The night is dark and full of terrors!

Jon

The preparations had been long and arduous. He had brought dragons and armies. Searched all over Westeros, but the bulk of the armies were from the east, which should have irked him, but there was no time for being irked. The dead would be here within hours, and there was little time to spare. The skies were dark, the dawn wouldn't return until the army of the dead was destroyed... that's if it was destroyed.

The firelight gave an orange glow, lighting up the three other faces in the room. Two of the other people in the room looked alike with their bright blue eyes, inherited from their Tully mother, not his mother. The boy, well man now Jon supposed; Bran, had thick auburn hair and a stare which was not only intense, but ethereal. He would have been tall for sixteen, however he was in a chair as he could no longer walk. The result of a fall when he was young. The woman was tall, with the same bright blue eyes as her younger brother, her stare was just as unnerving, but that was because of her life experiences. At nineteen, Sansa had already been through too much, which made her not only strong, but colder, it reflected in her eyes. However, there was no getting away from the fact she was a great beauty, and Jon suspected, in another life, should he have been raised by his blood family, he would've appreciated her beauty in a different way. There was a good probability that she would have been his wife and not his... he couldn't put his finger on his relationship with her. Not like Bran or like the other girl in the room, the one who looked nothing like her siblings, but very much like himself, despite them only being cousins, not that the girls knew. Only Bran who he was, and it would stay that way until the war was over. He didn't want any distractions. The younger girl, Arya, had always been his favourite sibling. They looked alike, the Stark look as it was called. Long faces, dark hair and grey eyes. Arya's hair and eyes were lighter than his, and close up, their facial features were quite different. Jon wondered if he got those from his father, he hadn't asked Bran, he didn't want to know. He did know everyone said Arya looked like his mother, which explained their similarities. Once upon a time she had also been wild and carefree, but now she was as measured as the others, if not more so. He supposed you had to be if you were a trained Faceless Man, a stealthy assassin.

They had all changed, more than most would have in the few years between leaving their home and returning to it as the last of the pack. Bran was now some kind of all knowing greenseer known as the Three-Eyed-Raven, Arya was a faceless assassin, Sansa had become a different type of assassin, a political one. Jon himself was no longer a bastard, he was a prince, and in truth should have been a King, had he not bent the knee to the woman he loved, albeit a doomed relationship, for she was his aunt, and although it wouldn't matter to Daenerys, it mattered to him. It disgusted him. However, matters of the heart were no longer of any concern, only one thing mattered, the army of the dead, only hours away.

They should have been in a war council, not that there were any more plans they could go over. It would just be repeating the same mantra. But it soothed him, helped convince him that they could survive this, that Westeros and in particular the north could survive the army of the dead. Jon didn't particularly care if he survived, he'd died before, it wasn't too bad, he was prepared to die again, as long as he didn't join the army of the dead, because if he did, he might kill someone he loved. That was his greatest fear. Now Bran had brought them all together for one last family gathering. Bran sat by the fire in his wheelchair with a blanket over his lap, Sansa in the seat opposite, her back straight, face hidden behind a mask of stoicism, hands clasped together on her lap. Arya was sitting on the floor playing with the ornate Valyrian steel dagger which Bran had given her. Jon was standing a little further back, leaning against the desk behind him.

"I suppose you are wondering why I gathered you all here." Bran's dulcet tones still sent a chill through Jon, ever since becoming the Three-Eyed-Raven, his voice held no feelings, as if he were reading a ledger.

"To say goodbye?" Arya looked up at her brother. "You know everything, you know how this ends, whether we all live or die."

Bran said nothing, instead he pulled out a pouch from under his blanket and handed it to Arya. "Take one and pass it around."

Arya pulled out a dragonglass dagger before handing the pouch to Sansa who passed the pouch to Jon, who took the last one. "We're all armed with these," he said.

Bran shook his head. "These are different. None of you can be responsible for the death of each other. Should the wights overwhelm you, place the dagger above your heart and push. It will offer no resistance and you will not become one of them."

"Can't we give this order to everyone?" Jon asked.

Bran shook his head. "It only works for those with Stark blood, except me. It won't work on me because he touched me. If I use one, I will become him."

"Are you saying we are all going to die?" Sansa's icy facade seemed to drop.

"Death is joining the army of the dead." Bran looked at Jon who felt uncomfortable, he knew death, he'd been there. It wasn't a permanent state if the right people were around you. If you became one of the army of the dead, there was no going back.

"Can they be used on him?" Arya examined the dragonglass blade.

Bran shook his head. "Not exactly. These are for the specific purpose of preventing you from joining the army of the dead should the need arise. But his death might come about because of them." His words were cryptic.

"What do you mean?" Sansa asked.

"It will prevent you from becoming one of them. That is all we can hope for to stop him." Bran replied, which didn't make much sense, but Jon knew the Three-Eyed-Raven wasn't going to say any more on the subject, he was being purposely vague.

Jon nodded. "If we have to do it, then it will stop us becoming one of them and we won't be able to hurt each other." Bran nodded. "Good, that is all I need to know." he turned to the girls. "I was worried about anything happening and becoming one of them." he turned to Bran. "I take it, we will need them."

"If you are to stop the army of the dead, then yes you will need them." Suddenly Bran looked like the boy he remembered. "Time to say our goodbyes for now. I'm sure we will be reunited once this is over."

Arya stood up, and grabbed hold of Bran and hugged him. "I know you are the Three-Eyed-Raven, or whatever, but to me you are still Bran." she turned to Sansa, they wrapped their arms around one another as Jon approached Bran and hugged him, but as with Arya, Bran didn't hug him back. Jon turned to Arya and she jumped into his arms, while Sansa hugged Bran, who again kept his hands on his lap, his eyes devoid of any emotion. Jon felt sadness in waves, with his arms around Arya. In another lifetime, she had been his favourite sibling, and he was hers, although something had changed. Now they were both adults, their relationship had shifted, and was more awkward. The warmth he'd loved the most about her was almost gone. Jon put her down and mussed her hair, just to annoy her, although that was not a wise idea with someone as dangerous as his sister, because in truth she was his sister, no matter what their blood relationship was. Jon turned to Sansa, out of all of the Stark's, this was the relationship which had changed the most. As children they barely knew one another. He was a sulky bastard, she was indifferent and occasionally mean to him. When they had found one another again, they were both at their lowest. He had just returned from the dead and Sansa was broken from her time with Ramsay. From the ashes of their trauma, they had given one another strength. They built an army, fought a war for each other and against each other. He became King, but she was Queen in all but name. In truth, they were almost like the married couple they probably would have been, had his parents lived. They ruled as a true partnership, discussed their darkest moments and became close in a way that was more akin to a friendship than that of siblings. They hadn't grown up together in the same sense Jon and Arya had, however his bond with Sansa was akin to any man and wife, with the obvious exception. When they held each other, it was like they were at Castle Black all over again, despair, love and hope all mingled into one. Arya might have been his favourite sister, but Sansa was his best friend, and despite her being a political warrior, he still felt protective over her. He had a constant urge to save her, just like some of the stories they were told as children. As he held on tight, he knew that for Sansa, he couldn't become one of them, it might be the last protection he could offer her. The sounding of a horn outside separated them. All three looked towards Bran.

"They're here!" Bran looked to Arya. "Take me to the Godswood."

The heat from Rhaegal was the only thing which had kept Jon from freezing to death. Up in the skies, the cold was bitter, the winds stronger, the snow heavier. He hadn't been able to see where he was going. Then he'd been caught up in a snowstorm, the wind circling around him, it was too strong, Rhaegal was off balance and Jon could barely hold on. Only when the other dragon was a few feet away, did he realise Viserion was upon them.

"Dracarys!" Jon called out, but his voice was hoarse, exhaustion of fighting for twelve hours in the air was taking its toll. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on. "Ilagon (down)!" he commanded to Rhaegal, who just about managed to turn and began to dive to the ground, but just before they reached the courtyard, a gust of wind blew Rhaegal, causing Jon to fall from the back of his mount. Pain surged through his left leg, he looked down and saw bone sticking through his leather breeches, an injury which was unsurvivable from where he was now. The dead were descending on the courtyard, only feet away from him. Jon didn't need to linger on his decision, he took the dragonglass dagger from his belt, positioned it above his heart and pushed it in easily, as if he were pushing into snow. He didn't feel pain, instead everything went dark and peaceful.

Sansa

They had thought the crypts were safe, Sansa and many of the other women, children and those unable to fight were hidden in there, hoping the war would end soon. The only blessing was that the crypts were warm. Sansa sat with Tyrion and Varys, trying to talk as if they'd get through this ordeal unscathed, but as every hour passed, they knew that the chances were getting less and less likely. The more men who fell, the larger his army became. Their only way of defeating the army of the dead was to kill the leader, the Night King. There were lots of women and children in the crypts, to her the most important ones to take care of were Gilly and Little Sam. They were Samwell Tarly's family, and Samwell was Jon's best friend, which made them her responsibility. Jon protected her, she protected them. However, the longer the fight went on, the more worried she was that the people she loved outside were gone. Only minutes earlier, there had been a thud outside the crypts, and a giant roar, she recognised it to be Rhaegal, Jon's dragon. The two dragons sounded distinctly different, which was how she knew it was Jon who had landed. Then she'd heard another, one she hadn't heard before; she knew it was Viserion, his dragon, the dead one. Sansa's heart pounded, the battle hadn't stopped, he hadn't killed the Night King as Viserion's screeching disappeared into the distance. She looked at Tyrion and Varys, just as the crypts suddenly turned icy cold. The army of the dead were in Winterfell, Sansa could feel it. And then she knew Jon was dead, but not one of them, for hopefully he'd used the dragonglass dagger. She took hers out of her belt and had it poised as they all stared at the entrance to the crypts, but then the sounds of stone moving caught their attention and they looked at the statues around them, more specifically what lay underneath the statues. For inside the crypt's lay hundreds of dead bodies of the Stark's of old and new. As the statues moved, skeletons began to crawl out of the ground, grasping hold of those in their path. Screams took over as the dead Stark's attacked the living. Sansa was between the statues of her father and Rickon. She saw the stonework of her little brother move, Tyrion and Varys got up and ran, but were overwhelmed by the dead, those of old, and the ones which were being made in the process. Their bodies disappeared into the sea of bones. Rickon's body stood in front of her, she felt her father's statue move, and that was enough, she placed the dagger above her heart and pushed, expecting resistance, yet there was none. Just like slicing a piece of lemon cake. There was no pain, just darkness taking over and then peace.

Arya

Theon was dead, everyone was dead, she had been the last hope to kill him. But when she jumped to stab him, his fingers wrapped around her throat, she had never felt anything so cold in her life. She had dropped the Valyrian steel dagger to the floor, the only weapon she had which could destroy the monster who was about to kill her. And now she was too late, she couldn't kill him. He was going to take Bran, or the Three-Eyed-Raven. Over in the distance she saw the wheelchair bound man himself.

"Use the dragonglass." Bran called out. "What do you say to the god of death?"

Arya pulled the dagger from her hip, placed it on her heart and pushed, as if it were a knife in butter. "Not today." she whispered as the world became dark and finally a peace settled within her.