Chapter 13 – The Long Night III

Consumed by rage. Jaime had never known what those words truly meant until he saw Brienne fall. In the blink of an eye, the hope in him was snuffed out. Leaving him as a shell with nothing but black rage seeping in to fill in the gaps. His vision was clouded in blood from the gash above his eye, but, nonetheless, he charged in. With no regard for his own life, he violently cut down anything that stood in his way. Most of the rusted blades the dead used could not get past his steel plate armor but the ones that did left their marks on his body. Even with the accumulating cuts, Jaime still did not care to defend himself, all that mattered was reaching that cursed White Walker and finishing it off.

The Golden Lion let out a maddened roar as his blade clashed with Menace's, the sight of Brienne's body fueling every one of his swings. But even having lost a hand, the ancient cold god still outmatched him. His perception, that had allowed him to survive for so long, was clouded by his anger. His blade all emotions, lacking the polish needed to defeat such a skilled opponent. Grimacing as he lunged, the White Walker read him perfectly and parried his attack while adding a knee that had Jaime heaving for air. Another premature strike earned him an elbow across his temple that made his world spin and his ears ring. With no sense of balance, the knight tried to stand up on wobbly feet but was only kicked down again.

Menace thrust his sword at his stomach and Jaime braced himself for the coming darkness. There would be no redemption for him, he was a fool to believe it so. 'I am no lion or knight.' His last chapter in the White Book would be as the Kingslayer and nothing more. But the darkness never came, the ice blade stopped right before reaching him. Looking up at the Other, it had a look of shock on its face along with a new cut at its neck that sizzled with white smoke. Menace dropped his blade and reached to touch it as if not sure if it was even real or not. But before its hand even made it half-way up its body, the White Walker crumbled to dust as if he was never there in the first place.

"Tyrion Lannister sends his regards," said Arya Stark as she sheathed Catspaw, the Valyrian steel dagger that Bran had given her. Wights died by the hundreds around them and without their minions, the two remaining White Walkers that were inside the castle were quickly slain. She looked back at Jaime, who still laid on the ground beaten and bloodied, with eyes that did nothing to hide her disdain for his blood and considered for a moment whether or not she should just leave him there to bleed out. They were fighting on the same side now, but does that mean she has to forget their family's history?

Jaime watched as Arya stood over him and judged him with the same eyes as her father. 'Kill me, do it!' His eyes shouted for her to release him from his weakness and despair but when the Stark girl began to help him up, he was once again filled with rage. "He was mine to kill!" shouted Jaime as he snatched the collar of her leather armor. The girl had no reaction except for the same look of disdain she wore mixed with something that was akin to recognition. The last of his rage burned through and his grip fell away. The fatigue had finally caught up to him and he was beginning to lose consciousness. "Ser Jaime is wounded, please see to his injuries." That was the last thing he heard before his vision faded to black.

Over by the Hunter's Gate, the wights broke through the trench of Wildfire with the magic of Impaler, the spear-wielding White Walker leading them. The cold god's power doused the substance and opened up a path for the wights to run through. Once past the last line of defense outside of Winterfell, only the castle walls stood between them and the humans inside. While normal siege tactics would have dictated the use of ladders to climb over the walls, the dead made their own by pilling on top of one another. Clumps of hundreds of dead men stacked higher and higher, and there were simply not enough defenders to clear them all in time before the first few wights tried to climb over the wall. The shards of obsidian that were planted on the battlement kept them at bay for a moment, but soon they were covered with bodies that became cover for the wights that followed.

"Oil!" the Hound shouted as he cut down a wight that tried to climb over.

"OIL!" repeated Gendry and the command echoed down the castle wall. Vats of burning hot oil were poured onto the sieging wights but apart from burning off their already rotted skin, it did little to deter them.

"Light these fuckers up!" Torches were tossed over the wall and the heads ignited the flammable liquid causing the mountains of wights to burst like the volcanoes of the Doom. The explosion was so violent that the flames singed the top of the wall and the men were splattered with the hot oil that was splashing everywhere. "ARGH! FUCK!" the Hound yelled out in pain as he covered his face against the oil and embers that were flying over the wall. The moment he turned away from the wall, a wight hopped over the battlement and tried to drag him over the wall. Had it not been for Gendry's fast reaction with his warhammer, the Hound would have been dog meat for the dead.

The two had little time to bond over the moment as the dead started rebuilding their human ladder. Soon, the wights began spilling over the walls and despite their best efforts, more and more of them were getting into the castle. The ones that got past them did not hesitate to run through the wooden railings and jump two-story down into the courtyard. Some landed safely and ran amok, the ones that didn't resorted to crawling. In either case, the castle was plunged into chaos. The field commanders struggled to split their troops between dealing with the walkers inside the castle and defending against the ones outside. Shouts of confusion were muddled together with the inconsistent orders and at that point, the Hound was beginning to see the writing on the wall.

A few hundred meters down to the south of where they were, a giant icicle punched a hole through the battlement and the spear-wielding White Walker vaulted over. Pale white skin with cold blue eyes, there was no mistaking it, it was one of those special ones. When they went on their wild scavenger hunt beyond the Wall, he remembered how killing the White Walker would shut down the dead that was around them. Perhaps it wasn't all lost yet. "Where are you going?!" Gendry asked when the Hound stopped fighting.

"We can't win here. We need to kill that fucker over there," said the Hound as he pointed to the White Walker, "so that the rest of these cunts can die for good."

"I'll come with you then!"

"Do as you like."

Daenerys' eyes were shut but she could hear the sound of the dead closing in around her. She could feel Drogon's pain as sharply as her own as her child tried his best to defend her. Loud screeches of pain tore at her heart, but she did not dare to wish for them to end, for it would mark the death of another one of her children. In her fevered vision, she once again saw the snow-covered Iron Throne. Another screech of pain from Drogon…or was that Rhaegal? The kraken's large tentacles came out of the dark sea and dragged her child into the ocean's coffin. She was alone. Ser Barristan? Jorah? Missandei? Jon? Where are you? She was lying at the feet of the throne, never having climbed it. She felt cold, but then a wave of warmth washed over her. She heard the sound of Rhaegal's cry, strong and alive, and when she opened her eyes, dark grey eyes stared down at her.

"Jon…what are you-"

"I came here to lead a group of White Walkers away, they're taken care of now, and to check up on you," he said with his soft and soothing Northern accent as he changed the bandage around her head. "I'm leaving Rhaegal with you."

"Wha-No, you can't!"

"Drogon is injured and the Night King knows it, he will keep sending wights and eventually it will be too much. I can't take you with me, so this is the only way I can keep you safe."

"How will you get back with the dead roaming around?"

"I had Rhaegal blaze a track on our way here. I will use it on my way back, the wights won't be able to stop me."

"What about the Night King's dragon?"

Jon was silent for a moment before taking her hand in his. "Viserion is resting now."

That was all she needed to hear before hot tears spilled down her cheeks. Every night since Viserion died, she has had nightmares about that moment. Not only was he taken from her, but he was also bound by the chains of the Night King's dark magic and forced to serve as a mindless slave. Now he was free, and she would finally be able to mourn him properly. "Thank you."

"I need to go now," said Jon, even though that was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Come back to me."

"Always."

The run back tested both his endurance and his spirit. Even with his Targaryen blood keeping him safe from the flames, the reduced oxygen level made each step feel like a thousand. The hot air that he did breathe in burned his lungs, but he pressed on, nonetheless. He had to make it back. He had to make a difference. 'Love is the death of duty.' Leaving Rhaegal behind was an act of love, but how many lives would it cost them? His decision could lead to unfathomable consequences and it would all be on his hands. Would he be able to live with that? Perhaps not, but he wouldn't have been able to live with the idea of letting Daenerys die either. He didn't have a choice when Ygritte was taken from him. He still doesn't know which side he would have ultimately chosen but he never wanted to experience that ever again. To bury the woman he loved.

By the time he was half-way back, he saw the state Winterfell was in and it was not looking good. The North Gate was breached, hundreds of dead were pouring in from over the walls, and undead giants were joining the fight as well. Their forces have put a solid dent in the Night King's army, but they were still being overwhelmed. That's when he saw him. The Night King walking at a leisurely pace while his soldiers cleared the path for him. The flames separated them, but Jon could see his back turned to him. He was alone. Perhaps this was his chance, the only one he may ever get. As quietly as he could, he unsheathed Longclaw and prepared to dash at him but before he could even take his first step, the Night King turned around and he froze in his tracks.

With both arms to his side, palms opened up to the sky, the Night King slowly began to raise his hands. Jon recognized the motion he saw at Hardhome, the scene that he would never forget until his dying day. Time felt like it was going at a fraction of its speed. Could he make it in time to stop him? No, it was too late. He would not make it in time, it would be suicide to even try. Gritting his teeth, Jon continued down the path of fire back to Winterfell. As he ran, he saw more and more of his fallen comrades open their eyes. Lost was the different colors of life that were once in them, replaced by a stale and emotionless blue. It didn't take long for all of soldiers that had died for the living to rejoin the Night King's army. But the curious thing was that they didn't chase him. They only watched as he ran past them, heads turning to watch him go. Jon wasn't going to question why and simply focused on getting back to the castle before the Night King changed his mind. He never looked back to see the smile that was on the Great Other's face. Only when the dragonrider made it back to the castle did the Night King give the order to advance once more.

*Author's Note: Thanks everyone for reading and apologies for the delay! Hope you guys are still enjoying the battle so far and I look forward to reading your reviews!

Guest: Thanks for the review, hope you enjoyed this chapter as well!

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