A.N.: Are you ready?

Gendry's armour: imagine The Mandalorian's Beskar armour in obsidian combined with The Witcher's leather trousers/linen shirt combo. Who's drooling? I'm not drooling!

And I hope you'll note Larra's mild (but infuriating) hypocrisy in this chapter. It's born of her own sense of self-worth and the role she was raised for versus what she actually has the potential to become.

Valyrian Steel

62

The Storm

A silent wind tore at the barren trees. Though they bent and warped they did not creak or groan. No animals scurried nearby. Even the snow did not dare crunch underfoot.

The Other walked calmly through the forest, drawn unerringly to the tang of residual magic. His brother had been slain here, years before.

He took a knee, bare hands reaching into a snowdrift. Slowly, almost curiously, fingers tipped with talons of ice felt the time-worn curves of an ancient horn.

The snow made no sound as it fell away, revealing the horn.

The Other's eyes glowed in the persistent gloom of the storm-lashed forest. He tilted his head as if in thought. He stood, slowly, his attention on the horn. It was plain. Unadorned. Unremarkable.

He raised the horn. Brought it to lips black with frostbite.

Blew. Any sound it made was swallowed.

But a soft hiss echoed in the darkness.

It grew louder as the earth started to tremble.

All along the Wall, great fissures appeared in the ice, the pressure of each violent crack hurling fragments of ice large as giants into the darkness, tremendous avalanches of ice and snow and ancient stone burying crumbling fortresses and ageless forests on either side.

Miles away, the King watched on in silence. Satisfaction and anticipation glowed in his eerie blue eyes.

Miles away, Bran Stark woke and sighed remorsefully.

They had felt it.

Somehow, they knew. Whether it was some long-forgotten instinct or something else, they felt it in the air, even without Brandon's announcement. The world felt different. An ancient malice was slowly spreading.

All eyes turned northwards.

Yet despite Brandon's announcement in the quiet of the dark solar, dawn had still come.

The sun had risen. The day was incredibly fine – though cold. Brittle and sharp, as if one breath might shatter it.

The mountain-men and the Umbers were hurried inside the curtain-wall as the siege preparations were set out in the yards, on the battlements, secured in the Unbroken Tower, every access point barred and locked. The scouts returned, one after the other: the wargs now sent their bonded beasts out from behind the safety of the walls. Winter's Town was emptied, the halls and corridors of Winterfell crammed with people.

Winterfell was the Wall now: it guarded the realms of Men. Crows no longer manned the defences but Free Folk and Essosi, Unsullied and Dothraki, knights and criminals, men and women, young and old. It did not matter. They were all Night's Watchmen now.

As they had been before, during the Long Night, they were so again: Man had united to fight the Others. It did not matter who they were or where they were born, just that they fought side by side, with everything they had.

The next day, if the sun rose at all, it was veiled by storm-clouds black as Shadow and as dangerous. Forks of lightning whipped relentlessly through the sky, illuminating the forests churning in an evil wind. Snow and sleet and rain thrashed all at once, freezing in the deathly cold and turning the yards and battlements into a death-trap. Salt and grit was spread about, the ice broken with picks and axes. Thunder boomed so loudly and so long it spooked even the unshakeable Thenns, afraid the castle was ripping itself apart from the foundations.

Larra sat cross-legged on her bed, gazing at her children cuddled together. Tears stung her eyes as she leaned over them, tenderly stroking their soft heads and pressing lingering kisses to their eyes, their tiny noses, their exquisite little lips, their tiny little fingers curled by their faces. For as little time as they had had together, they had known only her love. And that was perfect. Their lives had been perfect. No matter what, while she was theirs, she had made sure her children's lives were perfect.

Climbing off the bed, separating herself from them, was one of the hardest things she had ever done. Some lingering discomfort from Arthur's birth remained with her always, a subtle reminder. She bled still; soreness was eased by terrycloth soaked in ice-water. But there would be no numbing her discomfort. She would do whatever was necessary. To protect them. To ensure they had a future – not a short, brutal life where the only warmth they knew was hers.

Aella whimpered and fussed as Larra slid from the bed, straightening up: Arthur sighed and Aella stilled, drawn to the sound. She had been that way since Arthur was born; soothed by his presence.

Larra wiped her face and slowly went to Gendry. They shared a solemn, silent look and Larra helped Gendry fasten his armour over his leathers. He was no knight; he was a fighter. Darkstar had taught Gendry how to wield many of the weapons Gendry had been forging for years; he had taught Gendry how to keep his head on his shoulders. The light armour Gendry had fashioned for himself – leather reinforced with steel and stitched with plates of obsidian – was not a knight's armour but it would protect Gendry as he fought. And Gendry was a fighter: that was what they needed – as many men and women who had the courage to fight.

Gendry had worked more with obsidian the last few months than Valyrian steel but as he had told her, if he didn't work on the dragonglass they needed to fight and win this war, he'd not live to work on Valyrian steel.

It was to Gendry most owed what little obsidian they wore as armour. And though everyone was armed, few who realised that only the more experienced warriors were armoured with obsidian said anything about it. They armoured those most likely to be able to continue the fight.

Larra latched and buckled everything in place and stepped back. Grim and unyielding, he looked every inch the warrior.

Gazing at him, Larra could not help but wonder at how fiercely he resembled the young Robert Baratheon. Had he been a fraction of what his son had become, he may have actually been worthy of Lyanna. Gendry was the very best of Robert Baratheon.

He belted Fang around his waist. A sad-looking thing, really, compared with Dark Sister resting against the trunk at the foot of their bed. But life-preserving. That dagger was priceless for more than one reason.

Gendry sighed, gazing from the weirwood hilt of his dagger to Larra's face. Carefully, he helped her dress and armour herself. There was nothing he could do to stop her from doing her part in this fight. Gendry knew that. He could armour her as best he was able – and he was the best – but ultimately they all understood that every able sword was needed in the fight if they wished to survive to the dawn.

Linens, leathers and a fur-lined vest for warmth made her feel overly warm. The chainmail vest of obsidian weighed heavily on her; she had forgotten how heavy it was. Perhaps she had never noticed, before. She had become so accustomed to it. The leather armour Sansa had had made for her shimmered in the firelight, and she put it on with mounting despair, thinking of Sansa. Her face had leeched of colour entirely when Brandon had delivered the news. Preparing for siege was one thing. Human armies were one thing. Sansa had no idea what was coming. There was no way to truly prepare her. She had to take it on faith and trust that they had done all that they could to defend Winterfell and protect their people. She had to be able to look their people in the eye and coax and cajole and calm them when their panic threatened to overwhelm them.

A gorget of obsidian was fastened in place over her leather armour, with new pauldrons of steel-reinforced obsidian. They were perfectly fitted to her body. The leather gauntlets he handed her, covered in tiny plates of obsidian, were too.

She gazed up at him and read the sorrow and grief warring in his sapphire eyes. She reached up, cupping his neck, and drew him for a lingering kiss.

For as long as they had had each other, they had loved each other – fiercely, completely.

They picked up their children – Aella in Gendry's arms, Arthur in Larra's – and made their way to the solar. They were hurried along by the sound of raised voices, and Larra was startled to see how packed the solar was: as crowded as it was, the majority of the people squashed into the room remained silent – armoured and grim-faced but silent. The arguments of a few kept everyone else quiet as they watched and listened, waiting for a verdict.

Lady Targaryen, her hair meticulously braided, her chain gleaming from shoulder to hip, was arguing vehemently with her own advisors and with Jon, Lord Tarly and Lord Lonmouth. Across the solar, the Little Bear was arguing fiercely – almost desperately – with her mother and sisters.

Closer to the Mormonts, Larra glanced at Gendry and they manoeuvred their way through the crowd towards the arguing women.

" – I have trained! Every day – I will fight –"

"You have trained but you are not prepared – nothing can prepare you for this!" Lady Mormont cried plaintively. Her eyes widened when she saw Larra approaching. "Lady Larra – please – tell her!"

Larra glanced at Lady Lyanna. The Little Bear wore armour scaled to her size, a mutinous expression on her face, furious tears glittering in her eyes. A leader though she was, she was no older than Narcisa. Larra held Arthur tighter in her arms as she gazed at the Little Bear.

"You wish to fight."

"My mother thinks to forbid it," Lyanna Mormont hissed, glaring at her mother, "though I have trained and I have fought before! You think I am too young and too weak –"

"It is not a commentary on your strength," Larra said quietly. "Nor of your courage. Your mother is right. You should not fight." Lady Lyanna blanched. Larra explained kindly, "Lyanna, you have led the people of Bear Island since your apron-strings were cut. You were a child forced to take responsibility for others – for their safety and survival. You learned how to trust your instincts and to make the best decisions for your people. You guided your people, held them together, and when they needed you to, you chose best for their safety. You did that. You are a leader. And when the war is won, and we have counted the cost…the hardest job of all shall fall to you. It is you who shall help lead the North as it rebuilds. You can die with your people…or you can devote your life to providing for them."

Something gentled in Lady Lyanna's face. Behind her, her mother and sisters visibly relaxed. Their faces shone with respect, even as Lady Lyanna asked Larra quietly, "But why are you fighting?"

Larra sighed. Arthur squirmed in her arms. She gazed across the solar to Sansa, who had been watching their interaction. Though Sansa wore her leather armour, she bore no weapons: it was ceremonial. Her hair was unbound, but for the Northern crown hairstyle she had taken to wearing, to remind everyone of her Northern-ness. She was swathed in the weighted cloak it was next to impossible to move freely in. It was Sansa who would rule the North. Sansa who would lead the survivors as they rebuilt.

Even if everything went to plan, Larra knew… In all likelihood, the majority of the people in the solar would die.

And though the compromise Larra had come to with Gendry was to command, for as long as possible, until the walls were breached… Realistically, they knew that Larra would fight.

If they died, but the Others were defeated, it was Sansa who would rule the North. Sansa would become Queen in the North. It was Sansa who would raise Aella and Arthur. She would name Arthur her heir.

Larra's son would be King.

He would live. Even if she did not live to see it.

She had never understood her mother more.

"I will do my part, for as long as I am able," Larra said quietly, resting a hand on Lyanna's shoulder. "If not for your mother or yourself, do it for your people – for the ones who will be left behind. They will need strong leadership to rebuild the North. And Sansa will need fierce allies such as you to defend it."

Lady Lyanna seemed to grow several inches. She raised her chin, set her shoulders back. Her cunning dark eyes slid past Larra to Lady Targaryen, arguing vehemently across a model of Winterfell. Her expression hardened. House Mormont knows no king but the King in the North… After a moment, Lady Lyanna nodded.

"Very well," she said curtly. Her voice full of conviction, thick with emotion, she said fiercely, "For our people." Lady Lyanna slipped out of the solar: Larra wondered if she would try to sneak out to the battlements. Lady Mormont squeezed Larra's shoulder as she passed, a silent look of thanks – of respect – illuminating her haggard face. Several of the men around them exchanged telling looks.

"What's going on here?" Larra murmured, joining Gendry beside Bran, who was complacently practising his handwriting on a slate.

" – you cannot win this war without Drogon!"

"We must," Jon said, his tone brooking no debate. Yet despite the iron tones in his voice, Lady Targaryen persisted. When she opened her mouth to argue again, Jon gave her such a glare that would have blistered marble. "If we lose even just one dragon to the Night King, we are fucked. Fucked."

"Why am I here if not to ride Drogon into battle?" Lady Targaryen hissed.

"We had hoped for support from your armies," Ser Davos said, his voice gentle, yet the reminder – the subtlest hint of her failure to provide such armies – made Lady Targaryen bristle.

"Jon is right; we cannot risk the dragons," Tormund Giantsbane spoke up. "Snowcats and bears we can handle. Even a fucking mammoth wight we can bring down… We have before. But a dragon?"

"We do not need the dragons," Larra said quietly, adjusting Arthur in her arms. She rocked gently side to side, patting his bottom rhythmically as he cooed. Lady Targaryen's eyes flitted from Arthur to the bundle in Gendry's arms and she turned away, her expression stark and aloof. "And we must make do without the extra armies. We have prepared for this. Every possible eventuality has been accounted for in our strategies. We have drilled so often, I imagine we will be able to change tactics on a word even as they burn our corpses!"

There were a few chuckles at that. The last few weeks had been gruelling in terms of drilling different strategies. They had spent hours going through every single permutation of different tactics that they could think of. Lord Tyrion, Darkstar, Lord Tarly, Jon, Lord Lonmouth, the Greatjon, Lady Mormont, Obara Sand, Ser Jaime – every man or woman with military experience had added their insight to develop a ridiculous number of tactics that they could slip seamlessly into at a single word, adjusting without warning. Commanders and foot-soldiers alike knew all those words and what they meant. They also knew what to do when their commanders fell: anyone who was able had to assess and give orders to shift tactics. Every single person who could wield a weapon had been drilled to exhaustion: it was worth it.

Preparation was the key to maintaining calm.

And though word had spread that siege was imminent, there was no panic. People knew what to do. They knew their roles. They knew where they needed to be and what was expected of them. They knew who to report to, how to wield the weapons they were outfitted with. They had been given time to prepare – to say their goodbyes, to leave nothing unsaid. They had time to spend their last hours with those they loved.

And they did. There was a gentle quiet in Winterfell as everyone savoured their last moments with the people they cherished most.

The Great Hall was filled with people. Before the hearth, Larra and Gendry sat surrounded by their children. They ate their supper together and played games, telling stories. They shared cuddles and kisses. Aella and Arthur were cooed over, fussed and spoiled by the older girls, while the boys admired the armour and weapons of every knight and warrior who came and went.

The children were so used to the people of Winterfell walking about in their armour that it was unremarkable to them. Just another evening spent in each other's company. And if Narcisa noticed that Larra was bright-eyed and let Leona linger in her lap longer than usual, until the tiny girl was all but asleep in her arms, and if Cadeon watched Gendry's solemn face carefully and subtly sharpened his knives, they did not let on that they had realised something was different tonight. At bedtime, Larra and Gendry kissed their children goodnight and went to tuck them in. When they were all settled, Larra sat at the end of the bed. Cuddled together, the children's eyes glittered in the candlelight, eyelids becoming heavier and heavier. They were calm, and content, and would sleep soundly. She started to sing a lullaby, aware that her voice was rich with emotion:

"Lay down

Your sweet and weary head

The night is falling

You have come to journey's end

Sleep now

And dream of the ones who came before

They are calling

From across the distant shore

Why do you weep?

What are these tears upon your face?

Soon you will see

All of your fears will pass away

Safe in my arms

You're only sleeping…"

Gendry kissed each of the children and as they left the nursery, they exchanged looks with Lady Vialle, Tisseia, Zharanni and Gilly, whose eyes glittered. She gave them a tremulous smile and stroked Little Sam's shining golden hair, sniffling and wiping her eyes. In the corridor, Gendry wiped the tears from his cheeks, glittering in his beard: they walked slowly, hand-in-hand, back to the Great Hall, where Aella was tucked into a fur-lined cradle by the hearth, rocked carefully by her wet-nurse. Larra arranged herself on a settle and took opportunity to nurse Arthur.

No-one had told her about the connection she would feel, nursing her child. It was a thing unlike anything else in the world – even warging.

She sighed and rested back against the settle, cherishing her time with Arthur. It was far easier to remain in the moment, focusing only and entirely on Arthur, than to let her thoughts linger in the nursery and the dozen little hearts that would be shattered this time tomorrow.

But why are you fighting?

Because she could not bear to stand by, to wait for the hordes to overwhelm the castle and tear her children to shreds before her eyes.

A parent should never have to suffer the death of their child.

If there was anything in the world that could break her, it would be that.

She would gladly die a thousand gruesome deaths if it meant she never had to witness the death of any one of her children.

So she would fight. Because she feared the alternative far more.

And if it meant that she died but they lived full, glorious lives, so be it. That was the natural way of things.

It was how she knew Lyanna had died at peace. She had been assured that her children would live even if she was not privileged to experience it.

That was a worthy sacrifice.

And there was a small part of Larra – rather a large part, really – that feared being the one left behind.

She had been left behind before. Robb had left her behind with Bran and Rickon.

Robb and Rickon were both dead; Bran was altered.

And she… She had lost herself, for so long it would take years to undo the damage. It did not matter how long she had been home. Gendry, Aella, Arthur… They were extraordinary. And absurd, in a way. She sometimes felt as if she was still beneath the great weirwood – as if this was a dream she had made up, her mind stagnating, rebelling against the dread, the paralysing terror, the impotent terror. Anticipating an enemy she could never hope to confront.

Hold the door…

She, better than almost anyone, knew what they were to face. She had already faced it head-on – and fled. Those at Hardhome had witnessed it. Samwell had survived it at the Fist of the First Men.

This time, there was no fleeing.

They would stand their ground. They would defend their home. They would fight.

And many would die.

She had been waiting for this fight for so long it felt almost a relief, cuddled with Gendry on the settle with their children in their arms, to hear the three blasts of the horn.

Three.

White Walkers.

They heard it, faintly, through the tumult of the hall. Larra glanced at Gendry. His heat and scent soothed her in a way nothing else did. She gazed into his face and those sombre sapphire eyes calmed her, grounded her.

They had done all they could.

And remembering the last time she had been in the position of facing the Others…

It was laughable that she and Bran and Meera had even made it out of the caves beneath the weirwood, let alone past the Wall. By rights, they shouldn't even be here.

But they were.

Hold the door…

As Gendry had said, so many months ago, everything had led them here. Led them to this.

And that was an encouraging thought.

Salt and grit crunched, melted sludge squelching underfoot. The hurried calls of men and women racing to their positions were snatched away by a brutal wind that forced the snow and icy-rain to dance in the air.

They lined the battlements, staring out into the darkness.

Lightning forked violently, like ice fracturing across the surface of a lake. A volley of thunder followed, reverberating in their bellies, turning their insides to liquid. For the lightning revealed an ocean, waves ceaselessly thrashing, the tide drawing ever closer. An ocean of the dead.

Lord Randyll Tarly sighed grimly. "So it begins."

"No," Larra said quietly, something light and strangely delicious sparkling through her veins. Relief. After so many years, it had finally come. The great battle of their age. "Now it ends."

A.N.: I know how this part of the story is going to end but I wondered if anyone wanted to discuss potential plot-lines for the next instalment of this story (Dragons' Daughter). I know who the 'big bad' will be, and general plot-points, political intrigues, backstabbing etc., but I'm still considering some ideas and moving things around to see how they best make sense. I've also considered who the main political players are going to be, going forward. Some are canon; some have already been introduced; others will appear later. If you want a hint of what's to come or have anything you'd love to see happen in the next story, message me on Reddit (same username). I'd love to chat about it!