A/N: Sorry this chapter was shorter, but the next (and final) chapter is going to be a long one. It's not done yet and it is already over 20 pages in Microsoft Word. What I want to do with the last chapter is wrap up everyone's stories and bring closure, but I also want to leave some room for more. I have an idea for a sequel fanfic, about the same length as this one, but my concern is there is no way I could finish it before the final season comes out. If my sequel runs parallel with the final season, there will be overlap in storylines and either 1.) my plot lines will also happen in the final season as well, making them come across as unoriginal or 2.) my plot lines will be different from the final season, and therefore rendered false by canon. Let me know if a sequel is something you might be interested in anyway...
Sansa
He was dead.
She didn't want to believe it. On her knees in the snow, Sansa placed her hands on Bran's arms and shook him, gently at first and then with more force. "Bran," Her voice was broken, pleading. "No. Please don't go Bran, come back – " Tears blurred her vision and she could barely speak now, but she refused to give up, refused to let herself dissolve into despair. "Oh gods, please Bran, please don't go – "
"Sansa." Arya's voice was low and gentle and Sansa felt her sister's hand on her shoulder, but she wouldn't allow herself to look at her, because if she looked at Arya she knew there would be nothing to stop her from crying. "Sansa, look at me – "
"No!" She shouted with all the force she could muster. "No, Bran, he – he's our little brother, we can't give up on him – Arya we can't – "
"Sansa," She heard Arya's voice falter and she finally forced herself to turn around, finding tears running down her sister's cheeks as she cried silently. "He's gone."
She could not remember the last time she had watched Arya cry and that was what did it for her, the first sob forcing its way out of her throat. Sansa got to her feet and wrapped Arya into an embrace, burrowing her face into Arya's hair as she wept openly.
He was dead.
Her little baby brother, dead to save them all.
And now, as she and Arya held each other, Sansa allowed herself to weep for all that she had lost: a father, a mother, a wolf, and now three of her brothers…
There was the sound of rustling among the trees followed by boots crunching in the snow, and Sansa reluctantly looked up to see Jon enter the godswood. One of his arms was dangling limply by his side, clearly injured, his hair frosted with ice and his armor stained with blood. Whether the blood was his, Sansa could not say. In his hand Longclaw was smoking and he dropped it into the snow, causing the metal to hiss, his grey eyes fixating on the empty shell that had once been Bran Stark. "Oh gods."
Sansa broke away from Arya to throw herself into his arms, sobbing.
Jon hugged her back as best as he could with only one good arm and a moment later Arya came to join them, her arms wrapping around Jon's waist, her body pressed up against Sansa's. Stop crying, you stupid girl. Sansa chided herself silently. You are a Stark, a wolf, you must be brave. But the tears kept coming all the same.
"He said," Arya began, her voice hoarse from the strain of her tears. "To tell you that it was worth it. That you were worth it. And then just liked that he warged, even though he knew it would kill him. He sacrificed himself."
"Oh gods," Jon repeated, mostly to himself, still holding them both. Sansa wondered if he was in shock and hoped that he hadn't lost too much blood.
She was cold and her throat was raw, and Sansa didn't know when or if she would ever stop crying. "I told myself I would protect him," She sobbed into Jon's chest. "But I couldn't." No one can protect anyone, She remembered saying once, and gods she felt so stupid for thinking it could be any different. "Why couldn't it have been me?"
Jon's arm tightened around her immediately and his lips found her forehead. "Don't say that, Sans." He whispered to her. "Gods, don't ever say that."
"Bran made his choice." Arya added. She seemed to have regained control over herself and let go of Jon and Sansa to wipe furiously at her tear-stained cheeks. "There was nothing you could've done. There was nothing any of us could've done."
"He saved us all." Jon said, but his eyes weren't on Sansa, they were staring across the godswood at Bran's eternally frozen face. "He died a hero."
They were both right, Sansa knew, but in the moment their words were little consolation to her. They'd already lost so much, why was it that any of them had to die at all? Why couldn't there have been another way?
They stood there together for what felt like an eternity, together and yet also alone with their grief, Sansa crying until she felt there were no more tears left in her body.
Even after she'd stopped crying, her eyes felt swollen and raw, and Jon wrapped his good arm around her shoulders as they walked back towards Winterfell. Arya stood on Jon's other side, carrying both Jon's sword and her own, her eyes trained firmly on the ground as she walked. They'd left Bran's body behind, Jon unable to lift it with his injured arm and the weight too much for Sansa and Arya, but Sansa had closed his eyes for the last time and Jon had covered the body with his cloak. Later they would go back to get him, and then they would put his body in the crypts, but Sansa wasn't ready to think about that yet. She didn't want to think about her little brother in the ground.
"We should make a statue for him," Sansa blurted out, causing both Jon and Arya to look at her. "I know it's not tradition, but I think he deserves one." Her father had statues made for her uncle Brandon and her aunt Lyanna even though neither of them had ever ruled Winterfell, so it seemed only right that Bran should get one too.
Jon nodded. "You're exactly right. We'll have one made right away."
The field was littered with bodies, beyond counting, and the air smelt like blood and smoke and death. As they approached the gates, she saw Lord Tyrion and Ser Jorah come out to greet them, and Sansa felt a spark of relief when she saw that Tyrion was alive and unharmed, but then she remembered that Bran was dead and the joy was gone.
Her eyes met Tyrion's and that one look was enough to make his face fall. She didn't have to say it – he already knew.
Ser Jorah squared his jaw. "Your Grace," He said solemnly to Jon. "The maester is tending to Her Grace. You should go to her."
"Is she all right?"
Jorah said nothing for a moment. "She's alive." His pause spoke volumes.
Jon nodded stiffly. "Take me to her." He kissed both Sansa and Arya on the top of their heads, then followed Ser Jorah into the castle. Silently Sansa hoped that Daenerys would pull through – she did not want her family to suffer another loss.
Lord Tyrion approached them and tentatively took Sansa's hand, clasping it between both of his. "Lady Stark, I am very sorry for your loss."
Sansa sniffled. "Thank you, my lord. Your brother – ?"
"Is alive."
"I'm glad to hear it." She wasn't lying when she said it either. At least one of them had not lost their brother today…
"I know this is little consolation," Lord Tyrion continued. "But I am very thankful to see that you are alive and unharmed, my lady."
Sansa nodded, and squeezed his hand. "And I am thankful to see you, my lord."
Bran was gone, but she was still here. Arya was still here. Jon was still here. The pack survived.
For now, that had to be enough.
Brienne
He was dead.
The battle was over, the living had won, but still Brienne remained in place, knelt in the snow, Podrick's body limp in her arms. "I'm so sorry," She whispered even though she knew he could not hear, her words carried away on a northern wind. He had deserved more than this. He hadn't deserved to die.
"Brienne."
She looked up as Tormund Giantsbane approached her from behind, trying to keep her tears at bay. She did not have the energy to deal with the Wildling man's antics right now. "What is it?" She wanted to snap at him, but the words came out sounding sad and broken.
Tormund knelt down beside her and wrapped an arm around her, but it wasn't one of his bawdy come ons, just a comforting arm around her shoulder. Brienne saw there was no joviality in his eyes now, only remorse. "It's over. You did everything you could."
Brienne opened her mouth, then closed it. She wanted to weep. She said nothing, placing Podrick's body down in the snow and allowing Tormund to help her to her feet. Brienne shut Podrick's eyes and Tormund took off his fur cloak, draping it over the boy's corpse. "He was the greatest squire who ever lived." She said, her voice thick from impending tears.
"Aye." Tormund agreed solemnly. "He was." Brienne knew that Tormund didn't know anything about what being a squire entailed, that it was a foreign concept to a member of the Free Folk, but in that moment she didn't care, allowing him to be nice to her in her moment of grief. For once she was tired of being strong and she wanted to be comforted, just this once, so she allowed him to lead her back towards Winterfell.
As they walked she looked around, examining the corpses fallen across the battlefield, the blood bright red against the freshly fallen snow. Above them the clouds had parted and the sky had cleared, a grey sun beginning to peek out from behind the faraway mountaintops. She examined the faces of the dead men. There was Yohn Royce, the lord from the Vale, many Unsullied and Dothraki who had fallen where they stood. A knot formed in Brienne's throat when she saw a woman sobbing over the corpse of a girl, and she recognized her as little Lysa Woolfield, one of the girls Arya had trained. She'd been only nine.
"Where is Ser Jaime?" Brienne blurted out. She realized she had not seen him in quite a while. After Podrick fell, she had lost Jaime and Ser Bronn in the ensuing chaos.
Tormund gave her a knowing smile. "Your lover boy's going to be fine, just has a few superficial wounds."
"He's not my lover!" Brienne insisted, but Tormund only shook his head and chuckled to himself.
"No need to deny it. You love him, it's clear to see. Now Lannister better treat you well, otherwise he'll have to deal with me."
Brienne looked away and resisted the urge to smile.
It was then that she spotted a man with thinning, sandy-colored hair knelt in the snow, hovering over the corpse of large man. He must have been tall in life, because his legs that were now splayed limp on the ground looked longer than Brienne's own. "Lord of Light," The kneeling man was saying, his hands on the dead man's chest. "Cast your light upon this man, your servant. Bring him back from death and darkness. His flame has been extinguished, restore it! Lord of Light, cast your…"
Brienne stopped in her tracks. "Oh gods, I know who that is." She broke away from Tormund to rush over and sure enough, her fears were immediately confirmed. An increasingly frantic Beric Dondarrion was repeating his chant to the Lord of Light, to seemingly no result. The man lying still and dead on the ground had a half-burnt face and a stab wound that had seemingly gone through his heart, blood oozing from his wound and down the breastplate of his armor.
"Come on Clegane!" Dondarrion yelled, frustrated. He grabbed the Hound by the shoulders and shook him. "You have to wake up, it's not your time yet!"
Tears filled Brienne's eyes again. She could hear Tormund walk up behind her and he placed his hands gently on her shoulders, but she would not look at him. Here she was, crying over the Hound of all people, the man she'd once nearly fought to the death with. And yet, despite their turbid history, over the past few weeks she'd begun to feel a begrudging respect for him. She'd seen that he cared, cared about Arya, even if he liked to pretend that he didn't. Brienne thought there was much more to Sandor Clegane than they knew, and now he was dead.
"He's gone, Dondarrion." Tormund said. "Best give it up."
"No!" The Lightning Lord persisted stubbornly. "No, it's not his time to die. I…I saw it in my flames, he's supposed to go to King's Landing. He has to kill his brother, it's the Lord's will!"
"If it was your Lord's will, then why is he dead right now?" Tormund asked matter-of-factly. "Come inside, we'll count our dead later."
Still, Beric refused to give up, pressing his hands more desperately against the Hound's chest and murmuring his chant over and over again. "There's nothing you can do." Brienne added. She shook her head. "Maybe if Thoros was still alive…"
Suddenly, Beric froze.
"What is it?" Brienne asked. Was it something she said?
"My lady," Even as Beric spoke to her, his eyes did not leave Clegane's body. "You are exactly right."
"Right about what?" Tormund asked. "Dondarrion, the cold is starting to go to your head…"
"No it's not." He stood up and walked over to Brienne, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "I am no Thoros of Myr, it's true, but I think there is something I can do. They call it the kiss of life, or the last kiss."
Brienne wrinkled her nose in confusion. "You think you can bring him back this way?"
"I know I can. But…" Beric trailed off, a melancholic look in his eyes. "I've died six times already. I do not have much life left in me. If I bring Clegane back…"
He didn't finish his sentence but Brienne knew what he meant, and it seemed Tormund did too. "Sacrifice yourself?" He said. "Are you out of your mind?"
Beric smiled, but there was no joy behind it. "Possibly." He looked at Brienne. "Can you tell the boy that I'm sorry I sold him? I thought it was the right thing to do at the time. And as for Arya…well, you can tell the girl it's one more name off her list."
"Are you certain this is what you want to do?" Brienne asked. As much as she wanted to see the Hound come back, this would mean Beric willingly giving up his life. It was not something to be taken lightly.
"I have never been so certain of anything. It is the Lord's plan. I'm ready."
His voice was firm, eyes resigned to his fate, and so Brienne forced herself to nod. "I'll tell them. Goodbye, Lord Beric."
"Goodbye, Lady Brienne."
Tormund was not particularly good at emotional goodbyes, so he nodded his head and clamped a hand on Lord Beric's shoulder. "You're a good man, Beric Dondarrion."
"As are you, Tormund Giantsbane."
Dondarrion knelt down in the snow again, placing his hands on the Hound's bleeding chest and closing his eyes for prayer. "Lord of Light, cast your light upon us all." And then he brought the Hound's lips to his.
At first it looked like nothing had happened and Brienne thought it hadn't worked, but then she heard Tormund's sharp intake of breath. When she looked again, she saw that blood was no longer dripping down the Hound's armor and she watched in awe as one of his legs twitched, then moved. Beric Dondarrion smiled ever so slightly, and with that final smile he collapsed onto the ground.
The Hound opened his eyes.
Arya
She wanted, more than anything, to go back to that morning.
This couldn't be real. Maybe if she shut her eyes, she'd open them and realize that this was all a dream. She'd be back in the forge wrapped up in Gendry's arms, warm in his embrace even though the fire had gone out hours ago, and Gendry would smile at her in that way that made her stomach flutter. Bran would still be alive and she'd be with Gendry, both of them happy and safe and whole.
But this was no dream. Her little brother was gone, her pregnant sister-in-law had just taken a tumble from a dragon that could possibly kill her, and in her mind she was replaying that moment over and over again of how she watched Gendry fall injured in the snow.
Arya and Lord Tyrion saw Sansa up to her room. Her sister had stopped crying now and seemed to have gotten ahold of her emotions, though she said she wanted to lay down and try to sleep. "I'll be all right," She told Arya. "But it's been an exhausting day, and I want to be alone for a while." Lord Tyrion agreed, saying some rest could do them all some good, and excused himself to retire to his chambers. Arya kissed Sansa on both cheeks, saw her sister into bed, and closed the door on her way out.
Arya couldn't sleep though. There were too many thoughts buzzing around her mind, and she knew sleep would bring her no peace, if she could even sleep to begin with. She could go check on Daenerys, but Jon was with her now and he probably wanted to be alone with his wife. She could go make sure that Bran's body was being tended to properly, but Arya knew the sight of her brother's corpse would likely only make her cry again.
No, what she needed was Gendry. She needed to look upon his face, to make sure he was all right.
And if he wasn't all right…
She would not even allow herself to think that. She could not lose Gendry the same day she had lost Bran. The thought was too horrible to her. There is only one god, and his name is Death. Arya silently told herself. And what do we say to the god of death?
Not today.
She looked all over the castle and found no signs of Gendry. The casualties were being brought in on stretchers, the dead being piled in the courtyard to be identified and ultimately buried, the injured brought into the great hall to be treated. Arya walked up and down the great hall and didn't see Gendry anywhere, and then with a heavy heart she looked at the dead bodies and luckily did not find him there either.
She walked back out onto the field of battle. Hundreds of men were still lying where they had fallen, and healers were treating those with the most urgent injuries on the field. As Arya walked around, she spotted Ser Davos but any relief she felt at seeing a familiar face waned when she saw that the Onion Knight was forlornly watching as a stretcher was carried towards Winterfell.
Gendry.
"Ser Davos!" She called out as she walked towards him. "Gendry, is he…?" She could not bear to speak the word.
"He's alive, m'lady." Davos assured her, and Arya exhaled. "But I think you best go back inside."
Arya's eyes blazed stubbornly. She had not come this far just to be turned away. "I will see him." She tried to brush past him, but Ser Davos wrapped his arms around her, holding her back.
"M'lady," He began to say. "He is in a sorry state, I don't think you should see him like this – "
But Arya didn't care about that. All she could think about was getting to Gendry, no matter what, and she would be damned if she let anything stop her. "Let go of me, Ser Davos." She didn't want to yell at the old man, but when he still refused to release her, she raised her voice. "Let go of me!"
"M'lady – "
Arya didn't even let him finish his sentence, instead bursting from his grip and racing across the field towards Gendry before Ser Davos could even blink. She practically catapulted herself at the stretcher and wrapped her arms around Gendry's waist. He was not warm like he was this morning, just cold, but his chest was still rising and falling, proof that he still lived. "Oh gods Gendry." For the first time Arya could see the hole in his chest, the Walker's spear having ripped through his left breast, leaving a bloody mess of muscle and sinew. "Why did you have to go jump on top of a White Walker for me, you bloody idiot?"
One of the healers tentatively reached out to touch her shoulder. "M'lady, perhaps you should not see – "
Arya only shrugged him off. "My sister is the lady of this castle and you cannot make me go if I don't want to." This seemed to shut them up. "Is he going to be all right?"
The healers looked warily at each other. "Hard to say," The first one said. "He's lost quite a lot of blood, enough to make him pass out. We can clean and tend to his wound, but we don't know if he has enough strength left to wake up again. And if the wound gets infected…"
"He's strong." Arya wanted to sound confident in her assertion, but her voice faltered, and she ran a hand gently down Gendry's cheek. "He's one of the strongest people I know."
"Even so, m'lady," The second healer said in a soft voice. "You best prepare yourself for the worst."
M'lady, they keep calling me that. Arya wanted to laugh, but it came out like a choked sob. Gendry's the only one who's allowed to call me m'lady.
"Can I have a moment with him?" She asked. "Before you take him?" The healers nodded and placed the stretcher down, saying they would leave her alone and come back in two minutes.
Arya took his hand in hers and found it cold and limp. "I swear Gendry, you stupid stubborn bull," She whispered, hoping that some way or somehow he was able to hear what she was saying to him. "If you die without my permission, you won't rest easy. I'll chase you through all the seven hells…" She couldn't get the teasing statement out without her eyes filling with tears, and Arya swallowed the knot rising in her throat. "I need you, Gendry. Please don't leave me in this world without you. I can't…I can't lose…"
I can't lose another person that I love. Yes, Arya realized with a crushing certainty, she loved him. She had loved him for a very long time in fact. She didn't remember when it had begun. And now that she'd finally realized that, there was a chance she might lose him forever. She pressed her lips lightly to his brow. "I love you, you bull-headed idiot. Please don't die. Please come back to me."
Soon after the healers returned and Arya reluctantly pulled away after one last squeeze of Gendry's hand, allowing them to carry him inside. She was so lost in her own thoughts that she did not hear Ser Davos approach her from behind until his hand gently touched her shoulder. "M'lady…"
Arya said nothing, only turning around and collapsing against the older man's chest, the tears flowing before she could stop them. After a moment's hesitation, Ser Davos lifted his arms and wrapped them around her, running a hand up and down her back soothingly.
"I know Lady Arya, I know…"
And for the first time in a long time, Arya Stark let herself be comforted.
Jon
When he got up to their chambers, Daenerys had been placed down on the bed, Maester Wolkan there to look over her. Sam was in charge of stripping her armor from her, while Gilly sat by her bedside wiping the blood from her face with a damp cloth. On her other side, Missandei sat with Daenerys's limp hand in her own, silent tears streaming down her face. Ghost bounded into the room ahead of Jon and positioned himself at the foot of the bed, whining softly as he sat vigil. His white fur was still matted with dirt and blood.
"How is she?" Jon asked. He rushed to Daenerys's side and sat at the edge of the bed, running a hand gently across her cool forehead. Her skin was ghastly pale and waxy. She looked like death.
"She is alive, my king." The maester said. "However, she seems to have been knocked unconscious in her fall and I do not know when she will wake up again."
"But she will wake up again?" Ser Jorah asked. He remained in the doorway, watching but out of the way of the maester at work.
Maester Wolkan hesitated. "I believe she might, but right now it is impossible to ascertain."
Jon could feel a lump rising in his throat but he forced it down, attempting to keep the tears at bay. He could feel them threatening to rise, pricking the backs of his eyes. "What about the baby?"
"Did she hit her stomach in the fall?"
"I don't think so." She'd landed on her back when Jon caught her, but it was impossible for him to know if she'd whacked her stomach on the way down.
"Well," Wolkan sighed. "Babes are well-protected in their mother's wombs, and they can withstand more than you may think. There have been no signs of blood in her smallclothes, and if Her Grace was going to miscarry I think it would have happened by now. That being said, she is only two, two and a half months gone at most, and the child has no chance of surviving outside her womb. If we lose her, we lose them both."
Jon forced himself to nod. "Do whatever you can to save her." He had already lost his brother today. He could not bear to lose the love of his life as well.
Gilly had finished cleaning Daenerys's face and she stood up, but then she paused. "Jon, your shoulder…"
He glanced at it. Blood had seeped through his clothes and his shoulder bone was protruding. He'd popped it out of its socket during the fight, and his arm was overcome with a numbing tingle. At first it had hurt, but now he felt nothing at all. "Don't worry about it." He said. "It barely hurts."
"You can't move your arm." Sam interjected. "Let Maester Wolkan look at it, you may have broken something…"
"I'm fine." Jon insisted, more firmly this time. "Maester Wolkan can tend to me later. Right now I'd like a moment alone with my wife."
The others looked at each other warily, and Ser Jorah cleared his throat. "The king is right," He said. "Let's give him a moment. Come." Sam and Gilly silently agreed, Sam carrying off Daenerys's armor to be cleaned and Gilly throwing the now bloody cloth back in the wash basin. Hesitatingly, Wolkan also left the room.
Missandei rose in her seat, but Jon waved the crying woman off. "You can stay, Missandei." She looked devastated, and she was Dany's best friend – if she were conscious, Daenerys would probably want her there. The foreign woman sat back down and Ser Jorah closed the door behind him, leaving the two of them alone with Dany.
"Is there anything I can get you, Missandei?" Jon asked. "Water? Tea? A blanket?"
She shook her head. "No thank you, Your Grace. I am sorry I am crying…if anything I should be asking how you are…"
"Nonsense. You don't need to apologize for caring about Daenerys."
Missandei sniffled and nodded, rubbing Daenerys's cold hand between her own. For a long moment she said nothing. "Grey Worm is dead."
He had not known. "Oh Missandei, I'm…I'm so sorry."
"I knew there was a chance this could happen," Missandei said. "Last night, he made me promise not to cry for him. I do not know if that is a promise I can keep…"
"No one would blame you if you didn't." He didn't know what else to say. When you lost someone you loved, no amount of kind words could make it better. Only time could heal those wounds. "I know how horrible it is to lose someone you love."
Ygritte suddenly came to his mind. Jon had not thought about her in quite a while. Despite that, her death was something he was still not quite over, and he didn't think he ever would be. She had been his first heartbreak, and he had loved her desperately even though he'd known they could never be together. When he closed his eyes, he could still see that night at Castle Black as vividly as if it was playing out before him: his eyes meeting hers, that little swell of joy he'd felt upon seeing her despite the circumstances, how the light went out of her eyes as she breathed her last in his arms…
He did not know if he could survive that kind of pain again. Losing Daenerys would be even worse than losing Ygritte: she was his wife, the mother of his unborn child, the person who he had promised to spend the rest of his life with. Selfishly he did not want their story to end here. They hadn't had enough time. He could spend a thousand years by Daenerys's side, and it still wouldn't be enough to satisfy him. He was hers and she was his, and even though they'd only known each other less than a year, he already couldn't fathom a life without her in it. How could he know joy in a world where she was gone? Had he ever truly known it before she came into his life?
"She has to wake up," Missandei said, lifting Daenerys's hand to her mouth and pressing her lips against it. "Daenerys, please come back to us." Missandei was always courteous, always "Your Grace" this and "my queen" that, but right now she was not a servant or an advisor, she was just a friend.
"She's strong." Jon said, his voice strained from impending tears. He bent down to press his lips gently against Daenerys's forehead, brushing her silver hair out of her face. Ghost got up from the bed and moved closer to Jon, rubbing his face against his master's knee in what was meant to be a comforting fashion. "She'll survive this. She's Daenerys Stormborn – she makes miracles happen." Jon did not know if his words were meant to comfort Missandei, himself, or both.
All he could do was hope and pray that Daenerys had one last miracle left in her.