Dany landed Drogon on the hillside, a good distance from Winterfell. The castle was a maze from above and looked to be overflowing with people. With her was bringing thousands more, it struck her that they may not be able to feed all of those stomachs, that they may starve even if they fought back the Others. She took a deep breath and let the buffeting winds flow over her as Drogon took flight again. She felt as though she might melt away if someone looked at her wrong. You are a queen. The Queen, she admonished herself. The rebuke had her straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. And then she heard the pair of horses breaking through the snow, and turned to find Jon riding toward her, her silver in tow. He had on that teasing smile, the one he held only for her, and she couldn't help the returning expression. She mounted her horse herself—a few doubtful kos were watching from the hilltop—and braced her shoulders again.
"Winterfell is lovely from above."
"I'll take your word for it," Jon replied, a note of laughter in his voice and her smile deepened. "Ready?"
She nodded once, unable to force herself to do more, and as their traveling party caught up, moved her silver into step with his great bay along the road to the gate. She took a deep breath, tried to still the shaking in her lungs. She wanted to be strong for Jon, strong for the North, strong for her people. So why, she thought, am I so afraid? It felt like weakness, the tremors she hid as the castle grew before them, a beast perched atop the rise, waiting. For what, she could not tell. The people within the walls waited, too, and she knew it was to weigh her, to judge her fitness. A guardsman atop the outer wall shouted something, and when they were within a hundred yards, the gates began to open.
"Something's happened," Jon said. "The gates are never closed during the day."
Dany only raised her chin in acknowledgment; she couldn't find her voice just then. The knowledge that one more thing had gone wrong in a train of hundreds compounded her anxiety over meeting Jon's family. Her future family. She saw them now, standing in reception to them, the pale faces and dark eyes watchful. A woman stood at the forefront, her bright auburn hair marking her as Jon's sister, Sansa. At her side, a boyish-looking girl stood at a soldier's attention, a thin sword at her hip and beyond her, a sickly looking young man in a wheeled chair. Various lords, ladies, and children stood behind, their eyes keen, their stances guarded, and Dany felt the scrutiny plainly. Jon's sisters, however, were not studying her. She didn't have to look at him to know that Jon's were locked on them as well.
"Go to them," she said, only for his ears. She met his gaze when he pulled it to her, forcibly and with considerable effort.
"No, my queen," he said. "I must do my duty to you, first."
"Go to them, Jon." She managed a weak smile as further encouragement.
He did not need to be told thrice. He leaped from his horse, and flew to them, nearly stumbling in the snow. It was the younger girl—Arya—who he swept up into his arms without a care for the pommels digging into his ribs, spinning her in a slow circle to stop his own momentum. It was Arya who dug her face into his shoulder and clung to him. It was Sansa who held back, who watched them for only a moment before she turned her appraising eyes on Dany, her affect the blank slate of courtesy. But then Jon was setting Arya down, walking to the girl with fire-touched hair, and putting his large hand against her cheek, pressing his lips to her forehead.
"Welcome home," she heard Sansa say, as she dismounted and handed her silver's reins to Kovarro. That struck Dany's heart. Home. She'd be taking Jon away from them, away from his home when they married. Was she so selfish?
Yes, her heart whispered.
Jon was turning to the boy then, his face torn between relief and sorrow, before he gripped the child's shoulders hard, and murmured words Dany could not hear.
"Your Grace," Sansa said, coming forward before Jon could introduce them. It rattled Dany for only a moment while Sansa swept into a deep curtesy. The men and women behind her followed suit, if slowly. "Welcome to Winterfell."
"Thank you," she responded automatically, trying to smother the ache that said no one had yet welcomed her home, nowhere called her as it did Jon. She succeeded only by noticing that something haunted lay behind Sansa's composed gaze. Before the introductions could continue, Dany asked. "What is it?"
Sansa rose, flicked a glance at Jon, who was listening now, straightening from the boy's side. She squared her shoulders, then clasped her hands firmly. "We have news."
Dany wished the wolf woman would say whatever held her tongue. A pit of dread was opening in her stomach. When Sansa seemed to falter, Dany nodded for her to continue, though she wished instead the nightmare would end. "We noticed the gates were closed. What's happened?" Dany asked as further encouragement.
"The White Walkers," Sansa said after a deep breath. "They've breached the Wall."
"What?" Jon's voice broke through the sudden rushing in Dany's ears, sharp and tinged with panic. Why had they expected differently, she wondered? Of course, they would not have time to prepare, to house their troops, to mount a defense.
"Khaleesi?" Kovarro asked in her ear, quietly. He knew enough of the Common Tongue to get by, but he did not know enough to feel the same yawning despair as she so immediately. Dany shook off the beginnings of hysteria. She had to be strong. Had to.
"The cold ones have broken the ice wall," she said for his benefit, watching the faces of Jon's bannermen. All were steady, grim, watching her. She tamped the panic down further, swallowed it. She'd been born for this. She was the blood of the dragon. The last, the only, and yet she stood.
"The kos," Kovarro said, nervousness edging into his voice. "We must warn them."
"How could you know this? Anyone could have sent the raven to drive us to rash action," Tyrion was saying from behind her as she nodded once in response to her bloodrider. In doing so, her gaze swept the crowd of Northmen, not one in doubt, and met the fierce brown eyes of a girl who could not be more than twelve. She seemed a brunette version of Wylla, just as fierce, just as strong. Dany lifted her chin, and let her composure break into a tiny, grim smile at the northern girl's deliberate inspection. That seemed to satisfy the girl.
"We did not have it from a raven, my lord—" Sansa began, but a flat voice cut across hers, sending a shiver down Dany's spine.
"I saw it." It was the boy who sat still beside Jon, a large man's hands upon the handles at the back, a pile of fur draped across his legs. Bran, she guessed, but Jon had not mentioned the coldness of his voice, the blank look in his eyes. He'd been a child when Jon had seen him last, now he was half a man, and skin-shudderingly dead behind the eyes. "They came, they marched, and riding upon a dragon, the Night King burst through the Wall in an arrow of blue fire. Eastwatch has fallen. The dead walk."
The shiver lodged in Dany's stomach turned to shudder and the hysteria returned in force to boil behind Dany's eyes. Her vision swirled, the world swayed. Viserion. Only the knowledge that fainting would earn her no respect kept her from collapsing. Her child, ridden by the monster who'd killed him. It was too much. But she could not faint. She was the dragon, she was strong. She was the queen, and she had to be unmovable, even in this.
"That did not answer my question," Tyrion said, though even his own voice held a shake. "How could you know this?"
"I can attest to that. Bran speaks the truth," the large man said from behind the pale boy. He wore black maester's robes but no chain. "It's rather like greenseeing, but more powerful. He saw it happen, two days ago."
"Greenseeing? And we're supposed to trust that? No offense intended, my lord Reed."
As the green man smiled and made some pithy comment, Dany's eyes sought Jon's face. His jaw was tight, his cheeks ruddy, his eyes locked on Sansa. Dany followed his gaze, saw his expression mirrored there, watched the woman nod once, almost imperceptibly. It was enough for Dany. She swallowed, hard, and stepped forward. She was born for this.
"The truth can be proven later," she said evenly, cutting across Tyrion. "We will waste no more time by arguing and act as if it is true. If it is, we will be prepared, if it is not, we will have gained an advantage. You've notified your people?"
Sansa nodded. "We sent ravens immediately."
"Where do the dead march?"
"They raise their soldiers in the Gift," the flat voice said. Dany could not look at the crippled boy when he said such terrible things. Not yet. "They come for me."
"How long until we should expect them?"
"About eight days," Jon said after a moment. "Nine, if they fall upon Last Hearth. They do not need rest. But that is only if Bran saw it the moment it happened."
Dany did not wait for confirmation, she only tore her eyes away from Sansa's appraising gaze, found Jon's. His face was a mask of regret, sorrow, worry. "We must not blame ourselves," she said because she could see he was already doing so. "We must only press onward. Lord Tyrion?"
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"Assist Lord Snow and Lady Sansa in the defense and arming of the castle," she said, never looking away from Jon's face. "I assume you will be able to handle our people here."
"Your Grace?"
"I must go warn Grey Worm and the riders." She watched the worry harden in Jon's eyes, felt the chill in her heart at the thought of leaving him again.
"Surely we can send someone on horseback," Tyrion said.
"Drogon will be faster," she said coolly. She longed to reach for Jon. To hold him, just in case. She wanted to tell him—she cut off the thought. She would see him again, she would get the chance. She had to.
"Khaleesi, it is too dangerous," Jorah said. "Think of Viserion."
"He is all I think about," she snapped, tearing away from Jon's gaze to whip her hard glare to the man. She softened immediately, saying, "It is because of him that I must go. They'll not take our people, too."
She returned her eyes to Jon, always to Jon. He was her haven, her island in the storm. Her strength. "I will be safe. I trust you can manage things here."
Jon did not answer her—he knew the words were not wholly for him. He only watched her, his eyes drinking her in, raking every inch of her body, scorching her into his memory. She knew only because she did the same, though she could not believe they would be separated. If she did, the hysteria would drown her. Finally, he nodded once, so tiny a movement she doubted anyone else noticed.
"My queen," he murmured.
Dany's smile for him was wan as she hardened her heart, then leaped into her silver's saddle. She turned the beast to sweep her attention across the wide courtyard, to take in all who'd come to greet her. There were familiar faces in the crowd, and that helped, but she could only nod once to them all. "My lords, my ladies, I will return to greet you properly, and soon. An army of our own approaches. We will win this war together. For our people, for ourselves, for the North, and for Westeros! We will not fail. We must not. I trust in you. Given time, I hope you may trust in me," she called across their heads in her strongest voice.
And then she looked down, to find those gray eyes she so loved looking up at her. Jon; her love. He was close enough to touch her, for her to reach down and run her fingers across the stubble collecting on his jaw, but she could not, not here, not just now. His own hands were clenched at his sides, raging a war to reach for her and losing.
He needed to know.
"Come back to me," he said, softly, his lips barely moving as he continued to memorize her face. She counted the beats of her heart as it squeezed, knowing her voice would not be steady. Despite her efforts, it came out in a hoarse whisper anyway.
"I will," she managed. "Always."
One long moment later, she lifted her gaze to sweep it over the crowd again, then nodded goodbye. "Blood of my blood, ride with me. I must call Drogon down to warn the riders. You will stay here, be my voice with the kos. Ser Jorah will help you."
"Yes, blood of my blood." He mounted as Dany swung her silver back towards the gates, and followed closely, his arakh poised for defense. Dany had to straighten her spine to be sure she did not shirk and go running back in Jon's arms, where it was safe. Her people needed her. She allowed herself a moment of weakness once she was through the gates, and turned back to find him watching her, the deep sadness he carried etched across his features. She could feel the weight of it across the distance. She would see him again, surely. The gods would not be so cruel. They had been cruel before, so she sent up a prayer, a plea.
Please, she thought, please. I want to tell him. I want him to know.
Kovarro stood with her in the snow, at the ready should a wight stumble upon them even this close to the castle. He did not flinch when Drogon landed and roared as if trying to bully the man. "Be safe, blood of my blood."
"I will," Dany promised again, nodding once to him before he stepped back to give Drogon room to leap into the air and circle the castle once more, his voice roaring while Rhaegal screeched his greeting. She looked down as he swept over the courtyard, found the grey eyes she sought in the sea of pale faces and felt her heart reach out, try to fly back to him. When her child swept her away, Dany bent low over his neck, pointed him south along the King's Road, and let a few tears escape her lashes, and felt the freeze upon her cheeks.
Please, she prayed to the Mother as the pale moon came into view in the afternoon sky, peering through the clouds, her face partly hidden in shadow. It had been five days since the full of the moon, three days since Dany had missed her moon's blood. She had not yet told him, she had not been sure, she had wanted to wait until the week had passed. But now she wanted him to know. She wanted to go back to him, to tell him that he'd given her all she'd ever wanted. To tell him that they'd made their own family.
Please.