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Chapter Fifty-Three: After-Shocks
Jon gripped the edge of the table as the tremors came again. A bowl of water that Dany was using to wash one of Robb's cuts rippled, splashing over the edges as the tremor built in intensity. The light of a candelabra wavered before being snuffed out completely. All eyes turned to it, then to the roof as a shower of dust was shaken loose from the crossbeams overhead. Falling stones and roof slates cracking out in the yard beyond made the breath catch in their throats. Every time they dared to think it was over, the tremors and quakes came again. Now they had given up predicting the end and prepared as best they could for next spasm.
So far, only the weakest structures in Winterfell had been affected badly. The Broken Tower, which had indeed been broken longer than anyone could remember, had all but caved in. The burned out ruins of the library, set to flames before the war began, had now been levelled completely and, earlier, they heard the sound of the glass gardens smashing to smithereens. Every after shock brought with it a new wave of destruction and Jon began fearing for Winterfell's main keeps, particularly the vulnerable turrets. If not about to fall in completely, a few more quakes and the masonry would be seriously weakened.
"Do you think we should evacuate the castle?" he asked, looking to Robb.
His brother responded with a nervous nod of the head. "Much more of this and we'll have no choice."
"Pray it doesn't come to that," Catelyn put in. Her auburn hair was grey with dust. "Not in this weather."
Freeze or be crushed by falling masonry? It didn't seem much of a choice to Jon.
"What about the unexpected guest down in the crypts?" asked Dany, setting her cloth to one side. "If that really is the Great Other, what then? Everyone will have to leave, no matter what."
Robb had told them everything that had happened down there and left them all scratching their heads. Jon in particular as he tried to wrap his mind around it all. He remembered the dreams he had as a child. The dreams that sometimes still came to him. He would be walking through the castle, searching for his father, or Robb or sometimes even the girls. But his calls were met only with echoes. The stables were empty, with only dry bones scattered among the hay. Whether they were human or animal, he could never quite tell. Then he would come to the crypts, looking down the turnpike stair that twisted into the darkness and he knew there was something down there. Something sinister, that compelled him downwards and into the darkness all the same. He woke up breathless and scared, always distrusting the crypts until he found out his mother was down there. Only she emboldened him enough to go down there since those dreams began. But they were only dreams, he told himself. Once, he had said the same thing about the wolf dreams.
Pulling himself out of his own ruminations, he looked to Dany across the table. "The Great Other is a god. It can influence, but it can't act alone."
"That's my understanding." Robb shrugged and then winced. His injuries looked mild, but come morning Jon suspected he would be black and blue.
"Keep the dragon fires burning," Catelyn suggested. "Whatever that thing down there really is, the fires will contain it as well as any hot water. And if we do need to evacuate, we'll be needing heat all the more."
As time crept on they separated. Robb, head throbbing, made for his bedchamber with Dany in tow. If Lady Stark noticed, she didn't object out loud. Jon watched her as she left the hall to be greeted by none other than Petyr Baelish, who was waiting in the outer gallery. If circumstances were different, he would have had the man apprehended for usury. For Lady Stark's sake, he let them go and inwardly seethed.
"Why is he here?" he asked of Sansa, who was too afraid to stay in her chamber.
"I wish I knew," she replied. "Mother knows what we know, still she lets him stay."
The two of them left the castle and gripped each other's hands as another earth tremor made the world shudder beneath their feet. It soon passed, however, and they continued on their way.
They turned the corner, into the old yard where he and Robb had sparred as children. Farther out lay the entrance to the crypts where Rhaegal now curled around the doorway. At the sight of them, the dragon unfurled his sinuous body and raised his head to meet Jon's gaze. These days, he was no more afraid of the dragons than he was of the direwolves. Seeing Rhaegal again was like being reunited with an old friend. Even from a distance, Jon could feel the heat coming from the dragon's body. A welcome relief from the unrelenting cold that had engulfed the land.
Meanwhile, Sansa surveyed the damage done to the castle and the grounds. Where the glass gardens once stood, a jet of hot water now steamed as it spurted into the air. Another leak draining the life force of the castle.
"What has caused this?" she asked, turning a circle. "I've never experienced anything like it."
Jon had no answers to give. "You and I, both. Whatever it is, it's bad news for us."
He remembered again what Robb told him about what happened in the crypts. That child of the forest had warned him the war for the dawn would truly begin as soon as he left the deepest vault. It was then that the tremors and quakes began. Was this nature's herald of the wars to come? He didn't get his answer until ate the next day. The tremors had faded and the castle still stood. But nearby villages had been all but flattened. Early reports of fatalities had been relayed on horseback riders who galloped from place to place, trying to form accurate reports of what happened.
Then a raven arrived through a brief interlude of mid-morning calm, landing in Maester Luwin's turret. Unread, Luwin had handed it to Robb as they all broke their fast in the common hall. The atmosphere inside was already strained, but the temperature dropped as Robb read through the letter. Jon watched as he read it through once and then twice, before folding his hand over the parchment and crumpling it.
"The wall has fallen," he announced, flatly.
Thinking he had misheard, Jon prised the letter from Robb's fingers to read it for himself. Sam Tarly's signature was scrawled at the bottom of the page, it was sealed with the customary seal of Castle Black. Only, according to him Castle Black had been crushed beneath the ice falls. It took several numb seconds for reality to set in, for the meaning to hit home. All the while, everyone else around the table was looking to him for confirmation.
Jon swallowed, finding his throat dry and constricted. "It's true. Sam wouldn't make this up. The wall has fallen."
His statement was met with silence as everyone simply stared back at him, wondering what to make of it. It was too big to comprehend. Even for Jon, the consequences slowly filtered into his own consciousness. Slowly, with a cold dread, the true magnitude of how bad this really was, slowly opened itself up to him.
But it was Daenerys who first gave voice to their shared fears. "If the wall is gone, then there's nothing to stop the white walkers moving south."
But it was more than that, Jon knew. The wall wasn't built to keep the wildlings out of Westeros, it was built to contain the Others in the lands of always winter. It was built to contain their malignant powers and prevent their rising in the south. No longer hungry, he pushed back his chair and stood up.
"We need to build funeral pyres for the dead," he stated, flatly. "All the dead must be burned."
The meaning sunk in slowly.
"They can't raise the dead here, surely?" Catelyn asked.
"They can now," Robb replied, joining Jon. "The wall is gone; there's nothing to stop them. That's what this means."
"Yes, but how far does their power extend?" asked Daenerys, brow darkening. "Can these creatures just click their fingers and suddenly every corpse the length and breadth of Westeros suddenly gets back to its feet?"
"And how dead do the dead have to be?" Sansa added fearfully. "I mean, is every single person who ever died suddenly going to come back?"
"And how do you kill a dead person anyway?" Arya asked. She did not look afraid, but then she never did. "They're already dead."
"Fire," Jon replied, grateful that he had at least one answer. "I've seen it done. Just use fire."
As the shock wore off, he didn't even remember why he was standing up or what he intended on doing. Did the fall of the wall meant they had lost the war already? The more they speculated the bleaker the outlook became, the more hopeless he began to feel.
Sam raised his lantern high, looking forlornly around at the ruins of Castle Black. Most of it was buried beneath the ice, but here and there a timber rafter jutted from the white hills that seemed to have formed over the rocky terrain. Donal's old forge had flattened completely, with him inside it. Sam had pulled his body free many hours before, too numb to grieve. Too shocked to process what had occurred during the night. Even the pyromancers sent from King's Landing had perished, along with many who had sent up homes and settlements either side of the wall.
The wall hadn't entirely fallen. Great pillars of ice still jutted upwards, reaching for the black skies. In other places, lower misshapen lumps of it remained standing like broken molars. Then there was the Haunted Forest beyond the wall. Many of the trees had been uprooted during the fall, then more in the after-shocks that followed. Now the wildfire had detonated in there and blazed, sending thick palls of sharp pine smoke billowing outwards and upwards. At least burning the dead would not be a problem, he glumly thought to himself.
"Sam!"
He swung the lantern toward the source of the noise, then squinted through the gloom to where a figure in black scrambled over the fallen ice. Moments later, he recognised ser Jorah. Breathing a sigh of relief, Sam hurried over to join him.
"Are you alone?" he called out. "Have you seen any others?"
But Jorah shook his head. "Thorne is dead, hit by the ice. The Wildlings are all heading to the Nightfort, thinking they'll be safe there. Lannister and Greyjoy, as far as I know, are still lost north of the wall and completely unaware of what's happened."
"Pyp? Grenn? Bowen Marsh? What about them?" asked Sam.
Again, ser Jorah shook his head. "No sign. Either they're still ranging in the north or they're lost among this lot."
He gestured to the ice falls solidifying at their feet. "I managed to send a raven to Winterfell as soon as the wall fell. All being well they should have it by now."
But all wasn't well and there was no guarantee.
"The Starks will send reinforcements if no one else does," Jorah replied, sounding confident. "And a scout farther down the King's Road said the Knights of the Vale have reached Mole's Town and should be here by the day's end. Oh, and we still have wildfire."
"How much?" he asked, quickly. He thought they had lost it all in the explosion the previous night and now a small ray of hope took him by surprise.
Jorah forced a smile onto his face as some sort of sign of encouragement. "Ten crates already on their way to the far north and another ten back down the way. I've just come from there myself. If we use it sparingly, it can still make a good weapon against the Others."
For a brief moment, Sam could have kissed him. The urge soon passed and he took the weight off his feet and sat on a hard, cold slab of ice. There wasn't much he could do until the first reinforcements arrived, he supposed. Before he got too comfortable, however, he felt the ice shift again. Startled, he jumped up and swung the lantern around. To his left, he heard Ser Jorah draw his sword and called out:
"Who goes there?"
No one answered, but they heard and sensed another person nearby. Sam hoped beyond hope it was another Night's Watchman. A spark was struck and soon flames took hold, lighting up the pale, heart-shaped face of the Red Woman. Ice was melting off her skin and dripping down from her hair as her gaze met that of Sam's. Although always an unnerving sight, he couldn't help but feel mildly relieved that she had pulled through.
"You were in Castle Black when it happened," said ser Jorah, almost accusingly. "How did you survive?"
"The Lord of Light protects me, ser Jorah," she replied with her stock answer for everything.
Sam was more curious as to how she got that fire going, but he was too grateful to ask too many questions. He joined her, warming his hands against the flames now taking hold in the ruins of the courtyard. Even now, after she had crossed the ice, her body radiated its own heat. He understood now, her old refrain. The night really was dark and it really was full of terrors. Terrors beyond counting.
"So what now?" he asked, eventually. "Do we wait here for the knights of the Vale?"
"What else can we do?" Jorah retorted.
Finally overcoming his suspicions of the woman he joined them at the fire's edge. For a long time they stood in silence, seemingly lost among their own thoughts. Until Lady Melisandre, who had been peering intently into the heart of the fire, stepped back in alarm and shot looks between the two of them. Darting from Sam to Jorah and back again, she declared: "The war began the moment the wall fell. I see it now, in the flames."
Jorah merely shrugged. "Pity the flames didn't warn you about the fall in the first place. Could've saved us all a lot of bother."
Sam had to agree.
"How many dead?" Margaery did not break her pace as she strode through the halls of the Red Keep.
Nor did her face show any emotion as Tyrion answered: "Three hundred, so far."
The last two words snagged in her mind, 'so far.' It meant the death toll was set to rise. As she passed a window she glanced outside, expecting to see swarms of Silent Sisters bearing the dead away – men, women and children alike. The tremors had awoken her in the early hours of the morning, the walls and the ground beneath the bed shaking. Prince Rhaegar's old harp had fallen off its shelf, the strings discordantly twanging as it hit the edge of the hearth. The infant prince screaming terror brought her running over to him and it had been like crossing a ship in a storm. But it was the sounds from beyond the curtain walls that had scared her the most: the sound of collapsing masonry and citizens screaming.
Lean-tos built by the impoverished had been the worst affected. They collapsed and then, as if adding salt to injuries, the tide had swept in in huge waves, washing the wreckage of people's lives and homes into the Blackwater Bay.
"It's imperative we maintain calm and order, your grace," Tyrion said, bringing her out of her reverie. "I suggest we send out the gold cloaks to assist with any search and rescue effort. You might also want to think about getting the soup and bread out there double quick."
"Already done," she assured him. "The soup, that is. The Goldcloaks are still running around hither and thither. They're useless."
"Then give them direction," Tyrion retorted. "You need to take charge now."
He was right, she realised. Jon was gone and no one knew when he'd be back, and now the people needed stability more than ever. They had to exert their authority.
"I'm leaving for town now," she announced. "But I need Ashara Dayne."
Tyrion looked puzzled. "Ashara Dayne?"
Margaery nodded. "Yes, and tell her to wear her Septa's robes."
"Ah, I see," he smiled approvingly. "Having your own personal septa should take away some of the High Sparrow's arsenal to use against you."
"But it's not just that," she replied. "We're going to be needing her House now. We need the Dayne's onside and I don't even know if Lord Edric knows she's alive and that he has a cousin."
"Edric is a child," Tyrion pointed out. "Still, he is the Lord of Starfall. And you do need a septa of your own when you meet the High Sparrow."
"I know," she answered, drawing a deep breath. "Well, let's go and we'll see what it's really like out there."
No more than an hour later they were taking to the streets. There was structural damage on every street, but mercifully it was only the ramshackle lean-tos that had given way completely. The dragonpit was empty, so she ordered it to be opened to house the ones who had lost their homes. Feeding stations had opened up in the streets and even her own ladies in waiting had been assigned to doling out alms and soup. She had ordered most of the goldcloaks to help with patching up the damage and those who were still idle had been set to lighting beacons and lanterns on every street. Before too long, her men were a visible presence on every patch of the city.
As they walked the streets themselves, Ashara nudged her and nodded toward a man addressing a group of bedraggled citizens. He was older than middle age, lean and with tufts of grey hair sticking out from beneath a linen coif. Barefoot and loud, he was nothing like the others of his order.
"The High Sparrow," said Ashara.
Curious, Margaery watched him for a minute. He was not as she had expected him to be. He looked like a grandfather. A gentle person, who spoke softly but with the conviction of his own life's experience.
"Don't be fooled by him," Ashara whispered in her ear. "He's still a fanatic."
She knew a disguise when she saw one. "I have no intention of letting anyone fool me."
After a long moment, the people noticed her. They parted, forming a clear path between herself and the man at the centre of their attention. Slowly realising something was amiss, the Sparrow fell into silence and looked down the path at her. At first, he didn't seem to realise who she was. Something that made her smile. But it soon dawned on him.
"Your Grace," he greeted her formally, friendly, even inclining his head in deference. "This is an unexpected pleasure."
Deploying some tactical courtesy, Margaery bobbed a curtsey. "Likewise, your holiness. Do you mind if my septa and I join you?"
Up close, she could see the look in his pale grey eyes harden and his smile stiffen. This was the last thing the old man had expected, she could tell.
"Of course," he replied. "All are welcome here, high and low born alike."
Smiling her gratitude, she walked right up to the man where he was standing on a raised platform. She then turned to the people assembled, looking around at all their wide-eyed faces.
"If any of you are hungry or in need of shelter, there are wagons a half-mile down the Street of Sisters that are dispensing soup and bread," she called out, clear and bold. "If any of you are in need of shelter this night, the dragonpit is open to you and blankets will be dispensed upon arrival. Your King has provided for you all."
The crowd murmured before slowly dispersing. Each and every one of them turning and walking away, headed for the Street of Sisters. Once they were gone, however, she noticed they were not exactly alone. Skulking in the side lines were a number of robed and chained Faith Militant, the armed faction of this old man's order. She could hear them clanking when they moved, she could see the scabby scars of seven pointed stars cut into their flesh. Unsurprised that they were there, she was still unnerved.
"So, High Sparrow," she began, showing none of her apprehension. "I think it's time you and I had a proper talk, don't you think?"
So, this is how it's going to be, she thought to herself.
Already the fighting men were moving north. As many as possible set sail from White Harbour, many others rode in packs and progressed slowly through the treacherous terrain. Another fleet, Robb knew, had set sail from Seaguard and would arrive at Westwatch. The same with the Redwyne fleet and the small Greyjoy fleet that had also been roped in. According to the raven sent from Pyke, whole villages on the Iron Islands had been washed away in storms the day the wall fell. It seemed the whole country had been affected, one way or another.
For now, however, he was still stationed at Winterfell with Daenerys and Jon. They were due to ride out in a matter of hours and they were packed to go already. But, for that moment, it was just him and Daenerys, alone in the master bedchamber and lying in each other's arms. She lay, half covered by the blankets, with her face resting against his chest, still flushed from their love-making.
"This is serious, isn't it?" she asked, drowsily.
He knew she meant the war they were riding into and could not lie. "Very."
"Then if we both survive this thing," she said. "I'm going to marry you."
Staring up at the bed canopy, Robb smiled broadly. "Oh, you are, are you? Do I get a say?"
"What is there left to say?" she asked. "After a war against the dead, I think I will be in the mood to celebrate the living. And what better way to do that than by marrying a man whose company I rather enjoy."
"Well then, let's both live," he answered.
Before too long, they had to move. The day was drawing on and they needed to get a move on. By the time they reached the hall, the others were already assembled. He had sent his mother south to Riverrun, with Rickon and the girls in some vain hope they would be safer there. Outside, Viserion and Rhaegal had already taken wing and soared through the dark skies, occasionally roaring a jet of fire to mark their progress. The horses were saddled, and the pack mules loaded up with what little they could take with them. Only Sansa and Arya remained inside, their belongings not yet brought down from their chambers.
"You both need to go, now," Robb told them.
Sansa spoke first. "Father always said there must always be a Stark in Winterfell."
Robb thought that scarcely mattered in light of recent events. But his younger sister felt otherwise.
"So, we're staying right here," Arya added.
Both of them joined hands in solidarity.
"We're not running," said Sansa.
"That's very commendable, but-" he tried to reason, before Jon cut over him.
"They're right," he said. "Some of us need to stay and we can't. Luwin and Rodrick will be here to protect them."
"And we have each other," Sansa stated. "It's not like before."
"It's only Rickon who must live at all costs," Arya said, flatly as though their female lives did not matter in the great scheme of things. "And you, of course."
He dreaded to think what their mother would make of it. But the King supported them, he saw. And Daenerys, too.
"Winterfell must hold," she said. "Which means someone must be here to hold it."
Reluctantly, he could feel himself backing down. It was bravery to the point of suicidality, or so he thought. But they were Starks, after all. "Very well, just be safe. Both of you look after each other and remember where the fires are."
"We're not stupid!" Arya retorted, making a face.
Despite himself, Robb laughed as he embraced them both. Not wanting to draw out any painful goodbyes, he broke off quickly and headed outside to where his destrier waited. "Right, this is it," he said. "It's time."
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