章 1627: 43
Chapter 43: At Death's DoorChapter Text
43.
At Death's Door
Winterfell
Turmoil also had broken out outside the keep, where people ran everywhere they could find shelter to hide as Drogon and Rhaegal shadowed the inner courtyard, shrieking and seething.
Arya and Gendry trotted in the direction of the gatehouse.
"Where are you off to?" Gendry questioned with an unbelievable look on his face.
"It's the spear on his shoulder," she pointed out, as an answer, "I have to try and—" but he cut her off.
"Try and get yourself roasted!" Gendry hollered. "Last time I almost ended up on the other side of the wall!" he recalled.
"That was different! You shouldn't have stepped up and tried to ride one!" Arya retorted.
Another screeching and people grew frightened.
Arya skipped past Gendry and ran to the dragons. All the stories she had read and heard as a child about them said that this could end very badly, but she still kept on.
When she neared the place where the dragons were, she slipped and slid down the hill, falling just below the proud bosom of the green dragon.
Rhaegal.
Arya stood stiffly, breathing softly and gazing steadily as the dragon brought his huge maw close and took a sniff of her. Drogon did the same, lowering his head so that the spear was above her. Arya took the chance to grab hold of it, and without thinking it too much, she began to pull.
***
Podrick uttered a sound like a cow's bleat while the healer wiped off the blood from his nose. Lad got it the worst when Jon punched him in the face, just a small retaliation for pointing a sword at the King last night, according to him. Tyrion was being tended (again) right beside him, surprisingly less harmed.
This time Jaime sat down beside him and glanced at the Northern soldiers still present, returning distrustful looks at them. Now that their King had broken Guest's Right there was no reason why they should respect it, less in an atmosphere that crackled and jumped with tension.
The mood had suddenly turned sour, and on top of that, the dead were marching that way and might attack that very night.
In furtherance of their wretched situation was Brienne, who should've been serving her Lady, Jaime further argued.
"You're a fool if you think you can fight the King in the North with one hand," Brienne had told Jaime when she stopped him from going after Jon Snow. Jaime snorted in her face.
None of them could explain the unexpected turn in Jon Snow's behavior. Jaime suggested it was the Dragon Queen's influence over him but Tyrion quickly debunked it.
She would not have interfered if she had wanted to see me dead, he said.
Whatever his reasons were, gossiping started spreading about madness setting in, perhaps because of the bond between him and the green dragon.
"How come he rides a dragon?" asked Jaime in a slippery voice, at last blurting out that nagging thought. "Our lessons as children...wasn't it only Valyrian blood that could ride them?"
Tyrion gave him a sideway.
"We do not know the identity of his mother. Ned Stark may well have fucked a wench with Valyrian blood," he proposed half in earnest and half-jokingly.
Jaime stared into an empty corner, his mind going back in time, trying to put every event in its proper place.
"It could have been Ashara Dayne herself, remember her involvement with Brandon? Wouldn't surprise me if honorable Ned Stark had lied about it and made his brother's bastard son pass as his own," Tyrion added.
They all looked at each other in silence for a long moment. Whatever the case was Jon Snow was not just another lord's bastard.
Jaime bent down to bring his serious face close to Tyrion's.
"Should we stay here any longer? The real fight is at The Neck. There will be a massacre here," Jaime insisted.
"I don't care where I'll die as long as I die and I don't turn into one of those ice undead," Tyrion responded begrudgingly.
***
That night in his dreams, Jon gutted all undead in his way with Longclaw as he crossed Winterfell. He was back in the long night. Shafts of fiery flames devoured the walls as the wights scuttled up the castle parapets, some of them familiar faces: Edd, Tormund, Samwell, Tyrion, Jaime Lannister, Arya, Sansa...this time only he had survived. He slaughtered them all, but a fearsome roar made him look skyward from where a winged shadow swooped down to land just above him, narrowly missing and crushing him. Above Drogon was Dany, but she was no longer his Dany, she was the Night King's now. And this one showed up behind her and a blue-eyed Drogon, looking down at Jon from the catwalk with the slightest coldest smile.
Jon awoke at the hour of the wolf when it was still dark outside, sitting up in bed and rubbing his face with the palms of his hands. The night before he had let the boiling angst of the day gush out into a broken cry until his body, depleted, could take no more and he fell asleep. It had been a long time since he had broken down in such a way, perhaps when he received the news of Robb's death. No. When Ygritte had died in his arms had been. No. When he said goodbye to the remains of little Rickon...all those memories so far away and yet so close at the same time. Jon knew he had truly known suffering just when he killed Daenerys, but he ran from the thought because the tears threatened again.
There was no more time to dwell on it.
The Night King was coming.
The day had come. The castle was buzzing with hurried, last-minute preparations. Jon broke his fast with the officers and they immediately retired to go over battle plans in the library. All would go down the same way when they still counted with the support of Daenerys and her armies. He knew the castle would be overwhelmed by midnight. Even with the advantage of foresight, he knew that this was a losing battle. The goal was to take with them the most dead they could. Bran warned him that the Night King would also use that knowledge to his advantage, but as long as Bran was in Winterfell, he would still come for him.
The only thing Jon had to decide now was...which losses to allow and which to avoid.
***
Dany peaked beneath the linen that covered her stitches, feeling the uneasiness of it all. The wound was fresh and starting to hurt. She drank some milk of the poppy after all and did not wake up until the next morning.
The knock on the door startled her but she relaxed when Arya Stark walked in.
"Can I come in?" she asked.
Dany huffed and looked around the room. It wasn't she was still displeased with Arya — after all that had happened, that was the least of her worries. It was the continuing discomfort that weighed on her heart about it all.
Last night Jon and her had parted after their honest conversation where she'd been the most truthful to him since the beginning. She told him all about her journey and only omitted the parts that did not concern him or what was to come after it was all over. When it was done, he'd asked her a question. But she was not strong enough to give him an answer.
"You shouldn't cover it," Arya said.
"What?"
"The wound. It could prevent quick healing..."
"What are your doing here, Arya?" Dany questioned her, after feeling a dizziness that forced her to sit down.
Arya revealed what seemed like a crystal shaft, blue and white. At first, Daenerys didn't recognize it, but in an instant, she was on her feet and her heart was racing — it was the spear stuck in Drogon's shoulder.
How could she have forgotten it? Why hadn't she felt his son's pain and despair through their bond?
As if understanding her disquiet, Arya assured her, "By the time you were unconscious I had already withdrawn the spear. Your dragon is well and so is Jon's dragon. Well-fed too, of course."
With a hand on her heart and tears filling her eyes, Dany looked at her quietly.
Arya felt a surge of compassion and sympathy, and with that, the urge to be forward with her feelings for the first time.
"Your company is not something I took for granted, Daenerys. The time you allowed us a close relation neither. I can't pretend to not care about what happens to my brother but if it's something reserved for your privacy only, I'm going to respect that. However, if there is anything I could...if you would only want me to hear what you have to say, without my input on it, I would be forever grateful to you for granting me that confidence..."
Her cheeks were soaked by the time the first sob escaped her throat. The guttural sound of her weeping could have woken the entire castle. The hand clutched at her chest wanted to tear through it, grab her heart and throw it across the room.
It didn't make any sense all that pain, after all this time. Daenerys had convinced herself that she was fine, that the worst was over and only the days ahead remained. But then she realized that she was weak and vulnerable and that she had chosen that path once again because she was unable to let go.
To let him go.
***
"We need to be ready for anything, so keep the gates open as much time as possible..." Sansa was speaking to an officer when the door to her bed-chamber creaked open and Lady Brienne walked in. She brought a dismayed expression.
"So sorry to insist, my Lady, but I must insist that you shall not remain in the castle. Your place is not in battle," Brienne told her when they were alone.
Sansa grew stern, though she knew the request stemmed from a good place.
"My place is among my people. I will not abandon them," Sansa reiterated.
"What good can you serve to the North if you're dead? You are immediate successor to the King..."
Sansa's heart plundered in her chest.
"Let us not think in odds and have faith, Lady Brienne, otherwise it would mean we are fighting for nothing." Sansa headed for the exit, giving her one last look before she could follow her, "I don't want you by my side. You will do me little good by following me and wasting your talents in serving me. These may be our last hours. I know you will know how best to use them."
Resolute but trembling under the weight of her own words, Sansa advanced through the long, dark corridors of the castle until she found herself at a turn in her solitude. There she clung to the wall and began weeping weakly. It was very likely that those walls would be gone tomorrow and that thousands of legacy would be lost. Her family, which she had only just recovered, could also be lost in an instant.
When she felt the weight of a hand on her shoulder she let out an icy gasp. She turned to find Theon behind her, his face marked by the same damage and the same fears that weighed on her heart.
Sansa clung to him in an embrace.
***
Jon was still in the library with his eyes fixed on the map when he heard the sound of the doors opening, followed by the steps of someone approaching. He did not dare to hope that it was Daenerys. When he looked up and met the face of an old acquaintance, he frowned.
"Lord Reed...It's been a long time," Jon said.
Howland Reed, the lord of Greywater Watch and protector of the Neck was standing right there. His head lowered in a subtle bow.
"My King," he greeted him.
Jon squared his shoulders and blinked in surprise at his presence. He hadn't received any notice.
"There is no need for those words, my Lord. I've known you since I was just a bastard boy."
"Bastard or not, you are the King in the North and the King I serve," he replied with a stern tone, "And I've been told by your wife that you are already aware of the true origins of your birth...Son, I was with your father that day, I've known it since then."
Jon let out a breath. All the stories about the war and Lyanna had been so scarce and null from his father's mouth that he remembered little of Lord Reed's involvement in it all.
Of course, Daenerys had to have a hand in this.
"Bran never mentioned you," he only could say, before flopping into his chair and scrapping his forehead. "Well, before everything ends, it would be nice to hear someone tell me what my mother was like."
"A strong, stubborn, beautiful...tragic girl," he described her, adding a tinge of sorrow. "She was younger than you are now when she birthed you. But she loved you nonetheless."
Jon's mouth twitched in pain, as he looked down at his hand atop the table.
"She was no more than a child, Lord Reed," Jon said with increasing contempt, and then looked up, eyes ablaze, "Only Gods know what fabrications Rhaegar must've fed her with for her to commit to such demeaning and ill-conceived behavior. She didn't deserve that."
The lines in Lord Reed's forehead creased at the sound of it.
"And yet she chose your father over Robert Baratheon," he said finally, "She was young but neither naive nor a fool. She was a girl who happened to fall in love," he reasoned in a voice that tried to be comprehensive.
"Their union was a mistake, Lord Reed. A mistake that cost Westeros countless lives. Including that of their own families!"
"Yere set on hard ground, I see. The man that Ned Stark raised you to be..." he commented lightly, "I cannot claim to know where your father's bearings had been when he was there but—"
"Everything that comes after that word, is horseshit," Jon finished. Lips tightening in a defeated smile. "He was loyal...to Robert Baratheon. Wanted him as King. Wanted Stannis as King."
Howland cocked his head. "And is that what matters now? When will it matter what you want for yourself? Whatever was what the Realm wanted, what your father wanted...in the end, it didn't matter because Robert was a shit king and, don't let me start with Stannis Baratheon..."
Jon closed his eyes mournfully, remembering the man and his tragic end, and that of his wife and daughters. All for a bloody crown.
"I've heard what happened to the Queen. Is she well?"
Jon raised his head with an expression mixed between guilt and dismay.
Lord Reed's eyes said it all.
"She seemed quite the woman."
Jon snorted.
"She is the most wonderful person I've ever known."
"And is your blood relation an impediment for your affections?" he asked more carefully.
"She's the sister of my father, not mine," Jon pointed out, "And I loved her with all my life, it's just that...I just believe that, it's not enough."
The older man seemed trying to make sense of it. Jon understood that it shouldn't be easy.
"I see your pain over the burden that's been put on your shoulders, Jon. Your Grace. But you're a King. You're a Stark and you're a Targaryen. May you mourn the motherless child that wanted so badly to be a trueborn son. But ultimately, you must embrace the man you are regardless of it all."
***
After visiting the dragons and making sure that they were calm, Dany walked through the heavy blankets of snow as the sun descended behind those grey clouds and the mountains that painted the horizon. There was a sense of ultimacy in the air. There were no people left except for the soldiers and the fighters, and unlike in the past, they barracked the castle.
A few glances followed her as she crossed the gatehouse and the inner courtyard to the crypt's entrance, some stern, some intrigued. What was certain at that moment was that no one wanted the night to come.
Dany cautiously descended the slippery steps, listening to the clattering of the icicles on the ceiling melting in the heat of the hot springs spreading along the walls. Such a sullen and melancholy place to rest for eternity, she thought. But it was the Stark legacy. It was the ice blood that ran through his veins.
It was that thought that led her down there, where Jon was.
A dragon does not belong here, but Jon is not a dragon. Or he doesn't want to be one and was conflicted about it.
He always would be.
Shaking off those dismal thoughts, Dany walked down the hallway before the same stern, piercing gazes of the Stark's deads. Stone they were, but they did succeed in conveying a sense of solemnity and severity. She felt a shiver run down her spine like an icy sigh in the back of her neck.
Jon was there, standing in front of the statue of his real and only mother. A woman who had valued so much for her brother Rhaegar for him to see the fall of their House.
Daenerys was not one to judge him, for she fell into the same sin. Loving the wrong person.
He looked over at her.
"Did you send him?"
"Who?"
"Lord Reed."
Oh, thought Dany.
"Thank you," said Jon before she could answer. "It was good to hear about her from someone that has known her."
She stepped closer.
"Ser Barristan used to tell me stories about my mother and about my brother. That feeling of connection is the closer thing I'll ever have. I wanted you to know that too." She hesitated before decidedly reaching out to rest a hand on his arm. "Whatever you think of me, at least know this: I don't hate you, Jon. I do not. Perhaps I did. But that's not something I can hold against you without hurting myself."
His eyes glowed with unshed tears and he smiled ruefully.
"I believe you, Dany. You are too good. It never made sense to me, and mayhaps that's why...I couldn't go on," he replied with a hoarse voice.
"But you must," she insisted.
As they heard the sound of the three blasts of the horns reverberating in the distance, Jon and Dany stared at the statue still, remembering the last time that happened.
"If I could've changed things..." Jon said, looking over at her with soft eyes, "I'd have loved you more and better, and feared less."
Dany smiled.
"I believe you."
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