Smoke filled the air, its acrid scent accompanied by the screams of the dying as the wind rolled across the dying embers of the battlefield. Daenerys dismounted her white destrier, the wind trying to push its way through her tightly woven hair as she strode across the field, boots sinking into the mud. So much death.
The Tully's were putting up a good fight by their kind's standards: she had always imagined them to be thin, cowardly people, yet they were giving the Royal army more issues than she, or her brothers, had expected. The Targaryen's were masters of the battlefield: their discipline, tacticians and prowess were unrivaled the world over. In truth, while their 'snuffing out' of the riverlands rebellion was taking longer than expected, it was only a matter of time: with five of the seven kingdoms at their back, the inevitable was drawing closer for the Riverlands, and for House Stark. If only we had dragons.
It had been 25 years since her family crushed Robert's Rebellion: 25 years since her brother had broken the Stag on the banks of the trident. Aerys had been deposed from the throne and had passed away shortly after, his madness sated by the knowledge that a Targaryen would succeed him on the throne for the next generation, and many generations beyond that. What followed was a period of tenuous, hesitant peace: a peace that was hewn in two when her cousin, Daemon, had lustily stolen away Ned Stark's daughter during a tournament at Harrenhal some three years ago. The parallels between this event and that which had started the previous revolt were uncanny: many quietly criticised her brother for organizing such an occasion, though she could understand his reasoning to a certain extent. Rhaegar had never been the same since Lyanna Stark and her son had died in the tower of Joy. "This feels like closure," he said, eyes lost in the fading horizon, "to find peace at the source of so much pain."
The wind was cold against her face as she stepped over a Tully footsoldier who had been hewn almost in two. Birds were singing in what remained of a nearby forest: to her left, a Targaryen banner stood proud amidst the northern breeze, the three headed Dragon dancing against the blue sky. Why she never understood why Daemon had taken Sansa against her will, she did understand why Rhaegar had refused to turn him over: perhaps he saw something of himself in his cousin. It had been the Stark's and the Tully's choice to rebel, and the crown had responded in the only way they knew how: with fire and blood.
That evening, she and Rhaegar walked through the camp grounds, their hair pulled up and their cowls masking their features, enjoying the sounds of victory that emanated from their men like heat from the campfires. Her brother loved to walk among his people: during times of peace, he had disguised himself and strolled through the streets of kings landing. Now, during times of war, he would not abandon those who had chosen to follow him. Daenerys had started going with him a few months ago, and she too found joy in the pure and simple interactions that were so often hidden away from royal eyes.
The smell of death had been replaced by that of cooking spices: the sounds of the dying replaced with those of laughter and music, as men talked and yelled and boasted of their feats in battle. One man had attracted a rather large audience, eyes big as he gesticulated wildly, the tankard of ale sloshing into the dirt as he roared out his story. Rhaegar looked at her, eyes shining as he took a seat on a barrel some fifteen feet from the orator. Daenerys followed suit, and they sat there in the shadow of a stall, listening to the man regale the onlookers with his many conquests that day.
He crouched in the frozen dirt, his eyes scanning the barren land that surrounded Moat Cailin. The wind whispered a mournful song as it swept through the few strands of black hair that had escaped their bindings. He was always introspective before a battle: in truth, he wanted no part in it. The senseless killing, the screams, the knowledge that someone elses son was at the end of his sword. Sometimes he hated his proficiency on the battlefield… it felt more like a curse than a gift. Growing up in starfall, he had often dreamt of following in the footsteps of the great Arthur Dayne: now, he just wished he could rid himself of the blood that constantly seemed to stain his hands, even months after a battle. He hadn't asked to be named as a lieutenant under Jamie Lannister's command, just as he hadn't asked to spend months slaughtering northmen. He was a bastard though, and he had grown used to making the best of what he was presented. He picked at the earth below him, rubbing it between his course palms, grounding himself in his memories of starfall: in memories of his mother's smile.
The sound of boots crunching through the icy grass broke the thin veil of peace that had settled over him, if only for an instant. He knew who it was before he spoke: only one person would approach him during a moment of inflection. Jamie Lannisters voice was gentle, though the message he delivered gripped Jon's heart with a grip as cold as the snow that was slowly listing down from the grey skies.
"Its time".
The war council went like many of the others: she saw her own steely resolve reflected in all the faces present, familiar or otherwise. Jamie Lannister, the general of the Royal armies, presented the plan that he and Rhaegar had concocted. She winced internally as they laid bare their strategy: many men would die, though in truth it seemed wholly unavoidable. Rhaegar dismissed his commanders and they slowly filtered out of the tent to find their men. Jamie stood framed in the entrance, his arms clasped in a formal embrace with a young man with a scar over his left eye and a star emblazoned on his chestplate. "Strength and honor," Jamie said, his face impassive. "Strength and honor," the younger man repeated, and exited the way the others had. Jamie turned to face the three Targaryen siblings, his blue eyes full of steely resolve. "Your graces," he said, bowing as he left.
In the distance, drums began to beat.
The moon shone clear on the battle as it raged on. Jon cut through another Stark bannerman, the red eyes of his wolf pommel catching the moonlight as his blade arced downwards in a deadly motion. Blood sprayed from the mans neck as his head was almost separated from his body, stinging Jon's eyes as he pushed him aside. How many must die? He had been fighting for hours, his body tired and aching from the physical exertion. Dueling other swordsmen in the tight confines of Moat Cailin walkways was as demanding of his body as it was of his mind: he had to be acutely aware of what was around him at all times in order to not get overwhelmed. Jon had been one of the first ones over the wall, with special instructions to take the tower that overlooked the gate, and, if possible, open it himself.
"I wouldn't trust anyone else with a task like this," Jamie said, his face full of poorly masked anxiety, "but if you can't get that gate open, thousands will die."
Jon knew that Jamie understood the risk, but so did he: if he had to lay down his life so that many more could live, then so be it. A great hulking figure filled the doorframe at the opposite end of the narrow walkway that Jon had to get through: he too fell to Longclaw's blade. The gate was in sight now, the torches set above it glimmering like the stars in the sky, now barely visible through the smoke that drifted towards the heavens. Behind him, his men fended off those who would try to stop his progress, the sound of their conflict spurring him on. He dashed across the walkway, barely registering the arrow that lodged itself in his calf. He slammed through the door at the opposite end, barely giving himself time to register the looks of surprise on the five guards that occupied the room. The dance resumed, and steel bit through flesh; soon, five dead northmen lay on the cobblestone floor, their blood seeping into the uneven surface.
Longclaw flashed again, and the rope tethering the portcullis fell. Sheathing his sword in one fluid motion, Jon began to pull the crank, blood beginning to drip from his nose from exertion until finally, finally the gate was open. The triumphant roar that went up from the Targaryen army was deafening as they stormed the courtyard below, the force of their collective charge shaking the walls that surrounded him. Wiping the grime and gore from his face, Jon grit his teeth: the battle was not over, and he would not stand idly by while those who he fought alongside bled and died below him. Longclaw flew from its sheath, the valyrian steel hissing as it left its confines. Jon opened the door on the other side of the room and rejoined the fray.
"We lost two thousand men, sir," Jamie said upon entering the command tent, "and another 700 or so are incapacitated to the point where they are of no use." Next to Daenerys, Rhaegar sighed.
"Three thousand fighting men gone in a single night," the king grumbled, his hand idly rubbing his temples, "this damned castle better be worth it." Jamie nodded, balancing himself against the edge of the war table, "it will be. Now that our fleet has successfully blockaded White Harbor, the North has no way of getting new supplies. They will sue for peace soon, sire." Rhaegar seemed to see the sense in that and he nodded slowly. "Your strategy was a good one, Jamie," Rhaegar said after a moment, "I know we suffered many losses, but efficiency was key in this engagement." The general of the Targaryen army offered the king and princess a shallow bow in response. Rhaegar stood, offering his hand to Dany. "Let us walk among the men now as ourselves," he said, striding towards the mouth of the tent, "let us commend them for their sacrifice."
Daenerys's legs were tired by the time they had made their way through most of the camp. The sky had begun to take on various shades of gold and red as the sun began to set on another Targaryen victory; a cold breeze bit at her exposed skin, and she pulled her thick black coat tighter around her small form. She was barely listening to the conversation her brother was having with the gaggle of soldiers who had gathered around him, though she found herself pulled back into the present as another the knights before her straightened, each of them placing their right fist above their heart as a sign of respect. Bewildered, she looked to her brother just as he turned towards her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jamie smile at someone behind her before mimicking the gesture of the other soldiers. Turning, Daenerys's heart skipped a beat as her eyes locked with those of the man who had been talking to Jamie before the battle. Within those grey orbs, she found an intensity the like of which she had never seen; emotion swirled through their facets like storm clouds before the downpour. A neatly trimmed beard framed his angular face, his dark hair pulled behind his head in a severe knot: with a start, Daenerys realized just how comely he was.
"Your grace," he said, dipping his head in fealty to her brother before he turned to her, their eyes locking for a second time. "Your grace," he repeated, mimicking the same motion, and she nodded in return. His armor was still coated in a lair of dirt and grime: the sigil of House Dayne barely distinguishable amongst the filth. He placed his fist above his heart, nodding to the gathered men, and walked away as quickly as he came. She watched as he went: soldiers stepped aside to let him pass, all mimicking the same gesture.
"Who was that?", Rhaegar asked, with a edge to his voice that Daenerys couldn't quite place. "Jon," Jamie replied, he too watching as his comrade disappeared into the sea of bodies.
This was it; the end of the road. Winterfell stood atop the highest of the shallow hills that rolled across the terrain in front of them. The tension that hung in the air was so palpable that Jon was sure he could cut it with his sword. He had once again sought solace away from the army's preparations, surveying the land as he called upon his memories of those he loved to give him the strength to do what he must. A robin flitted through the air, coming to rest on the branch of a fallen tree.
Despite himself, Jon's eyes crinkled in a smile as he watched the tiny bird take flight once more. To know that something so small and so pure could exist among such destruction and despair gave him hope: maybe there was some sort of light at the end of this tunnel.
The drums began to beat, and Jon's moment of respite melted away like a summer snow. Duty called yet again, and Jon would answer.
Daenerys stood next to her brothers as she watched Jon Sand make his way through their lines: the men turned and nodded as he walked through, while others saluted and called out his name. The Sword of the Morning, come again. Raised by Ashara Dayne at Starfall, the identity of his father was a poorly kept mystery: she and everyone she had asked about it seemed to agree that it had to be Brandon Stark. A pang of guilt resonated through her chest: she wondered how he would react to killing men who shared the blood of his father. Jon was an enigma to her: by all accounts, he wanted nothing to do with the glory he had won in battle. Maybe that was why her brother was so taken with the young warrior: why Jamie placed so much trust in him.
When this was over, Daenerys wanted nothing more than to find out more about the silent warrior. In truth, she had developed a certain fascination with Jon herself: the pure goodness that seemed to radiate off of him attracted her in a way that nothing had before. They had no time for niceties now, to be sure, but Dany knew that she wanted to personally introduce herself to Jon during times of peace.
The beat of the war drums roused her from her musings. Jamie and Jon were saying their farewell, clasping each other's forearms. She couldn't hear what they were saying over the din of the army, but she didn't need to listen to know. Strength and Honor.
At the setting of the sun of the fifth day of continuous fighting, what remained of the mighty gate of Winterfell was breached. The Starks were fearsome combatants: as she and her brothers walked towards the now crumbling walls she found herself stepping over far more Targaryen soldiers than those wearing Stark armor. Inside the castle, a great fire blazed as the sounds of wounded echoed off the stone. The fighting was done: upon entering the great hall, Daenerys recognized the lifeless body of Ned Stark propped up against the massive table at the far end of the space. In the Lords chair sat a young boy, no older than 10: the last Stark in Winterfell. His eyes burned with something unrecognizable for a child of his age, and he gave a shakey bow as they entered. When he met their eyes again, she could see the tears there, threatening to spill over. Rhaegar smiled at the boy-lord, his eyes full of sorrow.
"Winterfell is yours," the child said. Daenerys couldn't bring herself to listen to the two exchange the terms of surrender and she turned on her heel, striding from the room, trying desperately to forget the venom that the child had looked at them with.
With her guard at her back, she wandered through the grounds, her boots crunching through the blood soaked snow and ice. They came upon a thicket of trees growing within the castle walls, the towering red leaves above them echoing the death that surrounded her. A Godswood, she thought, remembering her lessons. Fearing no northern god, she ventured further within the grove, her men murmuring uncomfortably as they followed.
The was stopped by the sound of voices: there, with twenty or so dead northmen strewn around him, lay Jon Sand in a pool of his own blood. A shard of a splintered sword peeked out from his black, leather armour, the snow around him stained the same colour as the sap dripping from the tree he was laying against; the crude face crying for this Northern bastard as he died. Jamie crouched over him, more emotion spread across his face than she had ever seen from him before, grasping Jons bloodied hand.
"Let it end," she barely heard, "I dreamt of peace, Jamie. Let it end." The general choked back a sob as he pressed his head to his fallen compatriots. "I am with her," came the whisper, "I am home." And then there was nothing; Jamie Lannister squeezed Jon's hand before placing it back in his lap and turning to face her, rage burning in his eyes and in his heart.
"What are the seven kingdoms in exchange for one mans life?" he spat, his voice seething as he searched the sky for whatever answer he sought. She would take no offense: he had just lost his brother. When Jamie looked at her again, there were tears falling down his face. "Honor him."
They burned their dead in the godswood that night: many of the weirwoods had been felled for kindling. One last kick in the teeth for the Starks. Jon Sand was burned next to his men, as was customary for a Targaryen funeral. The smoke reached up towards the stars as the souls of the fallen drifted away on the northern wind. Now we rest. Next to her, Rhaegar was crying.
The edges of the sky were tinted with the colors of dawn. The birds who remained sang a tragic song as the wind traced down his body. Jon sat up.
Fire cannot kill a dragon.