside the castle walls. The great keep, used by the family to live their lives the past hundred years lay smoldering, like dying embers in the snow.
His heart tightened at the sight, and he would not be surprised to learn that near two thousand of the men had died.
Nowhere in sight was the army of the dead. Jon urged the dragon to fly in a wide circle, and then Jon saw where the wights had gathered. They needed to keep watch. Any time that army would come, close enough to threaten Winterfell again.
Drogon huffed on the snow in the keep, nursing a wounded limb. The absence of Daenerys was stark in that regard. Where ordinarily she would soothe her hurt child, now she was nowhere to be seen. Rhaegal allowed him off at the castle gates. The snow falling was softer now, the wind gentler than biting. As if he was not surrounded by death.
The last he saw, in the unconscious, uncontrolled way he skinchanged, Daenerys was alive. For that small measure of relief, Jon was grateful for the gift.
Like an offering of flowers, snow slowly blanketed the fallen men. When the host arrived and the army gathered, the arduous task began of gathering the dead, brothers all. Men in their Stark plates and Targaryen colors bled together on Winterfell soil, and were placed in rows upon rows together. There were no houses to separate the ones who died defending Winterfell. The courtyard that saw their last proud stand saw their last formation.
"We have to burn them," Jon said aloud. Not one man that fell there deserved the indignity of rising as a wight.
Outside, the Dothraki who returned from Karhold had begun to create the pyres for the fallen and their horses. One of Daenerys's kos walked over to Jon. "Khaleesi," was the only word he said, perhaps because he knew Jon's inability to understand them.
Daenerys would want, as difficult as it would be, to see her men off to join whichever gods they worshipped.
As much as he owed it to these men, he realized he could not wait. He reached for the ko to offer his apologies, but without Ser Jorah or Daenerys the words would be meaningless. He nodded to one of the horselords who lit the Dothraki pyre. In the months he had spent with Daenerys, he may not have learned the language but he had enough respect to learn their beliefs. He said aloud, "May your ashes rise to the stars. May you join the khalasar of the Great Stallion. May your spirit ride with your ancestors in the Night Lands."
Inside the walls, Northmen and Unsullied bodies were placed a series of pyres, hastily made. They fought against time, needed to ensure that the bodies were burned before the Night King would have the chance to raise them.
There was a long groan, and a pile of bodies moved. Jon raised Longclaw, prepared to cut down if the bodies rise. Instead it was Jaime Lannister underneath, pushing at the bodies to gasp for breath. Jon sheathed his sword.
"My brother," Jaime gasped. Ser Jaime had fought the wights that had tried to reach Daenerys, Samwell told him. Jon reached down a hand to help the knight to his feet. "Tyrion fled with the Starks." Ser Jaime looked towards the great keep horrified at the sight. "In there."
He contained his impulse to search for her now, else more death would follow using the faces of their own dead. Jon stood and listened as the captain of the Stark bowmen and Grey Worm bid farewell.
It was the first time that Jon saw so many men fallen, so many bodies burned. He stood quietly, respectfully.
Jon called for the kos of Daenerys's khalasar and Grey Worm of the Unsullied. The men's faces were they stood before him, he said, "We have lost many men today, and we thank them for their sacrifice. But the war is not won. I need—"
"Lord Snow," Grey Worm said, his words careful, intentional, "the Unsullied marched to Karhold with you, on a mission from our queen. The mission is done. The Unsullied take command only from Daenerys Stormborn."
One of the kos took a chance to speak, his Dothraki thick, passionate. Grey Worm looked forward as the ko spoke. "Fighting along beside him," Grey Worm said to Jon, "I understand." In broken translation, Grey Worm said, "They fight for you. They joined you. And they lost their brothers and the khaleesi. You are not the khal."
And it was true. If he followed a leader who had also had not been wise enough to anticipate this great loss, he would have walked away. Jon turned around and stalked back towards the first keep. "We need Lord Tyrion. Now." Ser Jaime followed close behind. Having seen Daenerys and his siblings in the crypts, Jon knew the path that they had taken. The went past the godswood, keeping close to the great keep that had burned. When they were close to the lichyard, Jon said to Ser Jaime, "Keep your eyes open, Ser Jaime."
True enough, they saw the foot peering out from behind a boulder. The Night King had been intent, he knew it. Tyrion was a bit player, to him not worth the time that would be lost if he had to be killed. Jaime cried out his brother's name and knelt before Tyrion's body.
Jon stopped before them. "Is he alive?"
Jaime placed a hand on Tyrion's neck, then released a breath of relief. "He's alive." He shook his brother awake.
While Jaime helped Tyrion to regain consciousness, Jon's eyes dotted to the ironwood entrance of the crypts. The shattered door, as well as Lord Tyrion appearing to have been tossed aside, spoke volumes to how the Night King had found them. The last he had seen was that the Night King had been pushed back towards the steps, unable without Bran, to get past the iron swords and guardposts of the Stark kings.
Ghost bounded from the stone steps.
"Good. You did well," he told his direwolf, certain that the Night King had left the crypts at least. From behind Ghost, Sansa supported Bran up the steps, her face strained with exertion at the weight of her brother. Jon clasped Sansa's nape and kissed her forehead, then embraced Bran. And then he asked Sansa, "Where are they?"
tbc