Author's Notes: As we near the end, I wanted to let you all know that I have a Q&A planned on my discord for the day after the last chapter is finally posted (Nov 3rd, 2024). If there are questions that remain unanswered about TDR that you're desperate to know, this is your opportunity! Find the Discord invite in my profile to find it.

Are we ready for another chapter? I have to admit, there were times when I never thought we'd reach the ending and now it's here. I don't know if I'm ready. But all of you lovely readers and your support have made this such a thrilling journey. Especially now as we close in on the end, I love seeing your thoughts and speculation. Thank you so much!

And we almost certainly wouldn't be here without my faithful betas. Catzrko0l, you have been a wonderful and steadfast presence! I feel much more assured about the story after you've polished it up! Thank you!

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Chapter 156

Robb II

He'd never felt so young as he did now, putting the finishing touches on the iron door to Winterfell's crypt: an iron bar. Aemon had told him that the Night King didn't pick and choose which dead it raised. When he decided, they all rose and that was bound to include the bones of their long-dead ancestors. It was enough to make him curse the Night King's name in the vain hope the Old Gods would smite him.

Such an abomination should never have existed, he thought gloomily. Yet here it was. An abomination straight out of their ancient history, returned to wreak havoc as he did before, taking bodies as he needed them. Robb wouldn't soon forget staring into the empty eyes of Rodrik Cassel. His nephew had been among the dead that Roose Bolton had claimed and now Ser Rodrik Cassel was dead as well. It hardly seemed fair for a man so devoted to the Starks. But Robb had been too slow in their fight to bottleneck the Army of the Dead and Ser Rodrick had taken the blow meant for him. It left Robb feeling bereft. His father was dead, his old master of arms was dead, and his wife and children were gone for months now in fear for their lives.

And now he was to abandon Winterfell.

He'd fought Aemon on it. This was their home. The Starks had taken root in Winterfell eight thousand years ago and that's where they stayed.

There's always a Stark in Winterfell, his father had said to him starting as young as he could remember. He was the heir. When his father had to be somewhere, he stayed behind: the Stark in Winterfell. It had marginally changed with Bran's birth. Then Rickon's. Robb was allowed to go further afield with his father to learn the ropes of being a lord of Winterfell. He'd felt a little bit guilty whenever he and his father went out: to see Winterstown, to visit Lord Cerwyn, to hunt, to see justice done. He'd always remembered looking back and seeing Jon standing in the doorway, staring longingly after them. It never failed to dampen Robb's spirits and, depending on the occasion, he'd ask father, "Why can't the others come?"

"This falls to you as Lord of Winterfell," his father had said. "There will be times when their attendance is appropriate, but not now."

How wrong his father had sounded after Aemon declared himself king. At first, Robb had found the occasion wondrous. His brother—no, his cousin—was of the blood of the dragon. Though he never spoke it, he doubted Aemon's account of how he persuaded his father to commit to overthrowing his best friend. Even if the Lannister twins had been guilty of their crimes, it was the king's justice. Though his father had always drilled into him about the importance of justice, he was just as careful to denote a line. There were occasions where justice was unjust. He had to circumvent it to the best of their ability, but always within the means of the law.

With Aemon's declaration, his father had stepped outside of that. Given the changes that had been wrought in Aemon since becoming king, he wasn't so certain that Aemon didn't find a way to force their father's hand. The entire affair had been quick and easy. Robb hadn't needed to think about it too much. Whether Aemon recognized it or not, he had paid attention to the way Aemon had dealt with the lords around him. He denoted many aspects of their father's experience: just, fair, and firm. Another of Aemon's mannerisms could be put down entirely to Jaime Lannister's influence: a careful but threatening undertone. Robb had seen it first before the scuffle with Lord Umber, and then next in the negotiations with Lord Frey. It'd left Robb uncomfortable and he'd glanced at their father to get the measure of his reaction. Much to his surprise, their father had barely flinched. He had noted a sadness hovering around his father, but he hid it well under the quiet wolf. When Robb had asked about it later, their father had said, "Being a king comes with pressures that you won't have to worry about as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I think he goes too far, but he prefers a firmer hand than I. It could be that it's what the realm needs."

In unspoken words, their father blamed Jaime Lannister. This had left Robb feeling torn. He was never meant to like the Kingslayer—though difficult not to when he was the best sword in the entire kingdom. Still, when he was merely Kingsguard, it had been easy to admire his skills if nothing else. However, once he took a prominent role at Aemon's side as Hand of the King, Robb had become decidedly less unsure about him. It bewildered him that Aemon would place so much trust in a man who murdered his grandfather in cold blood. He'd seen the alarm in their father and he'd tried to work on Aemon so that the Lannister's influence might be lessened. It had backfired. Robb wasn't there when the row had happened, but it was difficult not to see the friction between Aemon and their father.

Although he had long considered Aemon his brother, he was his father's son. He'd had his own tense conversations with Aemon in King's Landing. How appropriate, now, that they were back at it with regard to Winterfell.

"Does the name mean nothing to you? The history?" Robb had asked in growing frustration.

"Winterfell was as much my home as it is yours," Aemon shot back. "There's not a day that goes by I don't wish I could leave King's Landing and return to my roots. But I know better. Just as I know now that to stay in Winterfell is to levy a death sentence on everyone's heads here. We don't have the numbers! We've spent the last six years fortifying Moat Cailin for just such an occasion. Our chances of stopping the Night King and ending the Long Night there are better than here. We need to weigh these."

"You're asking me to abandon the home of the Starks. We've not abandoned it in eight thousand years since it was built," Robb was pleading now.

"We all must make tough choices," Aemon said.

"Like you won't with sacrificing Ghost," Robb shot back.

"Sacrifice Grey Wind and then tell me to kill Ghost," Aemon snarled before storming off.

Though Ser Loras and his Uncle Edmure agreed with him about killing the direwolf, both of them had choice words to say about the way he'd needled Aemon about it. However, their agreement ended there. With the Army of the Dead mere days away, they thought it best to regroup at Moat Cailin as well.

So it was with a heavy heart that Robb ordered the locking up of the castle. He barred the crypts, Maester Luwin locked his solar, the servants loaded up much of their food stores into wagons, and Aemon went through the library to ensure their rarest tomes were removed and stored elsewhere before covering the rest of the shelves in sheets.

Robb glanced around the mostly empty yard and sighed. Not even when Roose Bolton had stolen Winterfell had it appeared so bereft. Grey Wind whimpered and nudged his hand, forcing his attention and he rubbed the wolf's ears.

"Without anyone here, the Night King should have little reason to desecrate it," Aemon assured him, clapping him on the shoulder.

"You don't know that," Robb grumbled.

"No, but I hope so," Aemon replied.

"What good is hope?" Robb snarled.

"Hope is the difference between living and dying. As long as there is hope, there's a chance," Aemon said.

Robb only glared at him in response. Aemon walked back through the doors and closed Winterfell's gate shut. Then he climbed to the ramparts and whistled for Rhaegal. His dragon ambled over, reaching up with his foreclaws to latch onto the top of the wall. Aemon climbed aboard.

"With any luck, the weather will hold to Moat Cailin," Aemon said, glancing up to the shockingly clear blue sky. "The Old Gods are with us."

While clear blue skies were uncommon in the summer, they were unheard of in the winter. This was only the third day Robb could recall this winter where the sun shone limitlessly. Still, he saw a line of clouds threatening from the north. The Army of the Dead, Robb thought with a shudder. They were well-acquainted with the perpetual blizzard that the Night King and his army used for cover.

Robb swallowed and grudgingly turned toward the south. "We march to Moat Cailin!" he shouted to the air. "The Army of the Dead is behind us, but keep your eyes peeled. There could be scouts and raiding parties."

Bran, of course, was set to spend the entire march to Moat Cailin in a carriage, warging within crows and ravens as he struggled to take note of the Army of the Dead's position. Robb climbed aboard his horse and set a brisk pace. Since the undead needed no rest, he would have to make sure they kept a steady clip. It was a week-long journey and they couldn't afford more than a few hours of rest at a time. He stared at the open road, cleared earlier that morning by Queen Daenerys and her dragons. Though the cream dragon was healing well from her injury, the queen was concerned about straining her too much. With the way the dragons flew, they could be at Moat Cailin in half a day. It wasn't often that Robb envied the use of a dragon, but he wished he could cover distance at such speed. Aemon was intent on remaining with the Winterfell army as an escort, though he was expected to wander off at times to scout the Army of the Dead and waylay them where he could.

Grey Wind flanked him on either side making him look more Stark than he really felt. Forgive me, Father, Robb thought, hoping the sentiment could reach the heavens. He feared he had failed to live up to the name of Stark now that he'd abandoned their ancestral home. Surely a fight to the death was better than merely conceding ground before they were even threatened. However, he'd only faced a few score beyond the Wall and then the Northern Mountains skirmish. He couldn't ignore the haunted looks of the likes of Ser Loras, his Uncle Edmure, and even Lord Umber who was normally so cavalier and bombastic. The Night King had clearly taken more than just some soldiers. It had rocked their confidence entirely.

Rhaegal roared above, drawing Robb's attention. Despite the challenges and the setbacks to start the campaign, Aemon was as collected as ever. He was one of the few who was able to think with a clear head. Was it the confidence that only having a dragon in his control would inspire? Robb shuddered to think where they'd be without them.

Brienne XIV

At no point in her life had she felt utterly helpless. Yet, she wasn't helpless. She could dress herself, she could use the dragonglass dagger Pod had given her. She practiced with it every morning to get herself more familiar with her left hand. Apart from that one time Jaime tentatively suggested she might go back south with the rest of the grievously injured, he'd been encouraging and supportive.

Yet she felt so fragile. She hated feeling fragile. She frequently shot awake in the middle of the night as she found the Army of the Dead endlessly in her dreams, pain stabbing up from the stump. Though it was healing, the skin had yet to mend and the stitches marred the ugly stump. Just looking at it made her want to sob. It wasn't right! Her skills were on par with her own husband's—the best sword in the land!—but she'd barely survived her first battle and had been caught up in a fleeting moment of victory like a young squire. She berated herself for her stupidity and struggled to keep her spirits high.

Jaime had been busy arranging for a rough steel cap to cover her stump and better protect it until it was fully healed. She'd be fitted for an implement later. It did nothing to lift her mood.

Attending the meetings in preparation for the battle at Moat Cailin was the best distraction. It had been determined that the Neck was where they'd make their greatest stand. The Night King had done his best to pick them apart and whittle them down, so the order had gone out for everyone to make for Moat Cailin. A few days after that order had been sent out, men arrived everyday now. Sometimes there were as few as fifty and other times, thousands. Jaime could often be found atop the wall at the gate, staring down at those who wandered in. He ordered the Shepherds to sort through those who were too injured to fight and those who weren't. The grievously wounded were to be transported to Riverrun to clear beds for the fit newcomers.

The more soldiers that poured in, the more feverish Jaime's energy became, which was starting to put Brienne on edge. She was far too used to his cavalier attitude toward most things, especially serious situations. His blase attitude often irritated her, but it was only now when she found him so grim that she realized that it was equally endearing as it was irritating. One night when they fell into bed together to sleep, she decided to broach the subject.

"I've never seen you this way before."

"Hmm?" Jaime asked, rolling over to look at her.

"You're never normally so … grim," Brienne eventually found the word. "When we were preparing to battle Roose Bolton, you were vicious, but confident. You don't strike me as … confident right now."

"I'll have to work on that," Jaime muttered. "I can't have anyone believing that I am anything but sure."

"Is it only for morale?"

"If the Night King is not stopped here, he may never be stopped," Jaime whispered. "The king and I are gathering everyone here to put up the mightiest resistance we can manage. If that fails … there will be very little to stop the Night King in his march south."

Brienne worried her lip, thinking of their children. "What of the south?"

"There is still a mighty force down there," Jaime admitted. "They could also put up one hell of a fight, if they band together. The problem is that the Night King is not any normal threat. The Army of the Dead is more like a flood than a real army. While we've made repeated efforts to whittle down the dead, there's always more opportunities for him to raise more and keep adding to his numbers. They don't stop to eat, sleep, or shit. They will simply walk or climb over anything and everyone standing in their way until they reach the southernmost tip of Dorne. While Westeros is large, an army that never stops doesn't give us much time to try to recover. We've been scrambling ever since he broke the Wall and swept all of the castles along it. I fear what will happen if we don't stop him here."

She had difficulty falling to sleep upon hearing his explanation. She'd known the issues at hand on a lower level, but hadn't put much thought into it with her newfound stump demanding most of her attention. She would fight even harder against any efforts Jaime made to try to send her south. She wasn't about to return to their children without assuring them that she did everything she could to halt the threat of the Long Night.

After that, she made every effort to pitch in where she could to ready Moat Cailin for defense. She frequently found herself frustrated by men who caught sight of her stump and scoffed at her attempts. Unfortunately, quite a bit of the work involved lifting and moving items around for preparedness, which she now sorely lacked. So instead, she busied herself with running the soldiers through drills to sharpen their skills.

She frequently met with attitude. Many of the soldiers wore recalcitrant expressions and only grudgingly went through the exercises as she ordered. It only took one soldier declaring her Lady Lannister, then the resentment transformed into fear. Jaime's reputation, naturally, preceded him. She scowled that it took knowing who her husband was to get the men to shape up. It was unsurprising, but continued to be a thorn in her side. She wished she hadn't lost her hand and had been able to make a better name for herself on the battlefield to garner her own respect.

When she brought it up to Jaime later, he gave her a sympathetic look. "If it makes you feel better, I am, too, merely twisting the reputation for my own ends. It was my father who established it, not me. You and I are hardly better. But just say the word and I will put the fear of the Stranger into them," Jaime finished his sentence with a growl, his eyes decidedly flinty.

"Absolutely not," Brienne snapped. "I don't need you swooping in to spare me their ire. It's just this damned hand. I finally get the opportunity to fight and prove my worth and I'm maimed for my efforts, doomed to barely make a difference from hereon." She turned away from him, feeling the burning shame of her failure. If only she'd never gone after the White Walker.

"You're not normally one to be defeatist," Jaime murmured. "That's more my domain. Though I'll grant you're handling this far better than I did. I caught infection and simply wanted to wither away and perish. You were the one who told me how pointless that would be. And now I'm telling you this: losing your hand doesn't make you useless. You can train your left; you just need time."

"I have been training my left," Brienne grumbled. "I'm hardly better than I was yesterday."

"But you are better. I'm certain of it. And, as you said, give you a dragonglass dagger and you'll be as effective as any of those pissants who begrudge your drills. If not more," Jaime said.

"Thank you for not sending me with the rest of the injured."

Jaime was quiet for a moment. It was only as Brienne settled on her side to go to sleep that she heard him say, "You remind me so much of myself from before. You wouldn't let my stump stop me, so I won't let yours stop you."

Before she managed to drift off, she did wonder how different it would all be if Jaime hadn't felt the pain and shame of losing his own swordhand. Though she hated it all, it was a source of comfort.

Queen Daenerys and her dragons arrived three weeks after she did. The dragons alighted each on a tower. Even from the ground below, Brienne noted the large scar in her cream dragon's left shoulder. If Brienne wasn't mistaken, she seemed to favor it as she only lightly kept her left claw on the tower. Almost as soon as they made an appearance, they left, winging away. The cream-colored dragon angled toward the sea and the queen's fierce black steed turned inland toward the forest.

Brienne kept her attention on drilling the soldiers, but couldn't resist drifting her eyes up to Queen Dany who was speaking at length with Jaime. It pleased her that the queen no longer begrudged Jaime for his role in the death of her father and treated him civilly. They'd parted ways in King's Landing shortly after the truth had been revealed, so Brienne had seen little in the way of mending bridges. But I suppose, Brienne thought, the Long Night makes for strange bedfellows.

That night, they held a feast, or as close to one as they could manage. The wall guard was kept to a minimum and as many men as possible were crowded into the large dining area, though some were forced to sit in groups on the chilly stone floor. Wolf pelts, bear skins, and deer hides had been laid out to make it more comfortable.

Brienne found herself seated next to Jaime at the table. "Is there any reason for pomp and circumstance?"

"Why would there be a reason?" Jaime asked.

Something in his tone caught her attention and she narrowed her eyes at him. "No reason, you say?" He was deliberately avoiding her gaze, staring only close to her direction. He had a mysterious smile and shrugged his shoulders.

Brienne scowled at him.

It was then that Queen Daenerys stood and rang a bell to get the attention of everyone in the room.

"I am pleased to see you all gathered here whole and healthy. There are those of us, unfortunately, who cannot be here because of this Long Night that is upon us. Though the war is not yet won and the next great battle is on the horizon, I deem it appropriate that we pay honor to those who have fought valiantly against the Army of the Dead. Tonight is a night for remembrance, but also celebration," Dany spoke gently, capturing every eye in the room with her calm demeanor and brilliant silver hair.

"Podrick Payne, step forward," Dany said.

There was a moment of silence and then the sound of stumbling before Pod made his way to stand in front of the queen. He licked his lips nervously and dropped to one knee. He wanted his hand to rest on Brightroar's hilt, but seemed to think better of it and put them both on the stone.

"Podrick Payne, squire to Lord Jaime Lannister," Dany began, a smile on her lips. "I've been told by multiple people how you led those at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to safety. You charged into danger to save Lady Brienne Lannister and spearheaded the effort to shut the doors and lead everyone onto the ships to make your escape. That is an act of valor worthy of a knighthood. And so, that is what I will bestow upon you. Ser Barristan."

The old knight had been hovering in the shadows and he approached. Despite the occasion, his face was grave and the torchlight that flickered across the lines only emphasized his age. He pulled out his sword in front of Pod and began the ritual, reciting the oath that Brienne had long memorized, etched in her heart.

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent. In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to know mercy. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be bold. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to be wise. In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to defend your country. Now, rise, Ser Podrick Payne, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms," Ser Barristan finished.

Though Pod had grown much in the eight years since she met him, Brienne was forcefully reminded of the boy as he stood. Though he was one of the bravest and most courteous men she'd ever met, he still had inklings of the boy in his demeanor. He stared up at Barristan in the same reverence that she'd felt for the man.

The clapping was thunderous. Although Brienne was just as eager for Pod as many of the men he helped save, she felt a dull ache of envy. How she had so longed for a knighthood. Now with her maiming it was an impossible dream. Even in her own first battle, she'd hardly amounted to anything.

"Lady Brienne Lannister, step forward," Dany called, her eyes drifting to her.

Brienne froze, flabbergasted. Jaime elbowed her gently and she finally rose to her feet. All the grace she learned in the training ring seemingly abandoned her as she rounded the table and shuffled forward toward the same spot Pod had just left; her feet felt like bricks had been tied to them. She glanced to Ser Barristan and felt her heart flip when he gave her a nod. She fell to one knee and was grateful to be able to focus on the stone floor.

"Lady Brienne, I've heard tell of similar tales of valor. When the Night King attacked Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, you left the safety of the castle to gather your men and lead them. At great effort and cost to you, you destroyed a White Walker. For those who may not know, White Walkers control large groups of wights. When a White Walker dies, so do all of their wights. It was an effort that saved lives. Even after you were injured, I was also told that you killed half a dozen wights with a dragonglass dagger when they dared to board the boat, intending to take you all with them. That is a tenacity and courage that everyone should aspire to. For your efforts, Lady Brienne, I grant you knighthood."

I won't cry. I won't, Brienne chanted, even as emotion overwhelmed her and she felt the tears threatening to gather in the corner of her eyes. Even as she felt the gentle tapping of Ser Barristan's sword on either side of her shoulder, she centered herself and walled off the emotions. The words of the oath went unheard. The only ones she heard were, "Rise, Ser Brienne Lannister, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

She straightened herself up, smiling when she noticed that she was taller than Ser Barristan as well. Up to this point, his mere presence and greatness had towered over her. She smiled at him and nodded her gratitude. He nodded back. It was only as she started back to her seat that the spell broke and she heard the raucous cheers of everyone in the vicinity. She couldn't resist looking out at the other men in the room. Though she didn't look for long, she was pleased to see not a single jeer or snarl on their faces. She did notice that most of the ones in the vicinity bore the Lannister regalia.

Since she'd received her knighting, she felt lighter than air. She was still grinning when she returned to her seat next to Jaime.

"Congratulations, Ser," he whispered, even as Daenerys moved on to the next soldier to be raised.

"Is this your doing?" she asked.

"Pod, Prince Oberyn, and I all regaled the queen with your deeds. The queen and Ser Barristan agreed that your knighthood was well-earned," Jaime replied somberly.

Brienne wanted to choke on a sob. Instead, she leveled her gaze at Jaime and said, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. It was the queen's final decision," he emphasized.

For once, the feast didn't feel interminable. Much to her surprise, soldiers she'd led, both Lannister and otherwise, came up to congratulate her on knighthood.

"I would follow you into battle, my lady, come what may," one soldier said with a bow.

Brienne felt so overwhelmed that she turned away and noticed Jaime eyeing all of the soldiers critically. "What's that look for?"

"I'm making note of who would serve best to be under your command for this battle," Jaime said.

After feeling so low, staring into the abyss on the edge of a cliff, she finally felt she could meet the coming battle with the fortitude it required. Even if it takes me to the seven hells and back, I will end the Night King, she thought with some satisfaction.