Chapter 1617: 33
Chapter 33: NightfallNotes:
I'll probably put every functional braincell I have left to work on the end of The Smoke After the Fire before I update this again
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
33.
Nightfall
Winterfell
Dany stood at the feet of Brandon's bed with a worried look on her face as her mind became restless with discordant thoughts coming and going everywhere. What happened to him? How did this impact events they both sought to alter? How much time did she have left to fix everything before the Night King arrived? She was so engrossed in this daze that she didn't hear her name be called several times until the young Podrick uttered it forcefully to get her attention.
"Your Grace, I must tell you something."
Daenerys blinked several times, confused.
"Yes, of course. Tell me."
He hesitantly looked between her and Bran.
"Both to you and King Jon, as a matter of fact," Podrick explained. "But since the King is meeting with his sisters and this matter is urgent, I think you should know anyway. The King trusts you, doesn't he?"
Every word that came out of the young man was laced with insecurity. Daenerys nodded.
"I was present when it happened. When Lord Bran went into crisis. His words were not nonsense. He said clearly: Jon must know. Daenerys must know. He saw the end."
Daenerys gasped, her fists clenched and her breathing hitched. She knew that Brandon, this Brandon, would not stop insisting. She should have known better the moment he made that comment about Viserion, the golden dragon is very beautiful.
Brandon's warning in Pentos came back to her mind, telling her that she would not meet him in the same way. That his past self would try to find explanations for the things that didn't make sense — the things she restored.
"Podrick," Daenerys finally spoke, smiling to hide the growing disquietude. "Podrick Payne of House Payne of the Westerlands. Your kin swore an oath of obeisance to me. May I take it then that your allegiance is aligned with them?"
Podrick took a step back.
"I am a squire to Lady Brienne. And she serves House Stark."
Daenerys land a hand on his arm, and though he jerked a little under her touch, she smiled at him in such a way as to show that the gesture was not threatening.
"Lord Podrick, I only ask you to be careful with these words. I will be the one to pass it on to Jon," she promised, and she meant it. It was how she was going to deliver the message to Jon that mattered.
Less warily, Podrick nodded and returned to his post at Bran's bedside.
The Neck
Meera Reed stared at the board where the figurines represented some of the armies of the Great Houses of Westeros sworn to the Dragon Queen. Houses of the North were noticeably absent. The notion of the great army assembled was one that aroused two kinds of emotions in her: fear and trepidation. Should all attempts to stop the Night King fail, a retreat would be ineffective in stopping the increase in his army's numbers.
She began by explaining to Queen Daenerys' men the origins of the Night King, and how he was created to stop the threat of the first men during the conquest of the North. The fact that there were still children of the forest — now no more — came as a surprise to them. The next thing she did was describe his army.
"We're not just talking about the undead. The Night King has commanders. Soldiers just as powerful as he is."
Some were quick to scorn her testimony and call the whole endeavor a waste of resources, especially with the coming of winter. The Queen's hand, Ser Jorah Mormont, warned that any objection or attempted uprising would be labeled high treason.
Meera then rejoined her father afterward. He was staring off into the distance, absently or rather thoughtful as she used to find him often nowadays. She was aware that Jojen's death weighed on him as much, if not more than it did on her. Sometimes she still wondered why he hadn't survived; why had he led her and Bran there, knowing he wouldn't make it out alive?
He looked over at her with a gentle yet tired smile.
"What you made of them?"
"A lot of vainglorious bastards," she answered.
"Ah! Not so different from then…"
Meera nodded. She'd heard of his time at Harrenhal back when he was a lad, considered too low of a lordling to even be invited to Royal's tournaments. The Starks children from back then welcomed him and protected him, she knew.
"You are my heir, daughter," her father suddenly said, whisking her attention, his face grew serious, "I'm afraid that you cannot remain at arm's distance from the rest of this unrighteous world. Not after what you saw. What you went through now."
She whipped her head up at the sound of flapping wings. Perched upon a naked branch was a raven, croaking as if trying to talk to her. The bird flew off and Meera trotted after it across the slush. It directed her downhill, to where the ground became boggy and where the sound of buzzing insects grew louder. Meera stopped just between the deceptive edge of scrub and the slough, where a mist she had never seen before was rising. The raven cawed again, perched on a branch just above her head. The sound of its cawing disturbing and distressed.
Meera knelt down to look closely at the surface of the fen where part of the dark blue sky was reflected in a very thin crystalline layer.
The swamp was beginning to freeze.
***
Jorah's scathing gaze threw daggers at Lord Desmond, the irksome heir to Highgarden, as he interjected in the War Council's deliberation with his unsolicited intakes.
Still only a prospect, and he's already behaving as King consort.
Were left to his judgment, Jorah would tell Khaleesi not to choose such parasite for a consort. Although, to Jorah's judgment no man was worthy of the place beside his queen.
The tent's flaps flung open and Meera Reed entered again, making everyone present rise from their seats. The young woman's face was plastered with fright.
"They are coming! They're coming!" she announced with her voice cracking and her dark eyes wide open. "It will be too late when they get here. The swamp won't stop them! Everything's freezing!"
Jorah and the others gathered there were left stunned. Her aggrieved state was totally opposite to the calm predisposition she had shown earlier.
"Where does this conclusion come from, My Lady? A little frost is more than normal at this point," Ser Justin Massey pointed out. He was one of the many knights assembled for the War Council, under Jorah's command.
"I know it because he told me. Bran. The three-eyed raven," Lady Meera assured.
They had yet to delve further and better into the significance of the skills acquired by Ned Stark's last male offspring, the crippled boy, and she was already asking them to trust that she had somehow received a message from him.
"Please, Lady Meera, be clear and pertinent in what you say," Jorah requested, silencing the others who were trying to ask her more questions about it. "Are you suggesting that our army move further north, toward Winterfell?"
"I am warning you," she stressed, "The long night is coming. And no matter how far south they go, even the dunes of Dorne will freeze over if they manage to pass the North."
Jorah was left to ponder.
None of these men were inclined to go further north with the inclement weather worsening. Khaleesi had not returned. All he knew at that moment was that he could not stand still, least of all with the apprehension tightening in his chest. So, when it was the hour of the wolf, he took his mount and rode across the causeway to Moat Cailin and on to Winterfell.
Winterfell
A cold wind whispered through the crimson trees of the Heart Tree making them dance to a rustling sound. They were as beautiful in winter as they were in autumn, summer, and spring. The sweet-scented air brought back memories of the last harvest seven years ago, before the departure.
They were all just sweet summer children, Jon reminisced.
An enveloping silence fell over the siblings. Brothers-cousins now that Jon had revealed the truth of his origins. It seemed the wintry landscape was waiting for one of them to disrupt the quietness. For a beat, it all seemed a very distasteful joke.
"You knew this," Sansa whispered first, then spoke bitterly, "You knew it. And you didn't tell us."
"I'm telling you now," Jon replied.
"After you told Daenerys Targaryen. Your aunt," Sansa accused him, her voice increasingly sharp. Hatred dripped from her judgmental tone.
Meanwhile, Arya was dead silent.
"I did. Yes," Jon answered, bluntly.
"Why? Why did you trust her instead of us, your sist—" she halted herself, taking in the reality of the newfound truth. "You are Lyanna's son. Our cousin. You were never our brother. You were never Father's son."
Each word hurt worse than the knives that his brothers of the Night's Watch thrust into him. And the worst thing was that Arya did not correct her.
In fact, she spoke nothing at all.
"How could you do this to us? We were the only family you've ever known!" Sansa reproached furiously.
"I've wronged you. I accept that. But it was never meant to cause you any pain. I was struggling with it just as much as I am now," Jon said with a staggering voice.
"Oh, but you ran after her at the first opportunity to claim your real name. You went to King's Landing in pursuit of that!" Her voice was a whip.
Growing fury blazed within him at her diminishment of him with every accusation made throw so lightly.
"You dare accusations with a gratuitousness that I don't think you can afford, Sansa." Jon stared at her with contempt. "This is no scheme. This is no deliberate deception!"
Jon looked at his younger sister-cousin now.
"Arya?" he pleaded for an answer.
Arya looked up to him with her large slate-gray eyes as though she'd been punched in the stomach. She was hurting and it gutted him.
"Is it true? That you — we went to King's Landing to her?" She asked him, and Jon noticed a little waver and rattle in her voice.
The question was another knife, twisting in his guts.
"No, of course not! We went South to gather help!"
Sansa stepped between them, "Then why? Why did you tell her this first? Didn't you mind that she could have you killed!"
"She didn't. She will not."
Her eyebrows lifted up skeptically. "And you're so sure because you love her? We were your sisters, Jon. She's a woman you just have met. That's what you decided that mattered most.
Her words were hurtful and blunt enough to send him into silence but did not make him curb his anger. He nodded with a frown, looking her up and down.
"You are greatly distorting my words and my intent, Sansa. But what can I expect from you after all?" Jon stated in a husk of a voice.
Arya dropped her gaze and said nothing.
"I can't do this. I can't. I need...I need to go," she hurriedly talked.
Jon would have liked to stop her and make her look him in the eye, reassure her that nothing changed for him. That he would always love her as his little sister. But how could he? His heart was as grieved as hers was. In his eagerness to do good, to right the stain on the honor he had brought to Ned Stark's legacy, he had hurt one of the people he loved most.
And that immediately took him to Daenerys.
"Before you go," he said, watching them both seriously, "You have to swear that this won't be made known to any other soul."
Sansa was quick to protest, even to Arya's dismay.
"Why not? The North deserves to know."
"You'll be seeding discord amidst our most perilous time," Jon pointed out.
"I swear it," Arya obliged without objection. She glanced at Sansa, hoping she would follow her example.
"Have you made Daenerys swear an oath to her too?" Sansa questioned, and at receiving no answer, she cocked her head, "Then I will not."
"Sansa, just do it!" Arya snapped at her.
"I will not," Sansa was steadfast. "I'll not be blamed for the North's demise if this secret comes out and causes turmoil but I won't swear any oath to you. And I won't ever recognize her as Queen."
***
Perhaps it was no mere chance that she met Samwell Tarly on her way. Perhaps this was another of the moments that the most powerful forces above her were imposing upon her. Either way, Daenerys made her way forward, shoulders squared and chin raised.
He was once again too engrossed in an open tome on the table in Winterfell's library to pay attention to her presence. Dany cleared her throat to make herself be noticed and immediately after the clumsy man stood up and turned away to find her.
"Y-your grace—" he dithered a nervous smile. She waited and studied his features for any signature of scorn, that he had already learned of his father's demise.
There was none.
"You are the man that saved my friend Jorah Mormont's life," Daenerys pointed out.
"Aye, your Grace. I mean, I just read somewhere about his ailment. It was very experimental, in fact. And he seemed desperately interested in coming back to you. I'm glad that he made it."
"He did. He's acting as my Hand now. And for such thing to be possible, I shall thank you with the sincerest gratitude, Samwell," she expressed, but then she paused and swallowed with difficulty. "Nevertheless, I think that you deserve to know that we are not on equal terms, as of now. For you are a Tarly. Son of the Lord Randyll Tarly."
His expression turned confused.
"Yes. I am." He blinked quickly with unease. "I imagine he's unhappy with my stealing our family's ancestral sword. But I swear there's an explanation, your Grace—"
"Your father rose his army against his liege, Samwell." She cut him off. "He attempted on the lives of those in Highgarden while we were still waging war against Cersei. His uprising was quelled. I imprisoned and judged him. He was executed."
Silence fell in the library. Again, he seemed more shocked than unnerved.
"Well, now that my brother is the Lord of Hornhill I may return home..."
"Your brother is imprisoned for treason, Samwell," Daenerys clarified.
"Would you kill him too?" he took on a more defensive stance.
"That's not only my decision. But if it were, I would," she stated without any doubt.
"Then am I expected to beg for his life? Because, Your Grace, I would."
His eyes glistened with unshed tears. And although Daenerys did not regret her decision in the past when she chose to execute father and son, now she could regard it all with distance, which time itself interposed.
She knew Samwell was entitled to his anger — to hate her for what she had done. What would happen next was that he would be determined to turn Jon against her.
But how much of it was his fault and how much of it was Jon's disposition to accept the discredit of her person?
A part of her still resented that.
"No, Samwell Tarly. Don't. I am indebted to you and will remain so until you tell me what I can offer you in return for your services. However, asking me to extend a royal pardon to your brother will not do. And I expect a man of your rank and education to understand why."
Without another word, Daenerys turned around and exited the library. She didn't know if Samwell was aware of who Jon was, or if this conversation would be enough for the man to run off and speak ill of her to Jon.
Dany could have no control over that.
And she didn't want to, either.
***
The guards stationed outside Jon's chamber looked at her knowingly and bowed before disappearing down the corridor. Daenerys waited as unease prickled her skin. After taking a deep breath, she knocked three times and opened the door.
"May I come in?" she asked before walking in. Hearing no response, she allowed herself entry either way. Jon sat on the end of his bed with his head down, defeated and exhausted. "I wanted to know how were you faring. As good as it can be, it seems."
Daenerys moved closer until she was facing him, still without invading his space.
He looked up. Dark silhouettes stained the skin under his eyes.
"I apologize," she said.
"What for?"
"I pressed you to share them the truth."
He averted his gaze.
"You just wanted to stay ahead of matters, Daenerys. And you were not certainly wrong about Sansa," he replied harshly.
"What happened with Sansa?"
"She refused to swear an oath of secrecy," he confessed, standing up to face each other with a questioning frown. "I still don't understand why you did it. Was it out of sympathy for Arya? Or were you trying to ascertain yourself?"
"I was not."
Dany sounded as sincere as she could given the circumstances. A small, petty part of it wanted to show Jon exactly that — Sansa's deceiving nature. Another, much larger, emotionally compromised, wallowed in remorse.
It hurt her to see him hurting.
"Sometimes," he shifted in his place, "When I perceive you looking at me, there's accusation and pain in your eyes. Then I wonder, what did I ever commit to elicit this reaction? what err did I incur into?"
Daenerys quickly grabbed Jon's hands, tight and close.
"You did not," she responded not at all falsely for she accepted it as a matter of fact that this Jon hadn't fallen in any of the sins of the Jon that betrayed her. "You were only good to me. And I repaid your kindness with distrust," she lamented.
He chuckled sadly.
"We were strangers for a time. I don't blame you. You know this is beyond what happened between our families and who I am to you now—"
"And who am I to you, now?" Daenerys cut him off and this was the confrontation she'd been dreading from the moment she started falling in for him again. That conflict the Jon of the past couldn't come to terms with.
Jon's eyes shifted to a darker shadow of gray.
"I could ask you the same question," he answered bluntly.
Daenerys waited a moment and shrugged nonchalantly.
"I asked first."
His hands that lay limp in hers hesitated a beat before snaking out to catch her wrist and pulling her in with an assertive movement.
She started a bit but did not attempt to wriggle out.
"You want to know the truth of my feelings? Do you want to hear words of assurance? Then this is my truth, Dany. I have never felt so strongly about anyone but you. I have loved and I have hated but the extent of my feelings for you breach any boundary set by words. And I don't know if this is right or wrong, I just know that this is it and I don't intend to keep explaining it away. Not even to you. Not when I have neither heard nor seen my feelings reciprocated from you."
Her heart was pounding wildly. In the reflection of his eyes, Dany saw her own face and there was undeniable love bare in it. Her walls crumbled down to dust.
In this life, she had not sought him out, out of fear of his rejection but now her reasons for doing so dissipated, and all that remained was the drive that in both lives led her to him.
She lifted a hand up to cradle his neck and held him tightly as she drew him in to join their mouths in a kiss, seeking to communicate with it all that her heart felt and all that she had hitherto allowed fading away in the empty recesses of her soul. Everything was there again, reborn, bright, and intense as if the colors took on a thousand different shades in her mind and exalted her soul. Relief, contentment, and unreserved happiness.
He turned them around, taking a breath still over her mouth and seeking entrance to brush his tongue against hers, biting her lower lip, savoring the sweet taste of her mouth. When the back of her knees touched the end of the bed a cold realization washed her over.
She pulled away from him.
"There's a matter we need—"
"Later," he tried to shush her with his kisses, to which she kept responding.
Dany was trying to halt him by putting her hands on his shoulders when the door burst open.
The two parted suddenly and saw Sansa standing stiffly in the doorway, her cheeks flushed.
"I—" she awkwardly stammered. "I was coming to inform you that a raven has arrived from Castle Black. They are under attack."
Castle Black
Jaime dutifully followed Edd Tollett through the ice-carved corridors of the Wall as he shouted orders to his men to prepare for the imminent attack. When Jaime lunged to stand at a post and help with the barrels of boiled oil, The Commander lifted him by the arm and pulled him along.
"I'll be honest with you, Lannister. This shit ain't for me. I wasn't even elected. Snow threw this tattered black cloak into my arms that nobody else wanted it. Now tell me, if you were in my place, how the fuck would you defend our position?"
Jaime stared at him astounded; he had never faced such a threat, let alone in these conditions. He was as much a stranger to the northern terrain as he was to the army of the dead.
They were doomed.
Suddenly they were shaken by a powerful tremor that knocked them to the ground, and others less fortunate across the Wall into the void. Crawling towards a pillar and without releasing his grip on it, Jaime tried to catch a glimpse of something but it was all a thick, whitish mist.
And then came the snowstorm.
***
Tyrion was in the kitchens when he heard the horn being blasted three times, the number of times that Commander Tollett had specified was indication of an attack — an attack of no other than the bloody dead.
The cook who he was helping, a grumpy old man who talked more in huffs and puffs, stood stiff as a corpse staring at the rough stone ceiling. In a heartbeat, he staggered to the storeroom from where he pulled out a rickety chain mail, a breastplate and a helmet. With a last, quick glance at Tyrion, he stormed out of the kitchens to gods knows where.
Tyrion remained stunned. Even his unyielding sense of survival told him that this was the day all was lost. Nevertheless, he followed the actions of the cook and sheathed himself in rests of an armor all too unfit for him. Finally, he took a knife with him.
What's the use anyway.
When the violent tremor came and shook the very foundations of the castle, Tyrion rushed under the table.
Outside the howls and bellows of the sworn brothers could be heard, probably in position to defend the castle. Tyrion thought he heard several shrieks followed by a clean thud, as if a corpse had been thrown from the top of the Wall. His breathing quickened, and his heartbeat thundered in his ear. He felt the cold become so sharp that his ungloved hands turned blue. Darkness took shape inside and outside the kitchen walls.
***
Nothing was visible but they knew one thing: it seemed like the The Wall was about to fall. How was that possible? Jaime had no way of knowing, but the first thing his instinct told him was to send the men down the stairs. Towards the only structure that could hold if everything came apart.
It took them about an hour, by his reckoning, to get down into the castle, by the time they realized that there were bodies in the main courtyard, which had fallen from above. They were crushed but Edd Tollett gave orders for them to be burned immediately.
James did not understand until the bridge began to shake and so did the walls.
There was the thud from the tunnel, of something trying to break through the mighty iron gate.
They were there.
And when they least expected it they were within the Wall as well, for the corpses lying on the ground, so crushed and lifeless as they seemed, began to peel off the ground and emit a guttural monstrous sound.
They were inside.
Notes:
I know, I know, I'm not usually very clever with my action scenes so here's the simple explanation: the Night King made some of the living above the Wall fall and die in order to raise them up and turn them into his soldiers to get entrance.
The same thing is happening simultaneously in Eastwatch but it will be more of an offscreen moment that Tormund will explain later.
How is the NK doing it? Coming soon...
ps. I'm still in the process of turning S8 Sansa's motives into something smarter than forcing Jon to have to choose sides.
In this parallel reality, she rather drew distanced between them.
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