The Worth of Ash
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Game of Thrones or any related titles, characters, plots, settings, etc. These right are the sole property of George R.R. Martin, HBO, and their various publishers and distributors. I own only the original elements of this story, the writing and publishing of which earn me no money.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Under different circumstances, Kyren would have enjoyed the chaos under Winterfell's roof. Not only were various leaders of several armies mixing together, but the entirety of Winterfell was in an uproar after Sansa had accused Petyr Baelish of treachery and sentenced him to death, a sentence which was carried out by Arya. Jaqen H'ghar silently wandered the halls, making more than a few battle-hardened warriors nervous. Tormund Giantsbane bellowed with laughter on a regular basis and flirted with every woman who moved, causing quite a bit of offense among the maids, and Jon and Daenerys Targaryen were rarely seen outside of each other's company. Arya and Sansa were nigh inseparable, and constantly guarded by both Brienne of Tarth and the Hound. To everyone's amusement, Lyanna Mormont had earned the respect of a number of wildlings who followed her constantly, chuckling at every sharp-tongued insult she tossed their way. It was the kind of furor Kyren would have loved had they not been living under the constant threat of the Night King and the Army of the Dead.
The reunion between Jon and Arya had brought tears to Kyren's eyes and she was far from the only one. Jon especially seemed to be biting back his emotions as he embraced the sister he had believed to be dead not a month prior. Kyren had not been certain of what to expect from the younger Stark daughter, but Arya had offered her an embrace as well.
"You've grown up strong as you always wanted and beautiful to boot," Kyren told her quietly.
"You look exactly the same as when I last saw you," Arya said, the warmth in her voice making it a compliment.
It was the last chance they had to speak for quite some time as both had gotten caught up in the preparations for the Night King's arrival. Even if they had not, Kyren tended to avoid the company of the Stark girls for the sheer fact that they were determined to dislike Daenerys, who so obviously returned the sentiment.
Upon one of the few times Kyren had been in a room with both Sansa and Daenerys, the latter had glanced between the other two with a smirk and said, "The pair of you could almost be sisters."
Sansa and Kyren met eyes and Kyren was relieved to find none of the old competitive anger that had filled the Stark girl at such comments. Still, Sansa's voice was icy as she replied, "I have one sister already and no need of any more."
The insult was not directed at Kyren, but she still had to repress a shudder, especially as Daenerys returned, "With such handsome brothers, you may be forced to adjust your needs."
Sansa's lips had thinned as she silently acknowledged the Dragon Queen's subtle warning. If the two had shared each other's company without benefit of an audience after that point, Kyren did not know, but she had been fortunate enough to avoid witnessing any such event.
In the name of preparations to be made, Bran had been able to spy for them using abilities Kyren was too scared to question, putting himself in the body of a bird near the Wall and discovering that the Night King had broken through - and that he had resurrected Viserion, the dragon Daenerys had lost when she went to help capture the wight to show Cersei. The delivery of that news had been one of the few times Kyren had ever seen the Dragon Queen look uncertain.
There had been an uproar late one night when Jaime Lannister arrived at the gates of Winterfell, alone. The armies Cersei had promised, the ones he was to lead, were nowhere to be found. Kyren had never heard of a court being called so late in the evening, but Sansa and Daenerys presided over the Great Hall of Winterfell, a crackling fire lit at their backs. Jon stood nearby and Tyrion was seated beside Daenerys, but the two women were clearly the ones Jaime would have to sway.
Fortunately, despite Daenerys's clear dislike of Jaime and Sansa's suspicion of him, Jaime had won the ability to remain at Winterfell with the help of Brienne and Kyren speaking for his trustworthiness. This was not to say that he had nothing to say in his own defense; he had spoken quite powerfully when Daenerys had accused him of murdering her father in cold blood. He had reminded her unflinchingly of what the Mad King had ordered done to the people of King's Landing. Daenerys had seemed more accepting of the explanation than Kyren had guessed she would, but with such a war to wage, it would be foolish in the extreme to turn away willing soldiers, especially ones with as much experience as Ser Jaime possessed.
After Ser Jaime's acceptance into Winterfell, every interaction between he and Kyren had been met with pointed stares from several parties, most often Tyrion and Sansa, though Daenerys watched them with more than a little suspicion. As such, the two kept their limited meetings formal unless they were blessed with privacy - though, fragile as such a state was in the crowded castle, they did little more than talk and link hands.
In truth, the person most severely affected by Jaime's arrival had been Tyrion. The Dragon Queen had not taken the news of Cersei's betrayal well and her pale eyes had promised that he would regret taking his sister at her word.
The worst reactions had been caused by the sudden arrival of a woman, Melisandre. From the whispers of gathered soldiers, Kyren gleaned that she was some sort of prophetess or sorceress, one who believed in neither the Old Gods nor the New. Instead, she believed that only one existed: the Lord of Light. She could do wondrous, terrible things with the power he had given her, and she was known to use her beauty just as much as her power to ensnare and bewitch men, but the men Kyren knew were also nervous to find her arrived. Gendry especially - having rarely left Arya's side until then - melted into the background as soon as he caught sight of her burgundy cloak.
When calm, steady Ser Davos caught sight of the new arrival, however, his reaction put the rest to shame. The man - one Kyren had never seen angry - drew his sword and held it at the ready in a double-handed grip, clearly ready to take Melisandre's head with a single strike of the blade.
"Davos!" Jon shouted, echoed closely by Kyren and Tyrion.
Several of the others who had grown to know the ex-smuggler were shocked as well and attempted to calm him, but Davos was insistent that he would kill her as he had sworn to do. Melisandre only watched the uproar with her lovely face bearing a condescending smile, a smile which only grew at Daenerys's firm order: "You will stand down, Ser Davos."
"You do not understand, Highness," Davos argued openly, refusing to move his eyes from Melisandre. "This woman killed an innocent girl, burned her alive, bound to a stake before her parents and an army. I vowed I would kill her should I ever have the misfortune to see her again."
Danaerys considered this for a long moment, but shook her head slowly. "She will not be harmed. Her survival is vital to our success."
"But your Majesty!"
Still smiling, Melisandre gave Davos a pitying look. "Only death can pay for life. Had the princess lived, Jon Snow would have remained dead."
Kyren glanced at Jon, who appeared both disgusted and horrified that his current life was dependent on the death of a young girl.
"That isn't true," a nonchalant voice disagreed. The buzzing of conversations around the hall halted abruptly as everyone turned to stare at Beric Dondarrian. "I've died six times now and Thoros - Lord of Light keep his soul - never killed another being to make it so."
Melisandre stood silent, face suddenly drawn and paler than it had been thus far. Danaerys looked at her, waiting patiently until it became apparent that the priestess had no ready response. With the air of explaining a simple fact to a small child, she said, "Perhaps Thoros killed when you were away from him."
Beric gave a small chuckle. "You don't understand the Brotherhood Without Banners, Queen. We are always in sight of a brother. Is that not right, Clegane?"
The Hound grunted and Kyren wondered how she had managed not to see his hulking form in the crowd before that point. "True enough. Can't take a piss without five cunts watching."
The dull sound of whispered conversations grew louder until Danaerys stood. "While this has been quite interesting, my decision stands. By order of the Queen, no one shall lay a hand on the Lady Melisandre."
Slowly, Jon stepped forward. "My Queen, perhaps we should discuss-"
"By order of the Queen," Danaerys repeated firmly, sweeping away.
When Daenerys and Melisandre had gone - the former accompanied as always by Missandei, Grey Worm, Ser Jorah, and Tyrion - Tormund looked to Davos. "Did the red-haired witch truly kill a girl?"
Davos nodded, his faded blue eyes distant as he finally sheathed his sword. "She did. Her name was Shireen. She never did anything but help. She was guilty only of being the daughter of Stannis Baratheon."
Tormund squinted. "Brave little thing, one side of her face burnt near as bad as the Hound's?"
"It was greyscale," Davos corrected with surprise in his tone. "How do you know of her?"
"She visited Mace when we were locked up in the dungeons of the Wall."
She did?" Davos seemed more fond than shocked now, a hint of a smile around his mouth.
"Aye, she did. Said she wanted to understand why he did what he did, what we were fighting for in the North. She was a good lass, had the makings of a better ruler than Stannis or that Queen downstairs. She didn't deserve to die."
"No, she didn't," Davos agreed, voice thick.
"You should have run that witch through while you had her at swordpoint."
"Dany forbade him to," Jon reminded. "We need her to light the fires on the battlefield."
Tormund shot Jon an unimpressed look. "As if she's the only person around here who can light a fire? Truth is that the white-haired Dragon has only one thing in mind."
"Survival," Jon said sharply.
Davos looked murderous, but Tormund rested a restraining hand on the older man's shoulder. "You know better than that, King in the North. That woman is protecting only one thing and it is her own interests. A true leader decides for the good of his people."
Jon shook his head, plainly irritated. "She is our queen. So long as you're south of the Wall, she is yours as well. Have a care how you speak."
With that, Jon moved away, leaving Davos, Kyren, and Tormund confused and upset. When he was gone from earshot, Davos sighed frustratedly. "I don't understand why he won't speak against her."
"Because she's pretty," Tormund told him plainly. "She's pretty and she wants him and it's hard for any man to see past that."
Kyren made a sound of disagreement. "I think you aren't giving Jon enough credit. I think he has at last realized that Daenerys is not good for Westeros. He is still attempting to accept it."
Tormund snorted. "I think that woman would rather see your Seven Kingdoms destroyed than allow them to slip from her. As for the witch, give her no further thought, Davos. Things have a way of resolving themselves." Tormund gave Davos a commiserating pat on the shoulder and walked away.
The next morning, preparations for the battle with thick around Winterfell. Perhaps the busiest section were the forges. Winterfell's forges were thick with activity as Gendry directed every man with a hint of ability to form weapons from the Dragonglass taken from Dragonstone. Additionally, the forge in the small town outside of Winterfell's walls was bustling as Adarien Graen - long since moved up to head blacksmith after completing his apprenticeship - worked from Gendry's instructions to make Dragonglass weapons.
Kyren received a raven at breakfast from Adarien, inviting her to his forge to see something he had been working on for some time. As she re-rolled the scroll and tucked it away in a pocket, Jaime Lannister slid into the spot across from her.
"Who is sending you missives?" he asked with the arch of a golden eyebrow - though the gold was shot through with more silver than Kyren had remembered seeing.
"Adarien Graen, a friend who operates the smith's forge outside the walls. He bade me come visit," she answered plainly, finishing her meager breakfast as she finished speaking. Winterfell's supplies were being badly taxed by hosting three separate armies, despite the diverse groups of men who banded together to hunt on a near-daily basis.
Jaime frowned, picking absently at his own sparse plate. "Is he the boy you were so fond of before we left for King's Landing? The one who made your daggers?"
Kyren could only blink at him. "He- Yes, he is. How is it that you know about that?"
"You told me about it, when you were injured and we shared a bed at the Crossroads Inn." Jaime frowned even more fiercely than before. "As for why I remember it, I haven't the faintest idea. Probably shock that a girl-child like you claimed to have kissed a man before."
With a half-offended chuckle, Kyren returned, "Pardon my lack of experience, O' Great Ancient One! I was not aware that I was so lacking in worldly mannerisms before seeing King's Landing."
"It seems you've adjusted rather well," he said dryly. "Why does the blacksmith wish to see you now? Does he hope to rekindle the relationship?"
"Doubtful," Kyren said flatly, refusing to respond to the teasing note in Jaime's voice. "I understand that he has been married for a number of years now and his wife has given him two sons."
"That means little," he snorted. "When do we leave?"
Kyren watched him dissect his food with care, using the golden hand as a sort of fork to hold his food in place while he cut it. She thought briefly of refusing to let him join her, but decided against it. He had a familiar look in his emerald eyes, one that said he would not back down. She sighed and told him, "As soon as possible."
It was a fairly pleasant meeting, made slightly uncomfortable only when Adarien offered a familiar embrace upon their meeting. With a glare from Ser Jaime, Adarien had released her and stepped back with a confused quirk of his eyebrow in Kyren's direction. She only rolled her eyes slightly at him and he grinned in understanding.
"I know the two of you are as busy with your preparations as I am with mine, but I wanted to show you these, Kyren." Adarien stepped to a shelf in his forge only to return with a beautiful oak box. He handed it to Kyren without further ceremony and she balanced the surprising weight in one hand so she could lift the top with the other.
Inside, nestled against a crush of rough-spun black cloth, were seven Dragonglass-bladed daggers.
Kyren gasped shallowly and lifted one blade. It was balanced precisely as she preferred, just the way no other dagger she had found in Westeros or Essos had managed.
Adarien smiled broadly. "Test it," he encouraged, gesturing to a training mannequin standing in the corner. "I know you'll want to be sure it meets your standards."
With only that encouragement, Kyren launched the dagger at the training mannequin. It flew like a dream, firmly sticking where the mannequin's eye would be if it had been given such features. When she retrieved the dagger, its blade was still perfect, without so much as a notch along the blade.
She thanked Adarien profusely and tried to pay him, but he had refused. Further conversation had been cut short when he had been called away to assist with creating a Dragonglass axe and Kyren had left the forge with her box of daggers cradled in her arms.
Jaime remained silent until they had reached an upper hall of Winterfell. "Has he won your heart with his generous gift?"
"Adarien knows how to create daggers to the exact specifications I need for throwing," Kyren told him, too elated by the gift to resent Jaime's tone. "He has learned his craft well."
"But does he make you feel?" Jaime asked sharply. Kyren turned to fix him with the bemused stare his question deserved when he pulled her close and kissed her.
To her own shock as well as Jaime's, Kyren pushed him away. "If you want to kiss me, do so and I will welcome your affections, but you will do no such thing as a pure response to unfounded jealousy. That, I will not permit."
Jaime sighed frustratedly. "Adarien is young, strong, and whole. You have a history and a firm friendship with him while we have no sort of understanding. Do you plan for any future between the two of us?"
"Jaime, we have no way to be certain that either of us will survive the day," Kyren pointed out. "Perhaps we can survive the battle and decide on a future then?"
He looked dissatisfied with her answer and Kyren had braced herself for a rebuttal when she heard a scream, a shout, and other assorted commotion from a nearby battlement. She and Jaime exchanged concerned glances and rushed over, joined almost immediately by Jon and Ser Davos.
"What has happened?" Jon demanded.
Everyone spoke at once, the resulting frenzy of words leaving none to be understood, but Kyren saw enough gestures that she understood that someone had fallen.
Jon, having come to the same conclusion, rushed toward the wall and leaned over the edge, staring intently downward. "Who is that?"
"We…" a plainly-dressed guard started hesitantly before drawing his courage. "We believe it to be the lady Melisandre."
Jon turned about sharply. "That is not Lady Melisandre."
The guard shook his head, desperation in his every movement. "It don't look like her now, Lord Snow, but when she fell, it was her."
Kyren moved to the stone battlements and peered down, attempting to understand the guard's meaning. A woman - undeniably elderly - was sprawled awkwardly on the snow-covered ground, limbs bent at impossible angles. She wore clothing Kyren recognized as belonging to Melisandre, the priestess's customary bulky necklace lying a short distance away, half-buried in the snow.
Jon scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "The Queen will not be pleased."
When he had retreated down the stairs, posture tense at the thought of delivering such news to Daenerys, Ser Davos turned to Tormund. Kyren recalled that the giant wildling had been present before she arrived and Davos had clearly noticed the same thing. "What truly happened?"
Tormund shrugged. "She was leaning out over the battlements, trying to find the best place to stand during the battle. She fell."
"And none of you helped her?" Kyren asked.
"How could we? The Dragon Queen told us not to touch her." Tormund's grin was wicked.
Jaime gave an appreciative snort while Davos nodded deeply to Tormund, wordlessly offering his thanks. Tormund's face grew uncharacteristically serious. "The Princess can rest easily now that she has been avenged as you swore, Davos."
Davos nodded again and moved away, but Kyren caught a sheen of moisture in his eyes as he went. The crowd dispersed soon afterward, no one certain of what to do with Melisandre's body and none wishing to be present when Daenerys Targaryen came to investigate the incident.
Kyren found herself alone until she bumped into Bran and Meera on one of the lower levels of Winterfell. She nodded and attempted a cheery greeting, but her mood was somewhat dampened by the scene she had just witnessed.
Bran cut into her platitudes without preamble. "He's by the old stone bridge."
Kyren blinked at him, but Bran only watched her peacefully and Meera seemed unbothered by the abrupt nature of his comment. With no other recourse, she thanked him and started for the old stone bridge.
It was indeed old; the bridge had been constructed before recent memory could explain, but it was wide enough to allow a cart to cross the rushing river and sturdy enough to hold a large hunting party. The bridge-shaded waterside just south of Winterfell had been a favorite spot for Kyren, Theon, and the Stark children to spend a lazy afternoon playing at swordfights, or reading, or any one of the hundred ways they had passed the time in their shared childhood.
That shaded clearing was Kyren's destination now, though it seemed less full of wonder - due to her own age or the cold chill of winter, she could not decide. However, the clearing did seem changed in a more real sense as well: a lush carpet of Dragon's Tears grew as if in defiance of the frozen ground. Kyren smiled at the familiar sight of the grey leaves and sank to her knees where they grew the thickest.
Thankfully, she had brought a sack that once contained her lunch rations, empty now as the scant mouthfuls had been devoured on the journey from Winterfell. With a mind focused on the coming battle, Kyren plucked handful after handful of the Dragon's Tears into her bag.
Her thoughts were far away, but Kyren was brought abruptly back to the present when a patch of Dragon's Tears had been removed to reveal a human skull. She lurched back, falling on her rear and dropping the bag of Dragon's Tears as memories of the wight raced through her. After a long, heart-pounding moment, no movement came from the patch of Dragon's Tears and Kyren carefully moved upright once more.
Ever-cautiously, she pulled the dull grey leaves of the Dragon's Tears away until she had uncovered a full skeleton. Kyren stood for a long moment, studying the tattered remains of a cloak that the skeleton still wore and nearly choked as she recognized the rough-wrought chain as belonging to Maester Luwin. She had heard he had died, but to have come to such a sacred spot... It was fitting, she decided. If he had to be dead, Maester Luwin belonged in this idyllic place, forever watching the river rush by.
She tucked the cloak around him more firmly and gathered a final few handfuls of Dragon's Tears. Just before she left, Kyren's hand bumped against something solid and more angular than the frozen ground. She dug through the chilled leaves until she found a package wrapped in an oilskin and - opening it carefully - found Maester Luwin's book of remedies and medicines, expertly bound and filled with the Maester's neatly slanting handwriting.
Hugging the treasure to her chest with one hand and clutching her bag of Dragon's Tears in the other, Kyren sent a watery smile at Maester Luwin and returned to Winterfell.
It would not be long until the battle now. Jaime had yet to receive an explanation of the Stark boy's strange new abilities, but he trusted when the boy said that the Night King would arrive in only a few hours.
Battlefield preparations had been completed shortly after he had made the announcement. The battle would likely take place at night and Jon had warned that the wights seemed well able to see without benefit of light, so large piles of wood and kindling had been set in the fields surrounding Winterfell, to be turned into towering bonfires with help of one of Daenerys Targaryen's dragons. The risk of having fires in open fields where fighting would happen made Jaime nervous, but Tyrion had correctly pointed out that the wights could be killed by fire and having the ability to easily push enemies to their deaths was a solid benefit. Another, smaller collection of firewood had been set around the perimeter of Winterfell, for soldiers to retreat into as needed.
It was more preparation than Jaime had seen put into a battle in quite some time, but there was little surprise to it. With the enemy they intended to face, he had still resigned himself to dying horribly before dawn.
As happened before every battle, people split up to prepare for death in whatever way they chose. Every man hoped to see the next morning, but there were no guarantees and some men spent their pre-battle hours praying or holding their loved ones. Jaime himself ended up wandering Winterfell until he found a room containing his brother, Brienne, Tormund, Podrick, and Ser Davos. He had hoped to find Kyren in the room, but she had disappeared after Melisandre had died and had yet to resurface. Giving up his hope of seeing her before the battle, Jaime eased into the room and settled into a chair by the fire to listen to the conversation.
"She's not a Ser? You're not a knight?" Tormund's voice was disbelieving as he stared at Brienne. For once, Jaime agreed with the overbearing wildling - that was a tragedy. "Why not?"
"Tradition," Brienne answered, voice bland.
"Fuck tradition," Tormund said succinctly.
"I don't even want to be a knight." It was a lie, everyone knew, and Brienne carefully avoided eye contact with the room at large.
Tormund, however, seemed disinclined to let the subject rest. "I'm no king, but if I were, I'd knight you ten times over."
Kyren slipped into the room while he made the pronouncement and moved immediately to stand in the shadows far from the group.
Jaime heard himself speak before he knew he was planning to interject. "You don't need a king," he told them, not removing his gaze from Kyren until the rest of the room watched him. "Any knight can make another knight. I'll prove it."
He drew his sword, proud that he had gained enough mobility in his left hand that the weapon left its scabbard smoothly and without struggle. He pointed the blade at the stone ground just before him. "Kneel, Lady Brienne." Rather than move, Brienne only gave a pained laugh and Jaime's patience snapped. "Do you want to be a knight or not?"
Brienne drew slowly to her feet, followed after a moment by the rest of the room's occupants. Kyren moved closer, gaining a better vantage point as Brienne lowered herself to one knee in the spot Jaime had indicated.
He held the blade over her right shoulder and recited the words - ones he had never had the chance to use, but had memorized the moment he realized how many deserving warriors surrounded him: "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave." He moved the blade to hover over her left shoulder. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just." Right shoulder once more. "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent." He pulled the sword back. "Arise, Brienne of Tarth, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms."
Brienne rose to her feet once more and finally smiled as the other occupants of the room began to applaud. Tormund in particular seemed stunned by the transformation of Brienne's face with the joy-filled expression, but Kyren's was a close second. She stared at Jaime, eyes filled with light, and he felt whole for the first time since the loss of his hand.
As Brienne stepped back toward the fire, receiving toasts and congratulations all the while, Jaime moved to Kyren. In a voice pitched low to avoid interference from the others, he asked, "Do you want me to knight you as well? I would not hesitate a moment."
Kyren watched him with a smile, but the light in her eyes had begun to fade. "I thank you for the offer, but I must decline."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes," she said unconvincingly, but he could not bring himself to ask why. Instead, he gave a deep nod and pulled her close for an embrace that was far more chaste than he would have wished.
When they had rejoined the others by the fire, Tyrion asked, "Kyren, will you be joining me in the cellars during the battle? We would welcome someone with your protective experience and calming demeanor."
"No, I have been set to defend the healers in Winterfell's main courtyard," Kyren denied.
Jaime frowned. "What? Who chose that?"
"It was my decision, agreed upon by Jon and Daenerys," Kyren told him, a hint of sharpness warning that the choice was not up for discussion.
"Ah," Tyrion said, gamely moving past the slight awkwardness that had arisen from her tone. "I am certain you will be a beneficial presence for the healers."
"Thank you," Kyren said politely, though Jaime knew her well enough to see the tension in her shoulders. This would likely be her first battle and nerves were to be expected.
"You could thank me far better by taking this wine away from me," Tyrion countered smoothly, passing her a full goblet. "I shall be well and truly drunk by the time the Night King arrives and I would miss the whole affair."
"Not the worst possible outcome," Davos muttered into his own cup of wine. Tyrion glared while the other residents of the room smirked with varying degrees of openness.
They passed the time talking and laughing, but as the night moved from post-dusk dimness to the true dark of full night, the tension rose noticeably and did not seem fit to stop. When the three blasts of the horn sounded, calling them to don armor and move to their battle posts, Jaime was almost thankful.
And yet, as he pulled Kyren close for a frantic kiss - one she returned with alacrity - he could not fight the spiraling chill of fear that seized his heart. There was every chance that one or the other would fall during the battle and they would never meet again and there was so much left to say…
"Do not die," he ordered, cursing his own clumsiness the next moment. The fact that Kyren grinned despite herself was enough to save him from full self-hatred, but he had no time to dwell before he was being ordered to the ramparts beside Brienne and Pod.
The towering stacks of kindling in the fields had been lit by a Daenerys-bearing Drogon, illuminating the snow on the hills and shallows with flickering golden light. It was both a blessing and a curse: the armies protecting Winterfell itself could see the collection of Northmen, wildlings, Unsullied, and Dothraki soldiers standing firm against the night, but they could also watch as the horrifying Army of the Dead came barreling out of the darkness. As more wights poured onto the battlefield, they were joined by a thick fog obscuring most of the action, though the bonfires threw exaggerated scenes into the mist.
It was clear to those watching that the Night King's army was to be far removed from anything they had previously experienced. The dead did not attack in neat waves of soldiers or with any sort of strategy at all. They merely came, sacrificing a few with the knowledge that superior numbers would overwhelm any enemy.
The moment Jon, from his vantage point on the walls of Winterfell, understood what the Army of the Dead was attempting to do, he ordered everyone back to the walls of Winterfell. The men in the fields continued fighting as they retreated and - to the shock of everyone - Grey Worm managed to kill one of the White Walkers.
A large swath of wights fell as the White Walker did, freeing a number of men as the battle seemed to pause. In the eerie battlefield silence, Tormund gave a wild laugh. "Aim for the big ones, men!"
From there, the tide of the battle seemed to have shifted somewhat: the White Walkers sent more wights in ahead so they were more difficult to kill, but when they did, there were fewer wights to be sent. Regardless of this new advantage, the Army of the Living was being forced closer and closer to the walls of Winterfell and the Night King had yet to appear. The blizzard he had brought with his armies swirled so thickly that Daenerys and Drogon were lost in the low-hanging clouds. Only the occasional jet of flame or shrieking blast of blue chill betrayed that the two were engaged in a battle of their own. Rhaegal remained just outside of Winterfell opposite the approaching army, ready to be ridden by Jon when the moment came.
At last, Jorah tensed and shouted, "There! Khaleesi!"
Daenerys seemed to have knocked the Night King from his undead mount and both had fallen to the ground of the battlefield. With an inaudible command, Daenerys ordered Drogon to blast the Night King with flame and the battlefield held its breath for a second time while they waited to see the outcome.
When Drogon's fire at last stopped, the living were horrified to find the Night King unaffected. The horror grew more palpable as he raised his arms high and re-animated the dead - both wights and the freshly-slain. The Night King fixed his pale gaze on Daenerys before looking to Jon, who had thrown himself astride Rhaegal the moment he saw Daenerys on the ground. The Night King launched an ice spear at Daenerys, knocking her from Drogon's back into a motionless huddle on the ground. He sent a second spear flying at Drogon, followed by another and another until the dragon was forced to soar away.
The Night King stepped closer to Daenerys' unmoving figure and it became clear to those watching that Jon could not reach them in time, even sitting astride a dragon. Jorah cursed, tears beginning to flow down his weathered cheeks, but at the last moment, Grey Worm tackled the Night King with an incredible force.
He fought the Night King valiantly, but the leader of the undead army soon gained the advantage and snapped Grey Worm's neck with a single wrench. Jon, having at last reached the space where the wights were beginning to converge, lifted Daenerys onto Rhaegal's back and the three flew back to Winterfell as rapidly as they could manage.
Though the living fought with twice the fervor after Jon's rescue of Daenerys, they were quickly becoming overwhelmed and soon found themselves backed into the confines of the wood encircling Winterfell. Daenerys was still unconscious and Drogon was missing in the fog while Rhaegal refused to leave Daenerys's side. The protective bonfire around Winterfell had been covered in snow by the Night King's blizzard and would not light no matter how many attempts were made.
At last, Beric Dondarrion stepped from the walls, pushed everyone back, murmured a prayer unheard by those listening, and plunged his now-flaming sword into the soaked wood. Immediately, there came a great hissing and popping and the whole of the bonfire roared into sudden flame, burning every member of the Army of the Dead who approached. Beric stood in the gap left for soldiers to enter and leave the circle, battling against any wight who tried to gain entrance to Winterfell.
"Archers!" Sir Brienne cried, having taken over leadership of the battle in Jon's absence, "Draw!" Archers along the entirety of Winterfell's perimeter nocked flaming arrows and awaited her next command. "Loose!"
Pinpoints of fire whizzed out into the seething crowd of wights around Winterfell, each hitting a target due largely to the surplus of bodies at which to aim. Brienne's orders were repeated time and again until one lucky archer struck and felled a White Walker standing buried in a mass of wights. The wights he had re-animated fell with him, a great number of them falling onto the protective bonfire around Winterfell. The wights took only a moment to respond and soon they were swarming to occupy every inch of space between the walls of Winterfell and the heat of the bonfire.
The closed gates held for only a scant few minutes before they were destroyed by the dead. As the Army of the Dead poured inside the gates and fighting grew thick, Jon raced to Bran in the Godswood, knowing that he would be the Night King's ultimate target.
While he went, the rest of the living did their best to keep from death. Jaime, Brienne, and Pod stood fighting on the ramparts, pushing away unmoving bodies until they had filled the space below and almost risen back to the spot where they fought. Ser Davos stood with Tormund and Jaqen H'ghar, each one using every underhanded and ungentlemanly trick they had ever learned to fight off wights. Gendry fought beside the Night's Watch and Ser Jorah, alternating between dispatching wights and tossing additional weapons to anyone who called for them. Arya and the Hound protected the doorway leading into Winterfell itself, his bulk and her threatening glare encouraging any who may have considered hiding to choose a different path. Lyanna Mormont and the shocking number of wildling followers she had gained stood directly in the center of Winterfell's courtyard, though the wildlings ushered the diminutive soldier under cover when the re-animated Viserion landed in the courtyard and spat a blast of ice that froze everything in sight. Kyren stood with the healers, battling away every wight that came toward them. After she had run out of daggers, she picked up a Dragonglass sword and put her lessons from Ser Jaime to good use. When the lead healer fell to a wight attack, Kyren alternated between defending the group and offering guidance to the others, thinking of Maester Luwin all the while.
When Jon finally reached the Godswood, he found a grim-faced Bran watching the door with Meera standing expressionless beside him. Theon and a few others held various places around the clearing in the Godswood, each one looking as determined and serious as Theon himself.
Jon's entrance drew every eye. "The Night King is coming," he panted.
"He is here," Bran replied steadily, and Jon turned to find that it was true.
The leader of the White Walkers strode forward, every step unhurried but firm, as though no force in Westeros would keep him from Bran, and it very well could be so. Jon had never seen anything as unsettling. Theon and his men fought valiantly, but Jon could see they hadn't the slightest chance of victory. When he attempted to join them, drawing Longclaw for the task, Bran held him back.
"This is not your fate," he said solemnly.
"You cannot face him, Bran," Jon replied fiercely. "This cannot be your fate, either. If you die, every living being in Westeros dies as well. We can send you south, maybe on one of Dany's dragons…"
"I cannot ride a dragon," Bran reminded, gesturing to his own legs. "And this is my fate. To face the Night King is always the fate of the Three-Eyed Raven. I only wish we had the Horn of Winter."
"The Horn of Winter," Jon repeated, wincing as he watched Theon and his men torn apart by the Night King's ice spears.
"It allows me to call the family wargs, past and present. Without it, I can only call those still living: Ghost and Nymeria. The Night King can call a warg for every White Walker who still survives."
"It may be your fate to face the Night King, but it could be my fate as well," Jon claimed, fully drawing Longclaw as he ran for the Night King, pulling the weapon back in preparation for a powerful stroke.
With a derisive stare and a single sweep of his arm, the Night King brushed Jon aside as though he were of no more consequence than an insect and continued in his path toward Bran.
The Horn of Winter…
Horn of Winter…
Here, Jon. You should have this.
What is it?
It's a horn. I found it at the Fist of the First Men.
You should keep it, Sam. Make a drinking horn out of it, and every time you take a drink you'll remember how you ranged beyond the Wall, all the way to the Fist of the First Men.
I can't, Jon. It should be yours. I have a feeling you'll get more use from it than I.
"Bran!" Jon shouted, pulling the rough cloth bag from his cloak and removing the ancient horn. Bran looked his way - and the Night King did as well. As soon as his pale blue eyes rested on the horn, the Night King rushed to take it from him and Jon regretted his earlier thought: this was a far more frightening pace than even the White Walker's deliberate steps had been.
With a half-step backward, Jon threw the horn across the Godswood's clearing. The Night King reached him only a half-moment later and wrapped painfully cold hands around Jon's throat. Past him, Jon watched as Meera plucked the horn easily out of the air and passed it to Bran, who seized it and pressed it to his lips in the same movement. A single mournful tone was emitted and the Night King released Jon, standing motionless as he watched Bran. Rubbing at the frostbitten skin of his neck, Jon did the same.
Within a moment, Bran was surrounded by direwolves and Jon's heart nearly stopped to see Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, Summer, Shaggydog, and Ghost. The Night King retreated only a short distance before he raised his hands and the clearing around him filled with hawks, though they were far larger than any hawk Jon had ever seen, eyes cold and claws vicious.
One warg for every surviving White Walker… Gods, but there are so many…
At that moment, wights and White Walkers poured into the Godswood, but they did not attack the living. Instead, they formed into a large half-circle surrounding the clearing. Jon watched them with his hand on Longclaw's hilt until Meera tugged sharply at his elbow.
"We need to be further away," she told him sharply.
"What will happen to Bran?" Jon asked, unable to take his eyes from the scene in front of him.
"He will fight the Night King. It is his fate, as it is the fate of every Three-Eyed Raven," Meera replied. "You have helped him immensely with the Horn of Winter, but there is nothing more either of us can do for him except stand clear of the battle."
"Battle?" Jon asked, but he allowed her to tow him further back.
Bran's eyes went white, as did those of the Night King, and the hawks rose into the air. The clearing was filled with the rushing of wings and sharp cries and a breeze strong enough to make Jon's eyes water.
The direwolves were far from cowed, however. They rushed into the seething mass of talons and beaks to begin picking the birds off. As Jon watched, Nymeria leapt up and forced one hawk to the ground, crushing its skull with one crack of her strong jaws. Grey Wind followed closely behind, grabbing a hawk by the wing and breaking its neck with one sharp shake of his head. Shaggydog and Summer each took hold of a hawk's wing and ripped it to pieces while Lady seemed content to break wings with her teeth, leaving the downed warg birds to be finished off by Ghost. Every time a hawk was felled, a White Walker would burst into flurries of snow and shards of ice, and the collection of wights watching the battle would shrink.
Despite the damage they were doing to the Night King's army, the direwolves were far from unscathed. Each was bleeding from multiple wounds inflicted by the giant hawks and Grey Wind especially seemed to be on the verge of collapse. While each wolf took down another set of hawks, the wounds became too much for Grey Wind, who let out a piercing howl and dissolved into nothing.
The other direwolves fought fiercely as their brother disappeared and the army of hawks became even smaller, but Shaggydog began faltering as well.
"It is to be expected," Meera told Jon, placing a hand on his arm. "They no longer have ties to living Starks. It makes them weaker."
"Lady has been dead longer than the others, but she seems fine," Jon returned.
"Sansa still lives," Meera said with a shrug. "They are warg guardians, not something that can be governed by logic."
When the White Walkers' numbers fell to four, the Night King seemed to have reached a limit of some king. His eyes returned to their icy blue and he pushed his way toward Bran, clenching a fist when the direwolves attacked and they dissolved into nothing.
"Bran!" Jon shouted as Meera sank to a seated meditation stance on the snow-dusted ground of the clearing. Bran's eyes remained white, and when Meera's snapped open once more, hers were white as well. Silently, she tore across the Godswood clearing, Jon's Dragonglass dagger in her fist. The Night King, intently focused on Bran, failed to hear her approach until she was steps away and turned only to find Jon's dagger buried in his chest.
The Night King exploded into flurries of snow and shards of ice and the dagger dropped to the ground, along with a profusely-bleeding Meera. Bran reached for her, but obviously lacked the strength to propel his chair over to the spot where she lay. Jon made his way across the suddenly-empty clearing to help, but his progress was slower than he would have liked, his legs numb with shock and adrenaline.
When Bran and Jon finally reached Meera, she had screwed her eyes closed with the pain of her wounds. Her face, torso, and legs had been largely shredded by the Night King's ice fragments and every exposed inch of her skin was black with frostbite. Bran pushed himself out of his chair, landing sprawled on the frozen ground beside her.
Meera opened her eyes to look up at Bran and asked on a shuddering breath, "Safe?"
"Yes," he told her firmly. "Everyone is safe. Westeros is safe, thanks to you."
"Good," Meera answered with a blissful smile that stretched the wounds on her bleeding cheeks and lips. "I'll tell Jojen that we did it. We helped the Three-Eyed Raven defeat the Night King."
"You tell Jojen and I will tell Westeros," Bran promised, more emotion in his dark eyes than Jon had seen since before Bran's fall. "Thank you both for everything. You saved me. You saved everyone."
Meera's smile widened slightly before it fell into the slack peace of death. When Bran's soft sobs had abated, Jon helped him back into his chair and they went to discover the aftermath of the battle.
Author's Note - This chapter hurt my heart a good bit to write. Much as I hate emotionless Bran, it was worse to see him in so much pain. But we've finally gotten through the Battle of Winterfell. Hope you don't hate me too much for the changes. I will go ahead and apologize for the lack of deaths you're going to see in the rest of this story. Not everyone will live, but more people will than did in the show. It may take things to an unrealistic level, but - like that infamous text post says - we write the stories we need in our lives and I need one where my favorite people live. Sorry if that takes anything away from anyone. If you really liked Theon's redemption, pretend Bran forgave him for everything before Jon came in. Obviously, the Night King's death is a more dramatic explosion in my writing than it was in the show, but he was king of the White Walkers and I can't believe someone standing so close would have come away unharmed.
Shoutout to my guest reviewer for their awesome encouragement and to all of you for making it through this BEAST of a chapter!
Finally, apologies for the late post. I was sick, my midterms almost finished me off, and I had computer problems all in the past two weeks, so this chapter is coming to you quite a bit later than I would have preferred. Expect the next chapter by the end of the month as normal. Thanks for reading, please leave a review, and I'll see you all later this month! Have a great day!