Love is the Death of Duty

Chapter 10

The gathered crowds wore somber faces as Jon and his companions rode through the courtyard towards the gates of Winterfell. Jon thought that the notion of a public departure was pointless given their current predicament: there were no Lannisters to conquer, no Iron Born to beat back. Still, Sansa had insisted that it would be good for morale for the people to see their king riding out to meet the Others head on. Part of Jon knew she had the right idea, but the other part said it really didn't matter much. Time was of the essence now, and Jon knew that this was a waste of it.

People muttered their mournful farewells as he passed them, making him want to tell them that he was not dead yet, and that he would return victorious. Daenerys stared down at him from the ramparts leading up to the castle walls. Her purple eyes met his, and she gave him a beautiful, sad smile. She was dressed in a white winter coat lined with fur of the same color. Tyrion and Missandei flanked her on either side, and the leader of the unsullied who Jon had come to know as Grey Worm stood behind them. He reigned his horse up as he approached her, thinking of her visit to his chambers last night.

Jon heard a light knock on the door to his room. He looked out his window: the moon was high in the sky. He had been restless that night, tossing and turning, haunted by dreams of Tormund's undead face, knowing he would be departing the safety of Winterfell's walls the following morning. The hour was late, and Jon couldn't think of a single person who would be waiting outside his chambers at this time of night.

Grumbling, Jon shifted the covers off of his body, the cold seizing him almost immediately. Stumbling over to his dresser, he pulled a loose shirt over his head and slipped his legs into a comfortable pair of pants. "Coming," Jon grunted, walking over to the door. He grasped the handle and pulled it back to find Daenerys looking up at him. She wore a silver, shimmering nightgown of silk, the fine material hugging her curves and accentuating the glow of her hair. She might as well have been wearing nothing at all. "Daenerys," Jon asked, the question evident in his tone. She took as a step closer to him, placing a hand on the length of silk that kept her robe tied together. "Please Jon," she whispered, closing the door behind them, "its Dany."

"Until your safe return, my lord," Dany called down to him, her smile causing Jon's stomach to turn. "Until my return, my lady," Jon said in reply, nodding at Tyrion as he wheeled his mount around, trotting through the gates and out into the cold. The Dragons screeched overhead, Rhaegal, Viserion and Drogon diving in and out of the grey blanket of clouds.

All around them, snow began to fall.

….

"No," Jon said, "Daene- Dany. I can't do this." She looked up at him, confusion written all over her face. Clearly, rejection wasn't something she experienced often. He took her soft, delicate hand in his, pulling it away from the sash that kept her covered. "Jon," she said, her voice almost pleading, "I want this." Her violet eyes burned with passion, lust etched into every fiber of her being. Jon shook his head. "Dany, I can't do this. Not now. If I don't come back…" his voice trailed off, as he got lost in his own head. The beautiful woman in front of him shook her head. "Don't even say that Jon," she murmured, pressing her head into his chest, "Don't even say that." Their eyes met as she looked up at him.

"You will come back to me," she said.

"I will come back to you," he said.

Dany walked towards the door, turning back to Jon. He grabbed hold of the handle and opened it for her, looking down on the Dragon Queen. She leaned up on the tips of her toes, pressing a chaste kiss on his cheek. "I will come to you again on your return," she said, the promise in her voice making Jon's self control wobble, "and I trust you will have changed your mind by then."

She gave him one last knowing look before the door shut quietly behind her.

Jon wondered if he was the idiot in all of the seven kingdoms. To reject Daenerys Targaryen, the mother of Dragons, and undoubtedly the most beautiful woman that Jon had ever laid eyes on was, at best, a foolhardy decision. But Jon knew that had he given in, it would have made leaving to do his duty an almost impossible task: he had been brought back to save the people of the North. Daenerys would have to wait.

Her attraction to him irked Jon: all his life, he had never thought of falling in love with someone and potentially leading a married life with them. Ygritte had been beautiful, and Jon had loved her with all of his heart, but he was sure now that had he suggested something so southern as a formal bond through marriage vows, she would have laughed in his face and told him that he knew nothing. Perhaps Dany wasn't interested in him as a person: perhaps her she was simply drawn to him in a sexual manner. The thought didn't really bother Jon, but he knew from his time with Daenerys that she was truly interested in him as a person. He sighed, wishing he was back in Winterfell instead of heading towards the bleak wastelands North of the wall.

Jon glanced around him, taking stock of his travel companions. Gendry Waters, the bastard child of Robert Baratheon and lover of his younger sister Arya, rode next to the Hound. The former kingsguard had been found heading for the wall some two weeks prior to Jon's return to the North: he, alongside the drunken priest Thoros of Myr and the Haggard old knight Ser Beric Dondarrion, claimed to be doing all in their power to stop the coming darkness. Jon knew of the Hounds prowess in battle, and felt compelled to let them come with him on this expedition, given their existing belief in the Night King. Now, they all rode towards the wall together with a host of wildlings who had been willing to accompany them.

The howling of the wind was accompanied by torrents of heavy snowfall as they made camp in the shelter of a cave. Jon knelt over a pile of kindling that Gendry had retrieved, his numb, shaking hands making hard work of starting a fire. Eventually, the sparks from his pieces of flint ignited the sticks, and they supped around the fire on dried meats and fruits.

As Jon lay down on the rough cave floor, his fur cloak wrapped tightly around his shivering body, his mind sought Dany, as it often did. The wind howled past the mouth of the cave, the moon illuminating the bleak landscape that lay between them and their goal. As his eyes closed, and the dark embrace of sleep clutched at him, he wondered if he would ever get to see her again.

….

Castle Black was never a home to a surplus of activity during Jon's tenure as Lord Commander, and impossibly less so when he served as a steward: but when the old, haggled group of buildings came into view, he knew something was amiss. There was no signs of any life at all: the walls were unmanned and the torches that were normally burning day and night were not visible in the evening light. The snow whispered quietly out of the sky, a thick, fresh coating slowly descending from the grey mass above the King in the North. Jon turned back to his companions, concern etched on all their faces as they talked in hushed voices. This was a delicate situation, Jon knew, and he needed to take the appropriate precautions for a situation of this magnitude: he might not place much value on this second life of his, but he was aware of how invaluable his experience might prove to be in the coming days.

"Gendry," Jon called out, his deep northern accent accentuating the grim nature of his tone. The blue eyed man stepped forward, shivering slightly in his fur coat. Robert Baratheon's bastard was a fearsome sight to behold, his muscular arms holding an imposing warhammer, his father's weapon of choice.

"I need you to ride back to winterfell. Take two companions and go; I need you to inform Sansa of our current situation here," Jon spoke with no shortage of authority, yet when Gendry opened his mouth to protest, his next words were reinforced with an extra inch of steel, "This is important. Should we need to flee, being supported by a host from Winterfell could mean the difference between life and death." He clasped a gloved hand on his fellow bastards shoulder, looking into the bright, blue eyes of the man who his sister loved, "We all have a roll to play." Gendry opened his mouth before closing it, his lips pulling into a determined line before nodding. With that, he turned, two of the Stark banner men walking from amongst their party to join the young man on his voyage back to the Northern capital.

"Ride with haste," Jon said, his grey eyes meeting blue ones, "it could mean the difference in our survival."

"I will, your grace," Gendry said, before wheeling his horse around and galloping off back in the direction that they had come from, the two Stark men in his wake. Jon stood, watching them disappear into the snowy horizon before turning back to the men who remained with him. Thoros of Myr was watching him through squinted eyes, his expression unreadable. The man was a drunk, Jon knew, but also a capable warrior, and someone who believed in Jon's cause.

"What do you see, Thoros," Jon said, his voice stiff and uninterested as he turned his back on the red priest.

"A scared man," came the sullen reply, and Jon wheeled around, determined not to have his authority undermined in a time like this. Thoros smiled at the King in the North, who glared back at him before speaking again.

"A capable leader," he said, still smiling, "you will lead us through the long night will, Jon Snow."

Jon was about to reply when a man shouted, the voice ringing out through the surrounding trees, the note of dread shattering the serenity of the snow covered landscape. Jon spun around and looked to where the man was pointing into the darkness of the tightly knit forest in front of him. The snow was falling faster now, the thick flakes nearly obscuring his vision as the wind screamed past his ears, carrying with it a high pitched ominous note. Two bright blue eyes stared at the King in the North as the Night King stepped into a patch of moonlight, his ghostly blue skin reflecting the pale white glow as he moved. The living stood still, petrified as the leader of the dead slowly walked towards them, the only sound he made being the soft crunch of the snow under his feet. He stopped, not two hundred feet away from them, his two glowing eyes burning holes through Jon's skull. The King in the North snapped out of his trance, right hand falling to his hip as he unsheathed Longclaw in a flurry of valyrian steel, the slithering sound of metal on leather echoed as his companions copied his motion. There they stood, fifty men whose hearts were still beating in their chest, warm and alive, looking at the creature who wanted all of mankind for his cold, undead army. A wildling who Jon recognized as Doggard, a close friend of Tormund's, screamed a blood curdling war cry and sprinted at the King of the Dead, each of his hands curled around the shaft of a war axe.

The Night Kings sword moved in a deadly arc as it appeared out of thin air, reflecting the pale moonlight as it traveled through the air. The blade caught Doggard at his wrists, its cold length shearing through skin, bone and muscle like a hot knife through butter. Doggard stumbled and collapsed on his knees, his eyes wide with an expression of pure terror as he looked down at the blackened stumps of where his hands once were: the frozen sword had frostbitten his arms moments after cutting them open. The Night King continued to advance, leaving the stricken man on his knees in the snow. Truly coming to his senses, Jon took stock of the situation as most of his men began to retreat back to where they had tethered their horses.

"RUN," the King in the North yelled, and the remaining men who were locked in a horrified trance shook their heads and took off after their compatriots, their movements bogged down by the thick snow.

Doggard stared in horror at the creature who advanced towards where Jon had gone at an almost leisurely pace, captivated by the hate that was rolling off this undead being. His attention was wrestled away from the Night King by the snapping of a twig in front of him and the crunch of boots through the powder. A distant rumbling could barely be heard over the wind, and even though the snow was coming down in torrents now, Doggard recognized the skeletal remains of Tormund Giantsbane as what was left of his friend lumbered towards him, his famous axe trailing behind him, its blade twisted and jagged. Tormunds hair had been wild in life, its robust red coloration drew the eye like a moth to a flame: now, it was stiff and greying, like the rest of his body. Doggard watched in horror as his friends unblinking, cold blue gaze fastened on him. Slowly, deliberately, Tormund drew back his axe before the dragonglass blade shore through the fur that covered Doggards otherwise unprotected neck, blood exploding as the Wildling's arteries were severed. Doggard collapsed into the snow, convulsing as he choked on the blood that was gurgling out of the wound in his throat and out onto the ground around him, the white ground quickly turning red. Tormund retched his axe free of his friends neck and continued on after the Night King.

The moon shone down as one hundred thousand undead stalked silently through the Northern trees, the crunch of their feet on the snow the only sound they made.

….

The horses were so close: Jon knew that they would be able to make it back to Winterfell if they were able to mount and flee before the horde caught them. The dead were fast to be sure: most of the wights seemed propelled to superhuman speeds, an insatiable lust to wreak death and destruction on all those who were living. He could hear the distant rumbling of what sounded like an avalanche to anyone who hadn't it before: Jon remembered Hardhome though, and he knew it was the footsteps of thousands of dead men. Suddenly, Jon was very pleased with his choice to send Gendry back to Winterfell.

He flung himself onto the back of his horse when he reached it, severing the rope that tied his mount to a tree with a single swing of Longclaw. All around him, his men began to do the same, the snow obscuring Jon's vision and limiting his sight lines so that he couldn't see fifteen feet in front of him in any direction. The continuous high pitched screeching of the wind set Jon on edge: the cry of man and horse as they were cut down caused his heart to stop. Through the white haze, Jon saw the outlines of figures as they leaped up towards his companions, dragging his men down off of their horses and slaying man and beast alike.

"GO. GO NOW, LEAVE," Jon cried, the desperation in his voice clear as day. Whilst Thoros and Beric, as well as the Hound and all of the Stark men turned to ride away, many of the wildlings lingering behind, waiting for Jon: they suffered the consequences of it. All around him, the last of the free folk were cut to pieces by shadowy figures that seemed to appear out of the veil of snow. Jon rode towards winterfell, the size of his part reduced from fifty to about ten.

He could hear the undead running after them, the sound of their trampling feet a not so distant thrum that seemed to shake the earth. The path ahead of them was uneven and treacherous, and Jon saw a winterfell guards horse get its ankle caught on a gnarled tree root and collapse, the man pinned beneath his mount. Jon wheeled his horse around and rode back to the man, Beric and Thoros calling out to him in warning. Jon dismounted quickly, kneeling next to the fallen Northman. The guards face was contorted with pain, his entire midriff trapped beneath the screaming horse.

The bearded man looked up at Jon Snow, tears welling up in his eyes. "Go," he choked out, the snow beginning to bury him slowly. Jon gripped his arm, staring into the man's eyes before standing and mounting his horse. He looked back at his trapped companion, willing him to free himself before he saw hundreds of wights suddenly appear from the dense snow, their pale blue eyes wild with bloodlust. Crouching low on his horses back, Jon set off again down the kingsroad, the dead growing ever closer.

….

Gendry Rivers had arrived at winterfell in the early hours of the morning, three days after Jon had left. The guards at the gate had raised the alarms once they had recognized him as part of the kings search party, and realized that he was returning alone. Sansa knew that Jon was in trouble: Gendry had assured her that there had been no sign of the undead when he had left, and that it was only a distinct absence of life at Castle Black that had made Jon send him back, but Sansa knew that her brother was calling for help.

Now, she stood around the war table with Ser Davos, Gendry, Tyrion Lannister and the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen. Torches burned orange on the wall, and a great fire had been lit in the hearth to stave off the cold of the early morning. The faces that surrounded the lady of Winterfell were tired and worried: expressions that she had grown all too familiar with in the past few years.

Sansa stood up, the wooden legs of her chair scraping along the stone floor. "I know it's early," she began, the exhaustion in her voice evident, "but this could not wait. Jon is in trouble and he needs our help." She cast a sidelong glance at Daenerys Targaryen, who was sitting up much straighter at the mention of the King in the North. Sansa smirked inwardly, proud of herself for confirming the Mother of Dragons attachment to her half brother. "Gendry assures me that at the time of his departure, there was no sign of the Walkers," the Lady of Winterfell continued, gesturing to the handsome blue eyed boy that sat across the table from her, "but I know my brother, and I know that he is not one to take unnecessary precautions." She glanced around the room, looking at everyone individually before her eyes rested on Robert Baratheon's bastard. "Something went wrong," Sansa said, "You being here tells me that; so now, we have to decide how to proceed." Sansa pointed down at the unfurled map of the North that was spread out on the table in front of her, her finger picking out the insignia of House Umber. "Last Hearth," she continued, "is the closest stronghold to the wall. Jon will ride there; that's where we need to send our men to reinforce him." Davos ran his fingers through his beard thoughtfully, nodding his head in agreement. Tyrion, however, seemed somewhat confused. "Why wouldn't Jon just ride back to Winterfell?", the Dwarf asked, his finger tracing the path of the kingsroad as it wound its way south, "why would he stop along the way?"

It was Davos who cut Sansa off as she opened her mouth to answer her former husband, the old smuggler's expression one of admiration for the man of whom they spoke. "Because," he said, his flea bottom accent heavy on his words, "he won't leave those who stayed there to die. Jon cares for his people more than he cares for himself: that's what he was brought back to do." The room was quiet for a moment, the sound of the crackling fire accompanying Sansa's rushed thoughts about Jon's resurrection: she wasn't sure if Daenerys and Tyrion new about Jon's death, but she guessed that they didn't by the confused glances that they were sharing. Davos seemed to realize that he had said something he wasn't supposed to, his arms crossed protectively over his chest, as he gazed down at his feet.

The Lady of Winterfell broke the silence. "Davos is right," Sansa said, trying to shift the focus of the discussion back to the pressing matter at hand, "So we need to send our men to aid the Umbers: the castle is a hard two day ride from here, and by that time we may be too late." She cast her blue eyes around the room, searching for an solution, "does anyone have any ideas?"

When Daenerys she spoke, her voice was interwoven with authority and determination, every eye in the room was instantly drawn to her as a Dragon cried outside, the fearsome roar putting Sansa on edge.

"I'll go."

This chapter is 1,300 words longer than any chapter I have ever written, and it would have been even longer if I hadn't moved some of it into chapter 11 (it would have been very sparse by comparison). This story is drawing to a close now, but I have an idea for a potential sequel: we'll cross that bridge when we come to it though.

The next chapter is going to take some time to write, so I wanted to provide you guys with what I consider to be a substantial chunk of writing. I really hope all of you enjoy reading it: let me know if I'm doing anything wrong in a CONSTRUCTIVE way!