Love is the Death of Duty

Chapter 11

There were fires burning along the castle walls, men frantically shouting down towards Jon as he rode at full tilt towards the gate, every synapse in his body numb from the cold. The wind was tearing around the open field, its unpredictable gales blowing every which way, washing over the living and the dead unabated. Last Hearth was growing every closer: Jon and his companions had been riding for hours, fleeing from the wall in a desperate attempt to find sanctuary. The portcullis began to move upwards and the two doors behind it were pulled open as Jon rode through them. The Winterfell bannermen, Thoros, Beric and the Hound all rode through them.

"CLOSE THE GATE," someone yelled. The snow was a foot deep all around Jon; the two men who were tasked with closing the doors were struggling and slipping as the wind buffeted against the carved slabs of wood. Jon dismounted and rushed to them, a few men following closely behind him. He placed his hands on the door, and ground his ankles as firmly as he could into the ground, before pushing with every ounce of strength he had in his body. Slowly, the doors groaned shut and the portcullis was dropped, heavy steel clanging into the ground below. Jon wanted to collapse: every muscle in his body burned in the frost bitten air that swirled around him. The time for rest will come, he thought, and turned back to the men who were all expectantly looking at him.

"What are we to do, Sire," someone asked Jon, their voice barely distinguishable above the howl of the wind. The King in the North felt small and tired: he wanted no part in the responsibility of preparing the castles defences. Jon also knew that he had been raised to power on the shoulders of the men who were gathered around him now, and that he owed it to them to protect them to his last breath. Before he got a chance to speak however, a loud thump against the portcullis brought his heart to his mouth. A second crash followed soon after, then a third, and then a fourth. The wood of the gate began to splinter, a dent the size of a massive fist making the wood bulge towards them. The hand that was causing the damage smashed into view as the undead giant ripped one of the doors down, the heavy wood crashing into the ground, a plume of snow rising into the air. The giants dead, blue eyes fixed on them as it began to slowly lumber towards them. All around Jon, the sound of longbows strings sung, and a rain of arrows thudded into the Giants skin. The lumbering beat continued forward, unfazed, looking directly at Jon.

As more arrows rained down from the ramparts, Thoros and Beric stepped in front of the King in the North. Swords unsheathed, they both ran their hands along the length of their blades, which were suddenly enwreathed in gold and orange flames. The Giant did not hesitate, bringing a massive fist up and slamming it down towards Beric, who nimbly rolled to the side. Thoros stepped forward and slashed at the Monster, his flaming sword shearing through the dead flesh. The Giant's arm dropped to the ground, the tatters of its worn down cloth smoldering. The Giant seemed entirely unfazed, and with its remaining arm, flung Beric against the far wall of the courtyard. The knight hit the wall with a bone shattering crunch and slumped down it, unmoving.

With a cry of anger, Thoros stepped forward, thrusting his flaming sword into the giants chest. The blade caught and was torn out of the Red Priest's hands, the undead beast in front of him screaming as his frozen form was slowly engulfed in flames. Writhing and struggling, the Giant lashed out and caught Thoros in the midriff with his remaining arm, the red priest staggering backwards and dropping to his knees. Jon offered Thoros his arm, pulling the man back to his feet as he watched the giants form smolder. The red priest hobbled over to the fallen form of Ser Beric, who lay still against the cobblestone walls. The snow was falling faster now, the cry of the wind growing impossibly louder. When Jon heard the sound of distant thunder, he knew that they were lost.

The first wight appeared under the castle gate, half of its face missing, a rusting iron dirk clutched in its decomposing hands. Jon swung Longclaw, cleaving the undead man in two.

"TO ME," Jon yelled, the men of the North rushing to their King's side. The wights began to arrive in droves, their blue eyes bright with malicious intent. Each one that fell to Jon's sword was replaced by two more, and he was woefully aware of how the men of House Umber were faring. The cries of the living were muted by the howl of the wind as they fell into the snow, their bodies soon covered by frost. A woman who was missing both of her eyes and had a huge gash in her neck sprinted towards Jon, who cut through the sinew that kept her head on her shoulders, only to find three more undead soldiers charging at him. The first one was felled quickly by Longclaw, its head cleaved in two. The second was decapitated, and the third split in half at the waist. He stood there, with the snow falling around him, and suddenly it was as though he was alone.

He could dimly make out the shapes of men fighting through the haze of the snowfall, the sound of steel on steel muted by the sound of the wind. A blinding pain flashed through his torso, the edge of the dented steel blade protruding from the side of his chest. Blood began to flow down his clothes, hot and sticky. Jon cried out and spun around, the wight losing its grip on the knife that was still deep inside of Jon. Longclaw cut down the undead woman, and Jon stumbled and collapsed to his knees, propping himself up as he leaned against his sword. Jon knew that he couldn't remove the blade: nevermind the fact that the dagger was stuck through the small of his back, and it would be very difficult to remove, it was almost certainly preventing him from bleeding out. His chest felt as though it was on fire as he stood, black spots dancing in his vision.

Bright blue eyes appeared in front of him. The Other stalked towards him, making no sound as it moved, its crystal blue blade glowing with frost. It stopped in front of Jon, its eyes burning into his. Jon tried to straighten his back and shifted his feet into a fighting stance, the pain overwhelming him. Contempt shining in its ethereal eyes, the Other raised its frozen sword, prepared to deliver the killing blow.

The shriek was deafening even over the wind, the flap of the wings sending the snow into confused paths as Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal appeared from the gray tumultuous clouds that filled the sky. Daenerys Targaryen sat atop the back of Drogon, dressed in a grey and white winter coat: Jon thought he had never seen a sight so beautiful, so welcome. He saw her open her mouth, and though he could not hear what she said, her children certainly could: all three Dragon's jaw's unhinged as torrents of blinding fire spewed from their cavernous maws. All around Jon, wights that he had not even seen caught fire and burned, falling to the ground, writhing in the snow. Jon retched his attention away from the Dragon Queen and back to the White Walker that stood before him, who stood looking up at the creatures in the sky. Jon swung Longclaw with every ounce of strength he had left in his body, and the Other shattered as the Valyrian steel bit through his frozen skin. Jon staggered and collapsed, his body weakened from bloodloss. He raised his head from the snow, his vision bleary and darkening, as Daenerys and her Dragons rained hell upon the earth.

….

The snows and the wind swirled around Dany as she sat atop Drogon, frantically scanning the ground for Jon. The dead were clambering over the walls of last Hearth and pouring through the gate in never ending waves: Daenerys could see northmen being cut down and ripped apart as the wights swarmed over them, like an unstoppable wave of death. A group of seven or eight men had gathered in the courtyard, forming a ring and fighting the wights who were charging at them from every side. Dany saw two flaming swords dancing through the icy air, cutting through droves of the undead: knowing that she had to help them, she urged Drogon to land near them. She felt her heart stop as she descended through the frigid air; the ring of men were surrounding a body. Jon. She leapt from Drogons back, a small cloud of snow billowing up from the ground as she landed. Behind her, Viserion and Rhaegal had landed next to their larger sibling, and together they continued to breathe fire at the wights who relentlessly charged at them. Daenerys she found herself slipping on the frozen ground as she rushed towards the men who stood in front of her, panic filling every fiber of her body.

As she neared them, she recognized Thoros of Myr, the red priest who had accompanied Jon. He stepped forward, raising his hand in a gesture of greeting. "Is he alive," she said, the edge in her voice sharp enough to cut through the toughest armor. Thoros nodded, turning to look at Jon, "Barely," he said, "he's lost a lot of blood, but they're always harder to kill the second time around." Dany met the man's cold eyes, their edges crinkling in a small smile. "What do you mean?", she asked. Thoros's smile widened, a stiff, cold gesture. He cast his eyes to the Dragons. "We need to leave," the red priest said, "these people are lost. Winterfell is our only hope now."

Dany cast her eyes around Last Hearth. Thousands of Wights were swarming over the walls like ants; for every twenty her Dragons incinerated, forty more clambered into their place. They were the only living people left in the courtyard of the Northern Castle; Dany knew that the rest of the people residing here would be dead soon. Thoros was right: tightening her Jaw, Dany nodded to the men in front of her. "Follow me," she said, striding towards Drogon. The black Dragon seemed to sense his mother walking towards him and swung his head to face Daenerys, molten orange eyes staring deep into her violet ones as he lowered his wing so that she might climb onto his back. Once she was safely seated, she stretched out an arm to help Thoros up, the hellishly cold wind buffeting against her back, threatening to wrench her from her seat. Thoros scrambled up the side of Drogon, and with the help of Beric Dondarrion, hoisted the limp body of Jon Snow onto the back of her Dragon. Beric was next to climb onto Drogon, who in turn began to help the remaining North men climb onto her Dragons back.

The cry broke something inside of her. A single, heart piercing note; one that was all too familiar to her, rose the deafening sound of the gale. Viserion stumbled, the left side of his body visibly limp, fire spewing from the wound that had torn through his chest and back. Thick waves of hot blood steamed against the snow as her youngest, sweetest child collapsed onto the ground in front of him, crying out again. Daenerys made to leap from her seat on Drogon's back but was roughly grabbed from behind by Thoros.

"LOOK," he shouted over the wind, pointing towards the entrance of the castle. Standing under the gate, framed by the stone walls, stood a procession of being that made Dany's heart freeze and her blood run cold. A man, made entirely of ice and dressed in black and silver, stood, staring at her through frost blue eyes. Flanked on either side by more men made of ice, he was being handed a length of ice that had been brought to a wicket point at one end. "WE NEED TO GO," Thoros cried. Dany looked at the flailing form of Viserion, one of her children, the only ones she would ever have. His blood had drenched the ground around him, the snow a deep scarlet color. With a cry of despair, she wrenched her eyes away from the nightmarish scene in front of her, willing Drogon to fly. He took to the air with a shriek of despair that was echoed by Rhaegal as they left their brother on the frozen ground, dead in the snow.