Hi everyone, I apologize for the long delay in updates. My muse was a rather elusive thing the last few months and I've been busy with a new job. But I'm back! Thank you for all your favorites and reviews and I'll try and keep the updates somewhat frequent. And as always, I own nothing, but if I did, everyone would be happy and Ghost would get all the screentime.
Chapter Eight: What Goes Up
Jon looked at the maps laid out across the tent, the frigid winter air swirled through the flap as Dany stepped in, her thick cloak bundled up tight under her chin. Making her way over to Jon, Dany snuggled up into his side before looking down at the map. Troop markers along the Kingsroad showed the hidden caches of men they'd littered along the North. The decision for a more guerilla style warfare suggested by Tyrion and Jaime was unnerving for the Northerners who saw it as a cowardly way to fight. Jon had stood up for the Lannisters however, pointing out the enemy they were fighting had no sense of honor, no morality, and as such any advantage they could take to cut down on the numbers fighting for the Others they should take.
"Bran said a large force has made ready to attack Last Hearth, he suggested we take Drogon to aid them, but wouldn't say why," Dany's soft whisper broke through his concentration and he turned from the battle plans to look down at her.
"He knows what he's talking about, I trust him. And Arya confirmed there's a mass of wights marching up the Kingsroad. Thinning down the numbers with Drogon would be a good move," Jon wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her pale head.
"I just worry. None of you have seen Viserion… I fear for when the Night King brings him to the field. He is-was my son, I don't want to see him against us," her words were muffled as she buried her head in the crook of his shoulder taking the warmth offered from his embrace.
"I know Dany, I know," they stood together for a moment, the quiet of the snow falling around them enveloping the tent, isolating them from the dull rumble of the troops surrounding them.
Ghost lifted his head from his paws to look at the couple standing across from him, their mingled scents making him snuffle and rub his nose against the furs along the tent floor. They smelled of heat and fire and frozen earth. Shaking his head, he slowly stood and padded over to them, sticking his nose in the middle of their arms.
Laughing at Ghost's neediness, Dany pulled away from Jon to embrace the direwolf, carding her fingers through his soft fur. Jon shook his head at the interruption while Dany giggled, Ghost always seemed to appear at those tender moments, sticking his wet nose in to beg for pets and attention. It reminded her of her youngest Viserion who had been so eager to please. Wincing at the thought of her lost child, Dany turned towards the maps once more, soon they would have to face him and she wasn't sure if she would be able to do what was necessary to defeat the Night King. Lately, her dreams had been plagued with a vision of her fallen child, his eyes a piercing blue as the monstrosity that resurrected him drove him onward through the sky to attack his brothers. She'd woken up more times than she could count in Jon's arms, gasping for breath as he smoothed her hair down her back, murmuring to her until she stopped crying. The quiet King in the North had been a constant presence at her side the past months, so much so that Davos had started clucking about her making an honest man of her nephew. Marrying Jon wasn't something she wanted to rush into though, she'd married for duty and family twice already, and while she loved him, she worried that their love may not prove best for Westeros. Tyrion had vehemently disagreed when she brought her fears up to him, stating that "the brooding boy is the best king for the job and for you so just get on with already and propose, we've been waiting since White Harbor." His blunt words lingered in her ears as she carded her fingers through Ghost's fur once more, perhaps… perhaps she was waiting too long for no reason...perhaps she should ask him.
Jon watched as Dany leaned into Ghost her pale fingers disappearing into his fur as she pet him. Gods he loved her. Ygritte had been a torment, a shadow on his mind for a long time, but he had finally learned to let her go. He'd loved her yes, but as a boy, as a man just entering the world, not yet knowing the struggles and hardships he would face. She had been loud, beautiful, rude, a force of nature that wreaked havoc on his vows to the watch. But he had chosen his brothers in black in the end, and she had chosen her own path. With Dany, things were just as complicated, but also easier than breathing. He felt it in his bones that they were meant to be. He didn't need any prophecies or visions to tell him that they belonged together, he could tell in the way she clung to him each night for comfort after a nightmare. In how she snapped and snarled at him like an angry wolf when woken too early in the morning. In how she preferred wines and silks and pretty things to the cold simplicity of the North, but embraced his home regardless. In how she moaned his name as she rode him each night, her hair a white tangle of curls that fell down her back as she made him hers. In how she befriended Sansa and Arya, allowing the former to teach her about Westeros as the latter taught her how to fight. He loved her in all ways, and after the seventh non-subtle hint from Missandei about cementing their union before the gods, he'd decided it was time.
Brienne shivered in her armor, the leather padding between her and the cold steel doing little to keep her warm. Jaime was out on a patrol, having just returned from Winterfell bearing supplies to last their little garrison a fortnight. While he'd been gone, the wildling Tormund sulked about Last Hearth, alternating between giving her kicked puppy glances and flinching whenever Pod appeared. She had to hand it to her squire, he took the much larger man to task effectively and brutally, she never knew Pod had such depths, though she was touched he cared so much as to defend her honor. Jaime had laughed and called him her little brother, ruffling the younger man's hair with a playful glint in his eyes. His mischievous nature that she'd grown accustomed to during their travels so long before seemed to flare whenever Pod was around, but besides that the new and more somber Jaime intrigued her. He'd told her that night after their rather public kiss in the training ground as the huddled together under blankets before a fire that Cersei had claimed to be pregnant, that the child was his. His choked gasps as he mentioned his past children, and how monstrous his sister had become broke her heart, especially when he stated that he could never return to her, for though he loved Brienne, it was Cersei's own darkness that finally hardened his heart against her. Breaking her word and turning her back on the war in the North was but the final straw in a cascade of poor decisions and cruelty. Seeing Cersei pace across the throne room, he'd said, her voice full of vitriol as she snarled and spit about the Northerners and how they would be slaughtered, leaving the throne to her, reminded him so strongly of the Mad King, that any veil that had once been over his eyes was permanently shattered.
"Brienne, Lady Brienne," a voice called out from the treeline as Pod appeared from the morning fog. His face was flushed bright red and his brown eyes were wide with panic, "They've been sighted coming up the main road! A couple thousand at least. And they have one of those mammoth things Tormund warned us about." His words gripped her throat in a vise-like hold as if the Night King himself was there choking the life out of her, so it had begun.
"Sound the alarm Pod, and get your men ready. We've prepared for this, we've trained for it. I'll get Jaime and Tormund," turning on her heel, Brienne felt her heart clench at the thought of this new battle. They'd stockpiled dragonglass weapons for the last two months, training every able bodied soldier they could, but would it be enough? Shaking her head at the negative thought, she banished any doubt, they were fighting for life, they would win. Her tent flap flew open before she could enter and Jaime stepped out in his black and grey armor, the three headed dragon along the shoulder in crimson. He'd forsaken House Lannister, after fleeing Cersei, leaving it once and for all to his younger brother. The white cloaks the two of them shared stood in stark contrast to the black armor, something the youngest Stark boy commented on when they were first designed, stating that the melding of ice and fire had begun.
"So the undead bastards have finally showed their faces," Jaime leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek before wheeling back with a grin on his face, the paleness in his jade eyes the only sign of his discomfort.
"Are you scared?" Brienne felt like kicking herself for asking him that, he'd been in far more battles than she, he was Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer…
"Yes." The single word response stopped her train of thought.
"You could die Brienne, you could die out there and become one of them, we all could. It would be foolish not to be afraid."
Before she could second guess her impulse, she gripped his armor and pulled him to her lips, kissing him gently, then more fervently. If this was to be there last moment together, then she would make it one for the stories.
Jaime felt like he shouldn't have been surprised, his wench was actually quite passionate in private, but ever since that first kiss in public, she'd been adamant that they keep their relationship private. This kiss was anything but. Her fingers were in his hair, the stitching in her gloves catching a bit as she moved them, her lips were sweet like the Dornish red he'd caught her drinking the night before, and as she opened her mouth to his insistent tongue and battled him for dominance, he knew he'd never really felt love like this, equal and balanced.
"Oi, can I have a kiss before the battle too?" Tormund's bellow effectively killed the mood, reminding them that it wasn't the time or the place.
"Wench."
"Kingslayer."
They looked at each other one last time, studying the lines and shadows that were ever present on each other's faces, and then they turned, and walked away.
"Pod, have the archers line the trees along the road. Black Rat take your men down further into the clearing along the godswood. And no, Tormund, why don't you find a bear to kiss, I hear that's your specialty," Brienne barked out orders as she tightened Oathkeeper on her waist, giggling to herself at the joke she'd made at Tormund's expense, the ginger wildling was now pouting again at her as he strapped a pair of axes to his chest.
The Three Eyed- Raven who was once and still is Brandon Stark soared along the Kingsroad, his eyes in the sky taking in the slow moving troops of Others. Wights and all manners of creatures from the Land of Always Winter, ice spiders and mammoths to name a few populated the bulk of this force. He numbered them at 10,000 strong at least, doubling what he had counted several days prior. A secondary force must have been hidden from his sight to join with them. The part of him that was Brandon Stark wanted to return immediately to the main force in Winterfell to warn them, to let his brother know that the Others were finally making their move. But the larger part of him, the part that had joined with the Bloodraven and communed with the Old Gods urged him onward, his gaze spreading out among the flock of birds he'd warged into, searching for the Night King. The most deadly foe had to be found and eliminated quickly, their plans hinged on it. His eyes spread across the Kingsroad, flitting between trees and low hanging cloud banks, marking every new detachment from the main force of wights. Battling a fast moving storm coming in from the northwest, he finally marked the tail end of the forces, the blue tinged scales of Viserion the last thing he saw before his gaze met the piercing cold of the Night King's and he was abruptly forced back into his body.
Sansa paced along the floor in her solar, her eyes darting from Tyrion to Davos and then back to Tyrion. She'd been woken from her sleep by the forceful pounding on her doors and a breathless Tyrion exclaiming that her idiot brother and his wild queen had disappeared on the dragons in the early morning hours. She didn't even have time to get dressed before an impromptu war council was arranged in her chambers, the remaining members of Jon and Dany's councils joining her agitated former husband to discuss the abrupt exit of their leaders.
"We received word from Lord Brandon after he awoke that a large force is marching up the Kingsroad and will reach Last Hearth within the day. He informed our wayward leaders and they geared up and flew off on Drogon and Rhaegal, informing only Grey Worm before they departed," Tyrion ran a hand through his hair, the deep bags under his eyes belying his exhaustion.
"What's our next step then? Should we be alerting the other detachment of our forces and gearing up to march to their aid?" Sansa held her hastily donned cloak tighter to her throat, a chill sneaking it's way up her spine.
"I'll send out ravens but to be honest my lady, I don't think they'll reach anyone in time," Davos replied.
Nodding her head, Sansa tried not to think about the ramifications of Jon and Dany's abrupt departure. They were the last Targaryens, their king and queen respectively, and they'd just run headlong into danger with no plan in place for if they were to fall. It was just like Jon to do that though, he'd done it before when facing Ramsay all those long months ago. She didn't know Daenerys quite well yet, but she suspected the Dragon Queen was similar. She'd spent the last month discussing future plans for the monarchs and the trajectory of the Seven Kingdoms with Tyrion. It was interesting reconnecting with the Lannister Lord after so many years apart, he'd changed. He was quieter, less brash and more prone to long moments of silent introspection. But he still maintained that humor that had drawn her to him in those dark days in Kings Landing, brightening her life. Sometimes, she wondered what life might have been like if she hadn't fled with Littlefinger and stayed with her lord husband. Would they have been as close as they are now? They'd spent many nights burning the midnight candle pouring over books and documents detailing the ruling of Westeros and the alliances they needed to win the Iron Throne.
"What should we do Tyrion?" her whispered question startled him as he turned to look up at her. Sansa Stark was changed from the shy girl he'd known, her core of steel made her as unyielding and unbending as the swords that made the Iron Throne, and so to hear her so hesitant, startled him. He wasn't sure how to respond, before he might have cracked a joke about flighty rulers, but now he knew that wouldn't be the appropriate response.
"We prepare, as best we can, send out ravens to our allies, pull together our remaining forces and…" he paused and looked up at her, her eyes were shadowed their late nights poring over tomes in what remained of the library etched in those deep blue eyes, "We pray. To the Seven, to the Drowned God, to the Old Gods, to the Gods of Tits and Wine, whoever can hear us. Our illustrious King and Queen have decided on our next move, now we must hope they have the skill to see it out."
Sansa nodded, her hands worrying along the edges of her cloak, it was so cold now, even in the castle. The hot springs that warmed Winterfell were obsolete against the freezing storms that haunted the North as the oncoming army of the dead. They'd pulled the remaining citizens of Wintertown and the troops that resided in the tents for months inside the castle walls. It was packed now, far more than it had been for thousands of years. More and more people from different villages and keeps along the North came in every week. Tyrion was doing the work of ten men each day trying to keep up the peace within Winterfell's walls. Sansa felt like she was drowning trying to keep up, accrediting her trials by fire in the Red Keep and by ice with Ramsay for her ability to keep going each day. Her scars from her ex-husband ached with the bitter cold, the ghosts of her time with him ever present in the high stress of the war. Her late nights in the library with Tyrion were the only thing keeping her going in the morning. Studying her first, former husband as he sifted through documents along their shared desk, she wondered what marriage with him would have been like, what life would have been like had she not fled with Littlefinger. Would she still have ended up here? Life was so strange, she mused as she poured a glass of Dornish red for the two of them, they were down to their last barrel, Tyrion-the man who everyone claimed to be a monster, was actually one of the kindest, and gentlest men she'd met. Offering him the glass, she suppressed a giggle as he mindlessly grasped for it, his hands missing and closing on a candlestick.
Wind howled, the storm beating sheets of icy rain along the ground, freezing upon impact to form thick black ice along the forest floor. Leaning against Rhaegal's back, Jon thanked the gods for the warmth of the fire within the dragon, he would have frozen to his death ages ago without it. They'd been flying for over an hour and were nearing the encampment that Bran said was soon to be attacked. He wished he could have had more time with Dany, but they'd jumped on her children's back as soon as his brother had given them the news. They weren't ready, it was still too soon. Only three months, barely at that had passed since they reached Winterfell, and all too soon they had to leave, to face the Night King and his horde. A weight settled deep in his stomach, he knew that this was the beginning, and the end. Whatever happened next would shape the fate of the Seven Kingdoms. He wished he could have had one more night with Dany, one more night to hold her, to tell her how he felt, how he wanted her to be his as irrevocably as he was hers.
"Jon," he flinched as he heard the faint voice along the wind, it couldn't be. He turned his head and watched the large dark shape of Drogon appear between the low hanging storm clouds. Dany was barely visible, a pure white form on top of the solid black of her eldest son. She called out again, his name, and then a startling question. He tried not to rear back, but it was a close thing. She couldn't have said… that. Rhaegal tilted and swung closer to his brother, and he heard the question again.
"Marry me?"
Oathkeeper cleaved the skull from the bony shoulders of a wight as Brienne plunged through the thick of battle. Their plan to thin out the oncoming forces with arrows tipped with dragonglass and vials of wildfire Tyrion smuggled from King's Landing had worked, for a time. But then a secondary force appeared along the Kingsroad, led by several Others atop ice spiders and quickly swept through the remains of the first detachment. A horn sounded in two short blasts and Brienne turned to find Jaime. He was clubbing a wight with his one hand, the dragonglass attachments helping kill the dead creature as he impaled another with his sword. His eyes met hers and he forced his way over to her side.
"That the signal?" his voice sounded hoarse, the long thick of the battle tiring him. Nodding her head Brienne swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry as she followed Jaime and the rest of the forces, pulling back to the secondary defenses along the trees. Ducking behind the giant spikes they'd whittled down and stuck into the ground, the two wove their way further back to the hastily constructed command center. Pod ran by them, his face streaked with mud and blood as he went.
Tormund was having a shite day, and it was only going to get worse. The wildling narrowed his eyes at the pretty Kingslayer who was leaned up against Brienne. The tactics they were employing were cowardlike, but even he had to admit they were effective. Not to mention that in the face of the wicked danger that was coming after them, just charging in with his axes wasn't the best way to go about things.
"What happened to Black Rat?" he rasped, snatching a mug of ale from the Kingslayer before the blonde idiot could drink it.
"Dead. He was impaled by one of those ice spikes wielded by one of the White Walkers," Brienne replied, wincing as Jaime bound a rather nasty cut along her arm.
"Great, how many more of those fuckers do ye think are out there?" Tormund wondered out loud.
"Thousands, according to the scout that just came in. I don't think that plan will work just yet, you know the one," Pod stuttered as he reappeared, his face clear of the muck that covered it moments before.
"We'll have to improvise. Bronn," Jaime turned to the sellsword turned knight, his eyes lighting with mischief, "Remember what you said that one time about raining hellfire down from the sky?"
"Yeah, I was pissed out of my mind. It won't actually work," Bronn shook his head as the Lannister lord just smirked back at him.
An hour later found him climbing a tree with a bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows along his back. Grumbling about Lannisters and their tricks, Bronn inched his way out along a thick bow and marked the oncoming horde that marched towards him. Pulling an arrow from the quiver, he laid his bow along his lap and pulled one of the vials the Kingslayer had entrusted him with out of his inner pocket. Vibrant green liquid pooled along the edges of the arrow as he poured out the volatile substance, careful to not spill any on himself as he did. Nocking the arrow, he watched the tree tops along the road rustle as other archers readied themselves. At the signal, a sharp high pitch sounding of a trumpet, he loosed his arrow. It whistled through the air with dozens of others, wicked green drops of wildfire falling to the ground as the arrows flew. A secondary horn sounded as Bran threw himself from the tree, slingling from branch to branch as he raced against time. Another volley of arrows launched into the air, this time tinged with the orange glow of tar dipped heads lit ablaze.
The resulting explosion sent shockwaves through the woods, trees exploding outward in a concussive wave, splinters of wood and ice and green fire coating the visible world.
The Night King shifted on his seat, the reanimated dragon beneath him banking against a sharp wind. The final battle was on the horizon. He could feel his victory against the living, against those who cursed and forsook him all those years ago at hand. None could stand before the might of his forces. Viserion led out a piercing roar, as the Night King signaled his forces onward. Tens of thousands of the dead trudged onward below him, carrying with them the long, dark night.