AN: The Long Night! Finally! It took me a while to decide what I wanted to do for this, so I hope this meets any expectations. Battles are admittedly not my bag.

(Part 2 coming up soon!)

Every Loyalty

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Chapter XIV:

What Remains

Part I

Willem was glad to catch sight of Tormund entering Winterfell with his band of Wildlings, along with Beric Dondarrion and the remaining men of the Night's Watch.

It had already been months since their cold, harsh days at Eastwatch together had been made lighter by the man's loud, but generally amusing personality. He'd always made Will feel included in the men's basest jokes and stories.

Even though the red-haired Wildling perhaps now looked worse for wear, he set a large hand on the top of Will's head and fondly ruffled him.

"Aye lad, good to see ya still alive," Tormund smirked. Though it fell short. "Where's Jon?"

"I'll take you to him," Will offered.

"No need." Jon strode forward to clasp the Wildling's arms. "I thought we'd lost you."

"Almost," Tormund nodded. Jon greeted Edd Tollett next with a crushing hug.

Ser Davos often allowed Will to read his messages, and so knew of the reports from villages near the Wall. Eastwatch had been laid waste by the Dead, a portion of the Wall there crumbled down. With no word back from any survivors, they'd been forced to assume the worst.

"We met up at the Last Hearth," Edd explained. "The Dead got there first."

"The Umbers?" Jon asked gravely. Beric was just as solemn.

"Fighting for the Night King now."

"We had to travel around them to get here," Tormund said. "Whoever's not here now, is with them."

Apprehension grew in Will's gut. He looked to Jon, who didn't very well manage to hide his either.

"How long do we have?" he asked.

Tormund shook his head. "Before the sun comes up tomorrow."

He looked around the courtyard then.

"Is the big woman still here?"

"The Great Keep?" Will exclaimed. Davos handed him a pile of firewood.

"If you're going to argue, set the fire there. We'll be here a long while once the meeting starts," he said. Will nearly threw the pile at the man's feet, but as Davos so often reminded him, you hardly get your point across by huffin' and puffin'.

He set the bricks of wood in the fireplace and stoked the embers back into a moderate flame. "I don't belong in the keep with women and children. I'm your squire! I…I should be at your side, no matter what happens."

Will turned back to Davos, whose gaze pondered the battle tactics represented in the stone pieces set on the table in front of him. His gloved hands gripped the edge.

"Your sister was at the Blackwater, was she not?" he asked. "And you were home at Casterly Rock?"

Will nodded, wondering what he was getting at. Davos beckoned him to take a seat in one of the heavy chairs across from him, and the boy obliged.

"Well, I was there too, fighting on the other side."

"For Stannis Baratheon," Will affirmed. Before coming to Winterfell, he would've called Davos Seaworth a traitor. He now knew that belonging to a great house wasn't the same as being honorable.

"Yes. I was his Hand, in name at least." Davos took in a breath, and his eyes became dark with what looked like sadness, but more. Whatever it was, it deepened the lines in his face.

"I was there when wildfire set the Blackwater ablaze," he said. "It consumed the ships, and the men with it. In my dreams I hear their screams as the flesh was licked off their bones."

Will was held still by the haunted grief, clear as day in the older man's eyes.

"My greatest shame will always be that I led my own son into battle that day, and never found his body afterwards," he said. "So you'll forgive me, if I try to learn from my mistakes."

The heavy silence that followed was soon broken, as the door to the war room opened to Jon and Sam Tarley, followed by the rest of the Stark siblings. Will took his chance to slip out before the Dragon Queen entered with her advisors. The council meeting to discuss their fate would soon begin.

Biding your time, waiting for the perfect moment...whatever you do, just be careful, Jon.

Sam's words rattled around in Jon's head long after they stood with Edd on the ramparts of Winterfell, nearly able to pretend that they were still the same Men of the Night's Watch as they were years ago.

Preparations were being set in place, and hopefully they would be fully fortified before the Long Night came.

Well, fortified as they could be with what they had. Though they certainly had been able to forge several hundreds of weapons from the stores of dragonglass they'd brought back from Dragonstone. Too seldom few possessed weapons made from Valyrian steel.

Outside the armory, Brienne of Tarth worked with Jaime Lannister to organize the distribution of arms. Meanwhile, Grey Worm gave Jon a full report on where they stood with fortifying Winterfell's walls.

"The northern gate is strong as it can be," said the captain.

"And the west and south gates?" Jon asked. "We can't let those weaken either. The main Keep will be exposed if the West Gate falls. Brienne, will you help oversee the west, and Grey Worm, the south?"

Both Brienne and Grey Worm nodded and left to carry out the instruction. Jon's attention then turned to the men and women carrying out wagons of dragonglass weapons to their proper stations, or being outfitted with armor and weapons themselves. He soon caught Jaime Lannister watching him while he sharpened a blade on a stone wheel.

Jon wasn't entirely sure having this particular Lannister here was wise, but Sansa trusted Brienne's judgment, and so did Jon. What unsettled him now what the knowledge he carried, and if he should share it with the Dragon Queen. His sense of honor told him it was only right to tell her the truth about his true heritage...but Larisa's words from days ago were making him hesitate.

"Then I should be more like you," she'd said. "Not worrying about tomorrow, or the consequences of my decisions."

The whirring of steel against stone ceased, snapping Jon out of his thoughts. He glanced up as Jaime handed a newly sharpened sword to a Northerner and next picked up a knife. Just as Jon meant to leave the courtyard, the Kingslayer spoke.

"I don't envy you, Jon Snow," he said. "But even I can admit, you've achieved an impossible feat."

"What's that?" Jon asked, somewhat dryly.

"You managed to convince Danaerys Targaryen to fight for you, to pledge her armies and her dragons to your cause, without even bedding her first," Jaime replied. Amusement grew in his slight smirk. "That, surely, is one for the history books."

Jon hid his disgust behind a flat look. Jaime began to sharpen the long knife, giving Jon the opening he needed to take his leave. But once again, the Lannister's voice stopped him.

"Your sister is perhaps less open-minded than you," he said. Jon turned around, his brow raising incredulously.

"If it wasn't for Sansa, you wouldn't be here," Jon pointed out.

"It was Brienne who vouched for me, if you'd like to be exact," Jaime said. "But I do find it curious. She will accept a Kingslayer under her midst, but a mere scullery maid, she'll have thrashed into the snow, simply for showing the new Warden of the North her favor."

Jon's dark brows furrowed further. "What are you talking about?"

Jaime nearly sighed. He finished sharpening the knife and handed it to Jon, hilt first.

"Of all the Lannisters who now dwell in the North, your sister seems most threatened by the least dangerous of them all."

Jon took the knife, but was otherwise still and quiet for a moment. His mind turned Jaime's words over, until his customary frown deepened.

Jon's thoughts traveled as quickly as his path, which brought him indoors, and almost to Larisa's chamber. They hadn't spoken in days, and now his guilt was heaping layer after layer, every time he thought of what he said to her. How he hadn't been there for her as he should have done.

But then his steps took him to a different hall, one he'd known by heart since he was a child. He knew the layout of it with his eyes closed, knew its smell and the way the sound of footfalls changed from wooden steps to stone floors: the chamber dedicated to the Lord and Lady of Winterfell.

His sister was inside with her maid, Martha, and it looked like they had just finished supper.

"Oh, good. How are the preparations going?" Sansa asked, taking a sip of wine. "I'm going down in a moment to check on Garda's efforts for storing supplies."

"First, I need to speak with you," Jon said. He looked over to Martha. "Can you give us a moment, please?"

Martha nodded in respect and took the used dishes out from the room.

Sansa took in her brother's demeanor and stood along with him. "What's wrong, Jon?"

With the restrained anger churning in his gut, he could only be direct.

"Did you threaten Larisa?" Jon asked. He watched Sansa closely. Her lips pursed, and he could see in her eyes that she was considering denying it. But after a moment, she gave a stubborn tilt of her chin. Jon moved closer to his sister. She held her ground, but her gaze fell from his face.

"Sansa, did you hurt her?" he pressed.

"You think I would—"

"You would, and you have done!" Jon's temper flared with his raised voice, but when Sansa flinched, he relented. He would never raise a hand to her, even in anger. Especially not in anger.

He touched her arm, gentle but firm. "Why? Why are you tormenting her when she's done nothing to you?"

Once again, Sansa remained stubborn. "I'm protecting you."

"I don't need you to protect me," he said. "I need you to show Larisa Lannister and her brother respect, and stop treating her like a threat."

"If I don't protect you, who will?" Sansa snapped. "I wasn't there for Robb, but by the Gods, I will for you."

Evoking Robb did pull at Jon's heart, but he wouldn't let that distract him.

"Why the hell do you hate her so much? What is it, Sansa?"

Sansa slipped out of his grasp, distancing herself from him to cross her arms.

"Because I know who she really is, even if you don't," she said.

"Then tell me. Tell me how you could possibly know her better than I've come to know her?" he demanded.

For a long moment, Sansa was silent. She crossed the room, if only for a sip of wine to steady her. Jon watched her with frustration and curiosity, but she finally set the glass down and turned back to him.

"You know very well what my experience was like at King's Landing," she said. "I feared for my life with every step after Father was executed, and I was mocked and humiliated at every turn. By Joffrey, obviously, and by Cersei, but most of all by the ladies of court."

Jon knew all of this, and had a feeling he knew where she was headed.

"Larisa was there along with them, twittering along with the gossip behind my back," Sansa said. "I remember every word, every sneer they tossed behind my back when they thought I didn't know it. I saw how much Larisa demured before her cousin, the queen. How much she admired Cersei."

Jon neared Sansa and grasped her gently by the shoulders, in support and comfort.

"I'm sorry for what you went through," he said. "I wish I could've been there to get you out...but you both were young and afraid."

Sansa's lips once again pursed in irritation.

"Navigating that place is how Larisa survived, not unlike how you survived. And she isn't the only one who learned to emulate Cersei," he knowingly pointed out. Sansa looked away from him in irritation, but Jon wouldn't let her, following her gaze. He implored her to listen to him. "But like you, she is loyal to her true family, the family that she loves."

He wasn't sure if Sansa fully accepted his words. Eventually though, she looked up at him without resentment or anger, only with a simple curiosity.

"And do you think she loves you?" she asked.

Jon hesitated at the question. He hadn't truly thought about it until now, in those terms.

Because after that first night they shared on the ship, he had never doubted Larisa's heart since.

Jon left Sansa's chamber and, not for the first time, his mind warred with his heart on what to do next.

He really should meet with Grey Worm to continue preparations, or even Danaerys. But when he considered the knife on his belt, the one Jaime Lannister had given him, he couldn't let one more day pass without making one thing right. Jon quickly made his way to the lower depths of the great Keep, through halls that had been rebuilt after the Greyjoys had burned it down.

When he finally found what he was looking for, his hand reached out, and the resulting knock on the door echoed too loudly in the near-darkness.

"Enter."

Jon pushed the door open and stepped inside, shutting it behind him afterwards. The sight of her both relieved him, and made his chest tighten. It was maddening.

Larisa sat at a simple vanity and mirror. She let the length of her hair run loose over her shoulders and set down the hairbrush, turning to him then with guarded eyes.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, my lord?"

Her snark was thinly veiled, but he read the truth of her wariness after she looked away from him. She allowed him to approach her where she sat, and gently he weaved his fingers through her dark hair, brushing her cheek with his thumb.

"The Dead will be upon us by tonight. Tomorrow, if we're lucky," he said.

Her hands folded over her lap. "Davos informed me. Why are we delegated to the Great Keep?"

"We considered the Crypts, but should the Night King raise more of the dead, the Keep is the best alternative," Jon explained. "It's larger, its walls are harder to penetrate, and it lies far from the North Gate, where they are most likely to hit us first."

His hand fell away from her to reach for the smaller sheathed weapon at his belt. She took it from him, tentatively, and unsheathed the ten-inch blade. Her face seemed to pale as she found her reflection in dragonglass.

"What would I even do with this?" Her voice shook only slightly, but it was enough for him to recognize her fear, which she all too often was able to hide.

Jon was able to offer something of a grin, if only to try and set her a little more at ease. "The idea's fairly simple."

He was rewarded with a flat look. He then guided her out of the chair by the elbows and stood directly in front of her. He covered his hands over hers and showed her how she should wield a dagger of its size, and reminded her of where to aim on a Wight.

"Shouldn't you be overseeing the preparations?" she asked, somewhat sharply. "How is it you can be wasting your time here?"

Jon helped her sheathe the weapon and he set it down on the vanity, steadying her shaking hands afterwards.

"I want to be less reckless," he admitted. "I want to survive, so I can protect my family, and my people. I want to be with you, and you with me."

She stilled in his arms, her green eyes widening.

There came a knock at the door, and it soon opened to his sister. Arya's face was unreadable as she watched them, but she stood dressed in the leathers of battle. "It's time, Jon."

"Your brother is there on the ramparts," Jon said. "I have to go."

Larisa knew that well enough. It didn't mean she was ready.

Perhaps he saw that too. His gloved hand cradled her cheek once more, and his lips pressed a kiss to her forehead. She couldn't find anything to say to him; in that moment, nothing she thought of was good enough.

She allowed her gaze to linger on Jon when he finally parted from her to join his men. When the battle finally began, she knew he would be riding the dragon Rhaegal, far above them, and out of her reach.

Her stomach turned as she followed Arya to the battlements, where Sansa already stood with Davos and Willem. The moon was shrouded in the night sky with dark clouds that hardly looked natural, coiling around one another like snakes. The wind picked up and cut through her leathers and furs.

She watched the white expanse beyond Winterfell's walls. There Northmen, Wildlings, Dothraki and Unsullied soldiers defended the border in a blockade. She watched what looked like the entirety of the Dothraki riding on into the deep dark, where the wind seemed thickest. Their hollers echoed, until they were swallowed up by that abyss.

Less than half returned to the blockade.

Larisa grasped her brother's shoulder, whether to stead him, or herself, she didn't know. Will's eyes met hers, wide and warring with fear.

"Get to the Great Keep." Arya's voice was sharp, but not without care as she looked at her sister. She handed her a dagger not unlike the one Larisa now carried.

Arya nodded at her and Will next. "All of you."

Larisa eagerly followed Sansa down the ramparts, making sure that Will wasn't far behind her. Her breath billowed in front of her in the cold as they made their way past the Crypts, the towers, the entrance to the Godswood, and the armory.

When they finally reached the Great Keep, the sounds of battle were already underway. Tyrion met them at the gate, just as dragonfire breached the skies like flashes of lightning.

Tyrion nearly hid his apprehension. "Good timing."

Sansa seemed to bite back a remark as a dragon's roar bellowed overhead. They quickly followed him inside, and the guards behind him locked the gate shut with heavy chains.

They descended a steep flight of stairs until coming to a long hallway, and then a large room that was once a private wine cellar for the Lord of Winterfell. Now it held dozens of those who could not fight in the battle raging above.

Sansa awkwardly made her way through her people, perhaps with the knowledge that she couldn't do any more for them. Larisa followed behind and watched her sit with Tyrion, Varys, Martha and Missandei nearby. Larisa opted to sit a little ways from them beside Garda, and to her relief, Will joined her without her having to ask.

"Her ladyship graces me with her presence then," Garda sent her a smirk. "I'm honored."

Larisa refused to answer, though she noted how the remark earned a small smile from her brother.

"Is it bad?" the older woman asked.

"It will be," Larisa said.

Garda's expression became a touch more serious, but also resigned. Her smile lessened. "T'was afraid of that."

Larisa turned her head away. She didn't want to speak. Her heart ached with her inability, with inexplicable roiling. This was the safest place to be for hundreds of miles in all directions, and yet…

For a moment she watched Tyrion and the others tossing back volleys of wit as nobles were prone to do. She was one of them, and yet not. Or not anymore?

It didn't matter now anyway. Perhaps for the first time in her life, she didn't give two shits about what she was or what anyone thought of her.

Conversation ceased as the ground and walls began to shake. Lines of dirt fell from the ceiling as heads turned and whispered filled the room.

"You in there! Let us in! Quick, let us in!"

There were men outside the cellar pounding against the doors, begging for entrance. Larisa raised her head. Her eyes eventually met with Martha's. She sat pale and harrowed beside Sansa.

"Oh gods—they're comin'!"

"Don't open the door," Sansa ordered.

No one dared move, even when the sounds of their screams and cloying for life reverberated through the cellar.

Larisa couldn't peel her gaze from the girl, who trembled like a leaf with her hands over her ears. Sansa grabbed Martha's hand and spoke to her in low tones. The scene was familiar; while blatantly watching it, Larisa could see herself huddling in the depths of King's Landing, her lips moving silently with unspoken prayers to the Seven while Stannis Baratheon rattled the city gates.

The screams died down, but the pounding on the doors only grew louder with the hisses and screeches of the Dead.

"We're going to die."

Larisa turned sharply to her brother. He held his knees in a white-knuckle grip, staring hard at the floor. "After everything, we're going to die this time."

Regaining a bit of herself, she grabbed his shoulder so he would face her, and hear her properly.

"This isn't the end. We won't die here," she said.

"You don't know that."

Her lips pursed. She didn't have an answer to that; not one he would accept, anyway.

"Do you know why I nag you? Why I've held on so tight to protect you?" she asked. "It's not just because I helped Mother raise you. I did the same with Martyn."

She cupped his face.

"Out of all our siblings, Will, I knew you wouldn't be like Father," her voice shook as she held his hand tightly with both of hers. "If there is one thing, just one thing I can be proud of in this world, it's that…maybe, I helped you become a good man one day."

For a moment, it seemed as if he hadn't heard her with his gaze so fixed on the ground.

Then, Will squeezed her hands.

"After you got married and left home," he said, "it didn't feel like home until you came back."

Tears slipped down Larisa's cheeks, though she didn't bother to brush them away.

Finally he looked up at her. "Father's gone now. So is Lancel and Martyn, and Mother is lost. But…but we're still here."

She nodded and kissed the crown of his head.

"We're still here," she agreed.

The large cellar doors creaked and groaned as the hissing grew louder.

An ax split those doors at the center.

Jon couldn't see a fucking thing.

The moment he'd glimpsed the guard of White Walkers, he'd tried to steer Rhaegal into a steep dive. He cut through the sky faster than he could even comprehend toward the high ledge of snow where they stood surveying the carnage below.

The impact that drove Rhaegal back rattled Jon's very bones, and it was all he could to stay on the dragon's back while large claws and teeth snapped at him. The winds continued to whip his face and darkened his surroundings like a fog.

But then he could see Viserion's undead blue eyes, fierce and mindless, and Jon stared back at his rider that held a spear of ice—the same that felled the dragon he commanded.

The Night King drove Viserion forward. Jon ducked his head and determined to keep it while the dragons clawed and bit at each other. All the while they tumbled down through the air, almost as if in freefall toward the ground.

Finally, he could see the barrier of burning logs that surrounded Winterfell in brilliant flame, but he only saw it for that one suspended moment, before Rhaegal fell into the scores of fighting men. Jon was thrown from the dragon's back into the snow.

He must have lost consciousness, for seconds or minutes, he didn't know. He was just fortunate that the Wights that survived were curving a wide arc to avoid Rhaegal, who though injured and bleeding, was still warring them off with his fire. Viserion's ravaged body lay unmoving beneath him.

When Jon was able to turn his head in the direction of the castle, he thought he could just make out the blurry outline of the Night King stalking toward the blockade. His figure was eventually swallowed up by the ranks of the Dead. Even ones that had been slain were raising collectively behind him.

Jon's body protested sharply with aching pain, but he forced himself to his elbows, then his hands and knees. Drogon roared overhead, and by the time he saw Daenerys flying toward the rest of the battle, he was able to stand and grab hold of his sword. The gate was barely half a mile away, but it seemed an eternity.

"Are you all right?"

He started at the voice, but relaxed marginally to see Jorah Mormont.

"I'm alive," Jon croaked. "For now."

He unsheathed his sword and tossed away the belt. Jorah supported him on his left as they made their way toward the rest of their men at the barrier, cutting down Wights as they went.

"Where's Daenerys?" Jorah's worry was obvious.

"The last I saw her she was flying east, toward the gate," Jon said.

"The Walkers were headed there," Jorah frowned. "Bran must be luring them to the Godswood."

Dread coiled in Jon's gut. He shouldn't have been flying aimlessly in the sky, only to let the Night King slip through his fingers. Now he might once again fail to protect his family.

Both men jumped at the booming sound of boulders slamming against Winterfell's walls. The Wights had pulleys for their blue-flaming projectiles, that even now were setting fire to any banners and wooden supports where they landed.

"I need to be there," Jon said. He swung his sword at a Wight that nearly wrapped a hand around his throat. He stabbed it through the heart and stumbled into the snow. Jorah grabbed under his arm and helped raise him to his feet. They were close enough to the gate that Jon could see the Unsullied barring the way in.

"Can you face them as you are?" Jorah asked.

Jon wiped the blood trickling over his left eye. Before he could answer, Tormund's battle cry cut through just as the man himself swung his large sword, cutting down the gang of Wights that stood in his path.

He grabbed hold of Jon's shoulder and painfully shook him. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"Falling," Jon replied dryly. His friend was bathed in sweat and blood, but the fire in his eyes couldn't be dimmed.

"Good," he spat. "You're better off here on the ground, dyin' along with us."

"We're not dyin' here," Jon said. He looked to the other Northmen and Wildlings being overwhelmed with Wights, and he shouted at the top of his lungs, so all his men could hear.

"We're not dyin' here! This is our fight, and our home!" he said. "They won't take it from us. Not today!"

Many of them bellowed in answer, fighting harder at the rally. Some still were cut down. Jon helped as many as he could and asked several Northmen to follow him. Eventually he found Grey Worm at the gate with Tormund and Jorah at his side.

"We need to reach Bran before the Night King does," Jon said. Grey Worm seemed reluctant to leave his post, to leave the rest of his own Unsullied.

Jon grasped his arm as a comrade, as a brother in arms. "This will only end when we cut the head off the snake."

"I will stand with the Unsullied," Jorah said, sharing a look with Grey Worm.

After one final moment's hesitation, Grey Worm spoke to one of his soldiers in what must've been some form of Valyrian. The soldier hollered a short command, and the Unsullied acknowledged him with a shout, continuing their defensive formation.

Grey Worm raised the hood of his helmet. "We must go now."

Tormund called to some of the Wildlings to join them. He tossed Jon a smirk.

"Let's go kill the blue bastard."