Just so! That's what happens when children pay attention to the lessons of their Maesters on language and politics both!
Thank you for the kind comment.
Lady Winter and the Red Wolf (GoT/ASOIAF)
- Thread starter Epic Reader
- Start date
Just so! That's what happens when children pay attention to the lessons of their Maesters on language and politics both!
Thank you for the kind comment.
26 Weddings and Beddings
As soon as the bar was settled in the brackets again after Daenerys and Missandei left, Arya began stripping quickly, Sansa opening a drawer and withdrawing the undershirt, gambeson and the separate hidden leather armor she'd made for Arya to wear underneath her disguises, including the disguise of a Princess of Winterfell in formal attire. Arya put it on again, armed herself with her most carefully hidden weapons, then redressed in the finer clothes, the ties now tied slightly differently to hide the thickness of the armor. She added the pre-curved, stiff leather swordbelt, then helped Sansa make sure her own formal dress was settled correctly over the Queen's own armored corset.
As Arya wiped off the hilt and quillons of her Valyrian sword and dagger one last time, spears tapping and heavy bootsteps sounded outside. Arya smirked at Sansa, making the sign for dog and family, seeing Sansa nod with a smile of her own, then leaned in to whisper to Arya.
"The Hound is here to see you," came the guard's voice from outside the door.
The sisters went to the door, Arya lifting the bar and opening it, revealing the large man in his brand new, nearly properly fitted finery, a brand new sword by his side, dragonglass axe on his back.
"Uncle Sandor!" they exclaimed loudly and in unison, each grabbing one of his arms and pulling the shocked man inside, closing the door and laughing at his expression.
"You two got addled since I seen you last? I ain't your Uncle!" growled the Hound, his head turning once to check out the room by long habit.
"Yes, you are, Sandor," said Sansa warmly, "We say you are."
"That doesn't make a man your Uncle, little bird," he replied gruffly, though not unkindly as he took in their expressions.
"It does too," said Arya insolently, her chin high, "You're the family we chose. You can blame Jon if you like; he chose Samwell as his brother. I chose Gendry as my brother."
"I chose Kitty as my sister, and both of us chose you," said Sansa, leading Sandor to the middle of the room, where the view of the fire was blocked, and started pinning the adjustments she'd need to make in his outfit; this was the first she'd seen him in it.
"Hey! Stop that, little bird! Damnit, I'm not a pincushion!" he complained at Sansa's actions, then jerked his head around as his axe was taken from him by Arya, "Wolf bitch! I need that!"
"Hold still, you big baby. You're coming to Bran's wedding, and you need to be dressed properly," reprimanded Sansa.
Arya had dipped a rough, scratchy piece of cloth in some sort of paste, then used it to rub the dragonglass axehead with, "You'll get it back when you've suffered enough. If I have to put up with Sansa dressing me, so you do, so shut up and take it. Do you ever clean your weapons properly? This blood's got to be weeks old; you've got to get into the crevices and clean them out, you dumb fuck!"
"By the gods! What is it with you two?" asked Sandor loudly, "I get you wanted the big bitch back, but you asked for me too, one of you did, got me shoved on the first sled in. Then I get here, the wolf bitch tells me I'm the new infantry commander, and the little bird tells me I need to come stand with you for the greeting. Stuck-up royal cunt looked like she was going to explode! She'll remember that, you know. But... why me?"
Sansa looked at Arya, who made the sign for you, so she remembered her time in the Red Keep, speaking quietly, "Do you remember when Joffrey forced me to look at my father's head the first time? Meryn Trant hit me, and you did nothing. I blamed you for it then; I was a stupid little girl - if you'd stepped in then, you'd have been killed. But when I decided to jump off the bridge and take Joffrey with me, you grabbed me and wiped a drop of blood off my lip. You saved my life; and I know now that killing Joffrey wouldn't have changed anything serious. Tywin and Cersei would still have been in charge."
Sandor shrugged uncomfortably, "Just doing what I could. Nothing special about it. I'm just an old dog. Can't see why you want me, that's all. I'd have killed that cunt Meryn Trant if I could have, but I couldn't, not and get out alive."
Sansa smiled gently, "I know, Sandor. It's all right; Ser Meryn can't hurt me anymore. Arya made sure of that."
Sandor turned to Arya, "You killed him?"
"Nothing special; I didn't even use a chicken bone," said Arya, shrugging as the Hound chuckled suddenly and Sansa made the signs for question and later, then she gave a wicked grin, "I put on a young girl's face and went to the brothel he liked the day after he came to Braavos, to line up with the other girls. When he switched me, I didn't react... then he sent the other girls away, and hit me in the belly. Then I took her face off, and when he saw my face had changed, I stabbed his eyes out, poked his gut full of holes, and taunted him as he suffered before I slit his throat."
"That fucker deserved it. Told you there were plenty worse shits than me, girl!" said Clegane, the pride in his voice and on his face evident to both sisters even as Sansa finished her pinning with a vicious, satisfied look of her own and stepped back, speaking quietly.
"A very wise man once told me the world was built by killers. You're a killer, my sister is a killer, my brother is a killer. I'm a killer now, too... and I need killers, but not unrestrained killers. Not people like your brother - I still remember you defending Loras during the tournament, you know, and you didn't even like him, but you still saved his life," said Sansa, continuing in a japing tone, "Now go behind the screen and take those clothes off; there's a robe there to wrap yourself in, since you're a soft Southron who can't handle the cold properly yet. The fire'll be dying out soon, too; I don't normally keep one."
Sandor snorted as she called him a wise man; he wasn't wise, he just knew the way the world worked. Still, the little bird didn't seem to be worried about having him in the room with her, not one bit, and that wasn't just because the wolf bitch was beside her. That one hadn't killed him when he was helpless, and she was perfectly happy to kill any way at all, even to steal a man's boot knife and stab another man in the back with it. He stepped behind the screen and started taking off the clothes the maid had asked him to wear, trying to be careful. They were finery, sure, but tougher than they looked, and there had been a gambeson provided that went under them, a good new sword, and a harness for his dragonglass axe, even a boot knife hidden in the right boot, just the way he liked it. How she'd been able to fit a harness to something she'd never seen, he didn't know; one of them seamstress things, he guessed.
"I guess that answers you, little bird. What about the wolf bitch?" he asked as he shrugged into the robe, tying it and carrying the finery back to the redhead.
Back to the Queen, he realized, who was sewing his clothes with her own hands. Gods, this was a fucked up place!
"The wolf bitch is glad to have you here... as long as you bathe. A girl doesn't want to suffer your stench again!" said Arya, clearly amused, making Sandor smile slightly as he remember her wanting away from his stench, and how she'd stepped into the fight with that cunt who'd stolen her little sword and his friends.
Arya continued as Sansa altered the garments, soberly, "You captured me, true, and then you took care of me. You taught me - not like Septa Mordane, or Maester Luwin, or Ser Rodrik, or Syrio, but you taught me lessons I needed. You shared your food with me, your water. When I stole your knife and killed the Frey who'd sewn Grey Wind's head to Robb's body, and you had to kill the rest of them, you just told me to tell you first the next time I was going to do something like that. You only ever tried to sell me to family."
"You stopped at my room during the Battle of the Blackwater, offered to take me with you," said Sansa, needle flashing while Arya poured goblets of water, "You didn't leave, you deliberately spent longer in the Red Keep than you had to, shortened the amount of lead you had on your pursuers, to offer to take me with you. When I said no, you took me at my word. I was foolish, to be sure, but I had much to learn from Cersei, from Littlefinger that I'd never have learned with you. But... you offered, when you didn't have to. You are our family; you made yourself so."
"I'm unmaking myself, then! You can't just declare a man's your Uncle! What if I don't want to be your Uncle, to wear your fancy-ass tunic and run your damn cunt infantry?" growled Sandor Clegane.
Arya handed him and Sansa a goblet of water, "We can and we did. You're the Uncle we chose; you'll always have a place here. You can work as you like, after the war; right now I need you to get the infantry in line - you're pack, and the pack has to work together to survive. Bronze Yohn's got the cavalry in hand, the Scorpion Bear's handling the siege engines, but we've lost all our good infantry commanders. You did more for us than nearly anyone else did, when we needed it most, so get used to it. Kitty's used to being our sister, now, and Gendry and Samwell are getting used to being our brothers. You'll get used to being our Uncle."
"I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. She is Arya Stark of Winterfell. You are Sandor Clegane of Winterfell, for all the rest of your days. Now, drink with us, Uncle Sandor, a toast we can't make with anyone else; they wouldn't understand, like I didn't, long ago. To killing, the sweetest thing there is!" she said, eyeing him steadily as she raised her goblet.
"You like killing, I know," he said, looking at Arya, then scowled into his goblet and turning his head to Sansa, "What do you know about killing, little bird? And don't you have any ale? You're the Queen, I thought you'd be drinking better than this."
"I know that one of my fondest memories to savor is when I killed my husband Ramsay. He'd been starving his hounds for seven days to feed my brother and those who fought with him to. Instead, I fed him to them. That's the only man I've killed, and I hope not to have to kill more... but killing him did bring me joy, just like my sister Arya. Just like my uncle Sandor. Ale is rationed; all our shares are waiting in Great Hall for after the wedding."
Sandor looked at the traces of clear satisfaction on Sansa's face, then at Arya's proud smirk, and nodded, "Not such a little bird anymore. Not like Joffrey or Cersei, either. All right, then, to killing, the sweetest thing there is."
The three of them drank the water, then set their goblets down as Sansa handed Sandor the clothes again, "Try these on. And thank you for saying I'm not a little bird anymore... but if you ever call me big bird, you're not going to taste so much as a drop of ale for a year."
************************
Jon looked at the sets of guards and their incessant tapping of spearbutts as he approached his brother's room, the guards holding him out as they announced him, then the door was opened and he entered, immediately going to his brother and hugging him.
"Bran!"
"Jon. You're on time," said Bran flatly, "I'm the Three-Eyed Raven now."
"What does that mean?" asked Jon.
"He has... visions," said Samwell from behind him, causing Jon to stand and turn, startled, as Samwell continued, "The Three-Eyed Raven is more than a warg, more than a greenseer; there's only ever one at a time. And... he's not really able to be Bran easily, anymore. Sansa and Arya and even Meera said they get to see a little more of him, but... I haven't seen it."
Jon clapped Sam on the shoulder, "Sam! You came back. It's good to see you again. Did you find out anything at the Citadel to fight the Night King?"
Samwell looked at Bran nervously, then back at Jon, "Not exactly to fight the Night King, no. I found out how to cure greyscale, and... another thing we'll need to tell you soon. Maybe after the wedding."
"That's right. Congratulations, Bran. You're marrying well, I heard - Meera Reed, who helped you beyond the Wall. You're happy?" said Jon, then looked at Bran more carefully, "You don't look happy."
"I can't be happy anymore, not really. I'm the Three-Eyed Raven, now," said Bran flatly, then corrected himself, "Almost always."
Jon watched Bran's flat expression, then turned to Sam, who shrugged at him, "I don't understand... but that's normal for Bran now."
"You don't understand? I don't understand anything that's happening! I bent the knee to Dany, and then after we get to Winterfell, Sansa thinks she's the Queen, not Dany. She didn't tell me anything - all those messages, I even met her just before we got here. Not one word!" exclaimed Jon, then frowned, "Not even from Arya."
"Funny thing about that, really," said Samwell, his expression darkening at the mention of the woman that had burned his brother alive alongside his father, "Turns out you didn't actually bend the knee."
"I swore myself to Daenerys Targaryen! I said it to Dany, I even said it right in front of Queen Cersei!"
"You didn't kneel," said Bran flatly, "You didn't draw your sword."
"I don't need to do that! When I say I'll do a thing, I do it! Or I try to. I don't need to put on a show to bend the knee," said Jon, "And why didn't she just tell me? Tell Dany? She could have sent a raven. She could have had one of those messengers on the ships tell us. She could have had someone tell us at White Harbor!"
"Jon, Sansa was worried about you," said Samwell, "You went to Dragonstone, and were kept prisoner there. Then you suddenly pledge to fight for her? I was at the council meeting a few hours ago when they named Sansa to be their queen; they were worried you were being held hostage, like your sister... our sister was in King's Landing, forced to say and write things she didn't mean by a vicious Queen to survive. Daenerys burned my father alive! She burned my brother alive! Not in battle, but when they were helpless, her prisoners. They didn't attack her after they were captured, they didn't insult her, my father just refused to bend the knee and my brother stood by him. And she burned them alive, even my brother! Why would you bend the knee to her, Jon?"
"She what?" asked Jon, stunned, while tears welled up in Sam's eyes and he simply let them fall as the Three-Eyed Raven spoke flatly.
"Dickon said you will have to kill me too. Randall said step back and shut your mouth. Daenerys said who are you. Randall said a stupid boy. Dickon said I'm Dickon Tarly, son of Randall Tarly. Tyrion said you are the future of your house. This war has already wiped one great house from the world. Don't let it happen again. Bend the knee! Randall Tarly nodded. Dickon said I will not. Tyrion said Your Grace, nothing strips bold notions from a young man's head like a few weeks in a dark cell. Daenerys said I meant what I said. I'm not here to put men in chains. If that becomes an option many will take it. I gave them a choice. They made it. Tyrion said Your Grace, if you start beheading entire families. Daenerys said I'm not beheading anyone. Tyrion said Your Grace. Randall grasped Dickon's arm. Daenerys said Lord Randall Tarly, Dickon Tarly, I Daenerys of House Targaryen, first of my name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons sentence you to die. Dracarys. Drogon burned them. They died screaming."
"That's what this woman you pledged yourself to does, Jon. She burns people alive for not bending the knee, just like Stannis did to Mance Rayder - and you put an arrow in his heart as mercy! I still don't know if my mother and sister will make it up North, or if they'll be captured, or killed, or raped, or held hostage, or forced to marry someone to use their claim on Horn Hill."
"I didn't know, Sam. I swear to you, I didn't know."
"And you swore yourself to that woman anyway!" snapped Sam, then softened, "I'm sorry, Jon, but I can't forgive her for burning my brother alive. He deserved better!"
"We need allies to defeat the Night King, and that's the only thing that matters - the survival of the living," said Jon sadly, "And dragons burn the dead. Maybe they can burn the Night King, too."
"Well, wight dragons burn the living, too, and melt the Wall," said Sam somberly, "Why did you do it, Jon? Why'd you bend the knee?"
"The war against the dead is the only thing that matters. I bent the knee! I gave her my word! And it seems my word isn't enough, since Sansa's Queen now!" exclaimed Jon, frustrated even while feeling upset that his lover had not only burned surrendered men alive, but also that he'd heard about it from his brother, their family.
"Mance told you," said Bran quietly.
"What?" asked Jon, "What did Mance tell me?"
"Mance said I don't want them bleedin' for Stannis Baratheon either. You two talked. Mance said pride? Fuck my pride. This isn't about that. You said then bend the knee, and save your people. Mance said they followed me because they respected me, because they believed in me. The moment I kneel for a Southron King, that's all gone. You two talked. Mance said you're a good lad, truly, you are. But if you can't understand why I won't enlist my people in a foreigner's war, there's no point explainin'. You said I think you're makin' a terrible mistake. Mance said the freedom to make my own mistakes was all I ever wanted."
Samwell wiped his eyes and face with his sleeve, clearing away the tears as he thought. Jon always had a peculiar way of looking at things, and Sam knew he needed to get through. Jon may not be a member of the Night's Watch anymore, but they were still brothers, and Sam wanted to keep Jon from making a terrible mistake. He'd heard his brother's name, and his father's name, spoken of with respect here in Winterfell, for having the courage to face death freely, and their determination to do the same... no matter the enemy. Samwell spoke, his voice intense.
"Jon, your sister, our sister, didn't declare herself Queen. She didn't come in with an army and burn fields and food and people. She didn't demand people bend the knee, and threaten to burn people alive, or behead them, or drown them, or anything else if they didn't. They named her Queen of the North and Queen in the Vale, all on their own. They made a choice, their own choice. Not forced, not with a blade at their necks, but only after they heard about what she's done, and what you've done, how you answered when you were away from the dragons and her army. They'll fight the Night King with your Queen, but they won't bend the knee to her, Jon. If I wasn't a brother in the Night's Watch, I wouldn't bend the knee either, not after what she did to my family."
There was a rap at the door, and a guard called through loudly, "Half an hour, m'Lords."
Bran looked on calmly as their expressions changed and Samwell quickly shoved a set of clothes into Jon's hands before approaching Bran with another set, to help him change He'd helped invalids at the Citadel change when they weren't able to; this was easy enough, and would get his mind off of Jon's pledging himself to the crazy woman. He was fairly safe, at least, a man of the Night's Watch in the North. If his mother and sister managed to get up here, well, he supposed he could see why what happened to the South wasn't something the people around him cared about, much.
************************
Meera finished adjusting her dress and maiden cloak, turning to Alira Bogg, who she'd grown up with as much as anyone other than her family, reaching out to accept her sword and fasten it to her belt. She'd discussed that with her father, and with the Stark sisters. Arya had been all in favor of her wearing a full set of weapons; Sansa had suggested she carry at least one obvious weapon, and her father had suggested she carry only the sword and a dragonglass dagger; the bow would be too cumbersome during the ceremony. The sword would be a symbol of her role as a warrior and a soldier, as one who would take up arms to defend Bran, her children, Winterfell, and the North. The dagger, a pure dragonglass one, was both a symbol of her skill with many weapons and an acknowledgment that the army of the dead was approaching.
"Thank you, Alira," said Meera, giving her a careful hug, mindful of the hilt, "And thank you for having been a good friend all these years; good enough to carry my bow and quivers to my own wedding! I've made sure your ration of meat tonight is frogs legs; getting your favorite is the least I can do."
"You're welcome, my lady. You look very beautiful; even the Three-Eyed Raven is bound to notice! Come, my lady, your father must be waiting."
Alira unbarred and opened the door, then carefully shouldered her own dragonglass-encrusted staff, lifted Meera's bow, the quivers with her arrows, and the small bundle with the blowgun and Valyrian steel needles. It wasn't likely they'd need them, but Lady Reed had been clear that there was a danger of the dead attacking by surprise. She gave a curtsey, then jogged out ahead of her Lady to warn people she was coming, and to arrive before she did. Her Lady was about to become the Lady of Winterfell, and rule the entire North, not just the castle! Truly, these were strange times, but she knew Lady Meera would be a great Lady... a great Princess.
Meera smiled at her father, who straightened her already straight cloak before they started down the stairs on the path to the Godswood.
"Are you ready, Meera?" asked her father kindly.
"As ready as I can be, I suppose. The Night King's almost here, we have a Targaryen Queen in the castle... in my castle..., there's two dragons outside the gates, and I'm getting married to a man I love... who is only himself for brief moments at a time," said the Hand's daughter, then turned sad as they approached the gatehouse to the first bailey, "I wish Jojen were here."
"So do I, Meera. Without him, you wouldn't be here. Without you, Lord Bran wouldn't be here. Without him, we would know so much less than we do, and we wouldn't be nearly as prepared. I wish he were here, but I'm proud of what he did. I know he was proud to do it, too; he saw so much - that was the end he chose."
Meera nodded absently, thinking about her brother as the words Valar Morghulis ran through her mind in Arya's voice as she nodded habitually to the guards. All must die; all death matters, and because of his death, she and Bran lived.
Her thoughts were interrupted as she entered the bailey; below the large, quickly falling snowflakes, it was full of smallfolk, guards and maids, pages and servants, stonemasons and carpenters, children and elders. They all had something in common - every one of them was armed with a bow or a crossbow, and as she passed they bowed and curtseyed with murmurs of "Lady Reed."
A glance at her father showed Meera nothing but her father's gentle smile, and a look that meant he was in on this conspiracy in the castle. In her castle, at that; acting Lady of Winterfell for hours and she still knew little of what was happening... though she expected the Stark sisters were behind it. As they approached the Godswood, the baileys were still full, but of the soldiers under her command, now, again bowing and greeting her, filing out after she'd passed, the archers heading out to play wight as the Godswood had been emptied briefly for the wedding.
Bran was waiting for her in his chair, under the weirwood, Sansa standing tall before him. Their guests were in two groups, one on each side of an aisle between them, Ghost and more than a dozen half-direwolf pups attending as well. Alira was at the front of the guests on one side, while Arya was at the front on the other side. She smiled at the guests; nearly all of them were here because she'd wanted them here, or Bran would have wanted them here.
Meera strode up the aisle accompanied by her father; those she was close to that were in Winterfell were all here, the Godswood as familiar to her now as the swamps of home, but strange for its emptiness around them; she was used to it being full of those archers not sharp-eyed and accurate enough to earn a place atop the wall or the towers... it was quiet, now, but for the snow that was starting to pile up on the ground and the guests.
Sansa spoke, "Who comes before the old gods this night?"
Howland Reed answered, "Meera, of House Reed comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"
Bran put his hands on the wooden wheels, rolling forward until he was next to Sansa, "Bran of House Stark. Who gives her?"
Howland answered, "Howland, of House Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch, who is her father."
Sansa asked, "Lady Meera, will you take this man?"
Meera came up to stand directly before Bran, looking at him with a smile, saying "I take this man," as she took his hands in hers and knelt before the heart tree, praying silently. Bran had lived, different it was true, but he had lived, and she had the hope that he would keep getting back more of himself as time went on, and as she helped him, as their families helped him. She prayed for them to survive the army of the dead, to kill the Night King for good, and to have a long and good life together.
Standing, she turned her back to him and bend her knees so that Bran could remove her lizard-lion maiden cloak, which he handed to her father, replacing it with her new direwolf cloak, turning to smile at Bran's flat expression and Sansa's own smile, then to face their guests, looking out at them. Arya was grinning and gave a small nod, as did most of the rest of the small party of guests. Jon... tried, she supposed, despite an uncomfortable distance between himself and Daenerys. Neither of them looked actually happy... but that, she'd leave to her good sisters. That was a matter for the Queen, not the North, and this was her wedding
Meera did wish her wedding didn't have to double as a political tool, though she suspected that nearly every public event from now until her death would be a political tool - there was no respite from that. Well, political or not, she was going to enjoy her wedding, enjoy her feast, and give Bran some memories to compete with his visions, and, if the old gods beyond counting were good, give her the first of many children. Starks liked large families, and that was something she'd wanted. She was a fighter and a woman both, and here in the North, she could be both of those and a ruler as well, and respected for all three.
With a wicked grin, she turned, taking her sword hilt in her left and and swung her right leg up over the arms of his wheeled chair, draping both legs over the chair arm and settling into his lap, her right arm around his shoulders, so he could 'carry' her to the wedding feast.
"Well, husband? The feast awaits! Carry me hence," commanded Meera, at which Bran gave a flicker of a smile and put his hands on the wheels, pushing as hard as he could to get the chair moving over the only partly smoothed, frozen ground, starting them on the way to the feast. The Sansa followed behind and to one side, followed by most of the other guests. If Arya stepped in beside her sister and put her hands on the handles on the chair's back, perhaps pushed a little on the long walk, well, no one was going to comment on that.
They picked up their usual guards as they exited the Godswood, normal activity having resumed in the castle, so the wedding party had to wait for or go around those working groups in their path who had unwieldy loads, though everyone that could did bow, to the Lady of Winterfell and ruler in the North, as well as to the Queen in the North and of Mountain and Vale. Lady of Winterfell in truth, now, thought Meera Stark.
She'd left her maiden days behind, and had a new life ahead of her, though many things would remain the same. Her father would be near, she had Alira with her, a new and growing friendship with... whatever Lady Frey's relationship was to her now, as well as Sansa and Arya as sisters and mentors, each in their own way. And the others adopted into the family, apparently including the Hound! It didn't make up for Jojen, nothing would, but she could be content with what she had.
Upon entering the great hall, Sansa stepped forward past them, raising her voice in the sudden quiet as the guests, lords and ladies, senior servants and smallfolk, and Free Folk all looked to the doors while Bran wheeled her into the great hall, Arya having already stepped away from the wheeled chair to wrap a hand around the Hound's arm before entering.
"May I present my good sister Princess Meera Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Princess in the North!" said Sansa, her voice ringing out clearly and joyfully. This was a wedding she was truly happy to be at. To her surprise, she hadn't had any flashbacks to other weddings; hers and Tyrion's, Margaery and Joffrey's, or even hers and Ramsay's. Perhaps it was that she wasn't being married, that Meera had asked her to officiate the ceremony. Perhaps it was that this was a willing, unforced marriage for all its political uses. Perhaps it was that here and now, she had the power, and she could use that power to help make her brother and good sister happy, and once again set House Stark on a path to a long future.
"Princess Stark!" came the answering call from the crowd as Bran wheeled them over the smooth floor to the head table, waiting a moment for Queen Sansa to sit, followed by Meera slipping easily off the chair and then into her own seat, followed by the rest of the family sitting, and then the Northerners and those of the Vale. The Free Folk, naturally, hadn't dealt with any of the kneeler customs, nor had their overseas allies.
In the center of the table were the usual baskets, full of bread even in the winter, as well as dishes with the rationed food; delicately prepared for the feast by, Meera thought suddenly, her own cooks. She was the Lady of Winterfell, directly responsible for the castle and for Winter Town and all their inhabitants, and as the Princess in the North, she was responsible for the entire kingdom's people. Bran wouldn't be able to rule, but, as she thought about it, she was all right with that. She wouldn't need much help, and the rest of her family would be able to provide what she did need. Winter held little surprise for her, not after what she'd done, and where she'd been.
Meera glanced at Queen Sansa, who made a 'you first' gesture, so Meera reached out to the rationed meats first, selecting a half-portion of frog's legs for herself, a half-portion of chicken for Bran, and with a glance and a smirk at Arya Stark, a half-portion of rabbit for herself and her new husband. Another glance at Sansa showed that her good sister had well and truly left the responsibilities of Lady of Winterfell to her, so the newest member of the Stark family turned to the newcomers - the Hound, Daenerys, and Missandei, to instruct them on how meals worked.
"Meals in the Great Hall are only for those who have had the right amount of stores contributed; in this case, you are all welcome to eat this meal as our guests. You may have as much bread as you like, though meat, fish, fruits and vegetables are generally divided up into half portions and are strictly rationed. On your 'meat days', of which this will be your first, at one meal you may have one full portion of meat, no more. Soups and stews with only meat flavoring don't count against the meat ration as well as the other rations; those are good to dip your bread in," said the Lady of Winterfell.
The Hound looked at the Princess sourly, even as he put an arm out to collect a full portion of chicken immediately, completely ignoring the looks he was getting from many of the others at the table. Sam wasn't surprised by anything that happened here, Gilly didn't know what was and wasn't normal in the South, and she'd read of fosterings and all kind of strange Southron customs, Daenerys was occupied by her own thoughts... but Jon and Gendry were quite puzzled.
"Why're you here?" asked an already upset Jon of the Hound, followed closely by Gendry's own question.
"Wasn't he on your list?"
"Don't ask me," answered the Hound, jerking his head at Arya, "Wolf bitch dragged me up here."
"Wolf bitches," said Sansa impishly, reaching out to take two pieces of chicken herself, then placed them both on Sandor's plate, "the both of us want Uncle Sandor here. He's part of this family too, and today he gets my ration of meat."
Sandor stared at the little bird; he couldn't really imagine her actually calling herself a wolf bitch. Arya, sure, they both knew what she was and weren't shy about it, but the little bird? Looking down at the six small pieces of chicken on his plate, he growled, "The hells?"
"You get my ration today, too, Uncle Hound," said Arya with an insolent grin.
"Don't call me that! It's ridiculous!" exclaimed Sandor.
"What, you're not a hound?" asked Arya.
"Uncle Clegane sounds too formal for you," interjected Sansa with a fond smile, "You're the rough, protective uncle, after all. The one every girl needs in a horrible place like King's Landing, to keep her intact in a nest of vipers - the evil ones, of course, not the better Dornish variety of viper."
"He protected you?" asked Jon. He'd heard from the huge man some stories of Arya's travels with him, told in a disgruntled sort of way, but nothing about Sansa. Only now was he remembering that the Hound had been Joffrey's sworn shield, and would have gone South with his sisters, would have been in the Red Keep when Sansa was there.
"He did," said Sansa, her tone serious with hints of gratefulness as she took up a large piece of bread, "He risked more for me than anyone else did. Tyrion was also very kind, though he had other, more political reasons for many of the things he did as well. Uncle Sandor doesn't deal in politics much."
"Fuck politics," said the Hound, prompting Arya's laughter.
"See? That's the Uncle I chose," said Arya with a grin, taking a small portion of bright red vegetable soup with a strong scent of Braavosi spices, and continued on seeing Sansa's sign for sister, giving the Hound a sidelong look, "I took him off my list, Gendry. Be good to him - he's your Uncle too, since you're my brother. Now, enough about our Uncle - he probably needs some time to think since he's got a new sword and might mean to name it! Meera, why'd you give Bran the rabbit? "
While the Hound glared at Arya around a large bite, Meera looked over at Bran, seeing just a flicker of interest behind the Three-eyed Raven's face, and started her tale, choosing her words carefully, since she knew well her good sister's feelings on Theon. Arya had, as she'd hoped, accepted her sublte invitation to ask about the rabbit; she was indeed improving at the hidden messages Sansa had been drumming into her, and Arya asking was a great excuse to tell the story she'd wanted to.
"When we were making our way North after escaping the Ironborn, I'd hunted a brace of rabbits for breakfast; me and Jojen, Osha and Rickon, Hodor and Bran. Osha and I, well, we didn't get along at all. She was always nasty to me, and I to her. We each started with a rabbit, and she'd got hers on a stick and over the fire before I'd finished getting the skin off mine. She told me I didn't know how to skin a rabbit, and then we started snapping at each other; she said if she'd had a bow, she'd have had a dozen rabbits, I bragged I'd made the bow myself. She said I had a stick up my ass, and next thing I know, we were both standing up for a fight," Meera said, looking up at Bran, at her husband fondly as she saw a flicker of real emotion in his eyes, "And then Bran spoke up; he said he wanted us to make peace with each other. We did; pretty grumpily, but we did."
The feast continued for some time. When those at the head table were mostly finished, and Arya was drawing the carpenter they'd invited to this meal into talking about his week after he'd been mostly tongue-tied after the Queen's gentle attempt to do the same, Meera looked over at Bran again. She'd thought about this since the offer, and had decided that the old custom was something she wanted to do. It would be a strong memory for Bran to return to, and, she hoped, one that would be able to keep him more right here in the present, with her, and less in his visions as time wore on. As she was sure Sansa would have pointed out, it would also make sure all in the North knew this was a real marriage, now and always, and make it nearly impossible for her marriage, and her children, to be challenged. And, well, she was in very good shape; she had no shame of being seen. There hadn't been private bathing north of the Wall, not safely.
Standing, Meera looked out across the hall, having decided she'd announce this herself, and called out once the hall had quieted, "We have stood before the Heart Tree; he has claimed me and I have taken him, but for a marriage to be real, it needs one more thing! This wedding needs a bedding!"
Arya stood beside her, slipping a slender throwing dagger, sheath and all, out of an inside pocket ofher cloak and placing it in Meera's hand as she pulled Bran's chair back from the table, "A bedding for my good sister and my brother is well and good; but take liberties with either of them and you'd better hope the Lady of Winterfell is the one who stabs you!"
With that, she stepped back to allow the maids to come lift Bran up and carry him off to Meera's chambers, undressing him on the way, just as the men did the same for Meera, to wait outside the door until they could hear the consummation, as was the custom.
************************
As Arya wiped off the hilt and quillons of her Valyrian sword and dagger one last time, spears tapping and heavy bootsteps sounded outside. Arya smirked at Sansa, making the sign for dog and family, seeing Sansa nod with a smile of her own, then leaned in to whisper to Arya.
"The Hound is here to see you," came the guard's voice from outside the door.
The sisters went to the door, Arya lifting the bar and opening it, revealing the large man in his brand new, nearly properly fitted finery, a brand new sword by his side, dragonglass axe on his back.
"Uncle Sandor!" they exclaimed loudly and in unison, each grabbing one of his arms and pulling the shocked man inside, closing the door and laughing at his expression.
"You two got addled since I seen you last? I ain't your Uncle!" growled the Hound, his head turning once to check out the room by long habit.
"Yes, you are, Sandor," said Sansa warmly, "We say you are."
"That doesn't make a man your Uncle, little bird," he replied gruffly, though not unkindly as he took in their expressions.
"It does too," said Arya insolently, her chin high, "You're the family we chose. You can blame Jon if you like; he chose Samwell as his brother. I chose Gendry as my brother."
"I chose Kitty as my sister, and both of us chose you," said Sansa, leading Sandor to the middle of the room, where the view of the fire was blocked, and started pinning the adjustments she'd need to make in his outfit; this was the first she'd seen him in it.
"Hey! Stop that, little bird! Damnit, I'm not a pincushion!" he complained at Sansa's actions, then jerked his head around as his axe was taken from him by Arya, "Wolf bitch! I need that!"
"Hold still, you big baby. You're coming to Bran's wedding, and you need to be dressed properly," reprimanded Sansa.
Arya had dipped a rough, scratchy piece of cloth in some sort of paste, then used it to rub the dragonglass axehead with, "You'll get it back when you've suffered enough. If I have to put up with Sansa dressing me, so you do, so shut up and take it. Do you ever clean your weapons properly? This blood's got to be weeks old; you've got to get into the crevices and clean them out, you dumb fuck!"
"By the gods! What is it with you two?" asked Sandor loudly, "I get you wanted the big bitch back, but you asked for me too, one of you did, got me shoved on the first sled in. Then I get here, the wolf bitch tells me I'm the new infantry commander, and the little bird tells me I need to come stand with you for the greeting. Stuck-up royal cunt looked like she was going to explode! She'll remember that, you know. But... why me?"
Sansa looked at Arya, who made the sign for you, so she remembered her time in the Red Keep, speaking quietly, "Do you remember when Joffrey forced me to look at my father's head the first time? Meryn Trant hit me, and you did nothing. I blamed you for it then; I was a stupid little girl - if you'd stepped in then, you'd have been killed. But when I decided to jump off the bridge and take Joffrey with me, you grabbed me and wiped a drop of blood off my lip. You saved my life; and I know now that killing Joffrey wouldn't have changed anything serious. Tywin and Cersei would still have been in charge."
Sandor shrugged uncomfortably, "Just doing what I could. Nothing special about it. I'm just an old dog. Can't see why you want me, that's all. I'd have killed that cunt Meryn Trant if I could have, but I couldn't, not and get out alive."
Sansa smiled gently, "I know, Sandor. It's all right; Ser Meryn can't hurt me anymore. Arya made sure of that."
Sandor turned to Arya, "You killed him?"
"Nothing special; I didn't even use a chicken bone," said Arya, shrugging as the Hound chuckled suddenly and Sansa made the signs for question and later, then she gave a wicked grin, "I put on a young girl's face and went to the brothel he liked the day after he came to Braavos, to line up with the other girls. When he switched me, I didn't react... then he sent the other girls away, and hit me in the belly. Then I took her face off, and when he saw my face had changed, I stabbed his eyes out, poked his gut full of holes, and taunted him as he suffered before I slit his throat."
"That fucker deserved it. Told you there were plenty worse shits than me, girl!" said Clegane, the pride in his voice and on his face evident to both sisters even as Sansa finished her pinning with a vicious, satisfied look of her own and stepped back, speaking quietly.
"A very wise man once told me the world was built by killers. You're a killer, my sister is a killer, my brother is a killer. I'm a killer now, too... and I need killers, but not unrestrained killers. Not people like your brother - I still remember you defending Loras during the tournament, you know, and you didn't even like him, but you still saved his life," said Sansa, continuing in a japing tone, "Now go behind the screen and take those clothes off; there's a robe there to wrap yourself in, since you're a soft Southron who can't handle the cold properly yet. The fire'll be dying out soon, too; I don't normally keep one."
Sandor snorted as she called him a wise man; he wasn't wise, he just knew the way the world worked. Still, the little bird didn't seem to be worried about having him in the room with her, not one bit, and that wasn't just because the wolf bitch was beside her. That one hadn't killed him when he was helpless, and she was perfectly happy to kill any way at all, even to steal a man's boot knife and stab another man in the back with it. He stepped behind the screen and started taking off the clothes the maid had asked him to wear, trying to be careful. They were finery, sure, but tougher than they looked, and there had been a gambeson provided that went under them, a good new sword, and a harness for his dragonglass axe, even a boot knife hidden in the right boot, just the way he liked it. How she'd been able to fit a harness to something she'd never seen, he didn't know; one of them seamstress things, he guessed.
"I guess that answers you, little bird. What about the wolf bitch?" he asked as he shrugged into the robe, tying it and carrying the finery back to the redhead.
Back to the Queen, he realized, who was sewing his clothes with her own hands. Gods, this was a fucked up place!
"The wolf bitch is glad to have you here... as long as you bathe. A girl doesn't want to suffer your stench again!" said Arya, clearly amused, making Sandor smile slightly as he remember her wanting away from his stench, and how she'd stepped into the fight with that cunt who'd stolen her little sword and his friends.
Arya continued as Sansa altered the garments, soberly, "You captured me, true, and then you took care of me. You taught me - not like Septa Mordane, or Maester Luwin, or Ser Rodrik, or Syrio, but you taught me lessons I needed. You shared your food with me, your water. When I stole your knife and killed the Frey who'd sewn Grey Wind's head to Robb's body, and you had to kill the rest of them, you just told me to tell you first the next time I was going to do something like that. You only ever tried to sell me to family."
"You stopped at my room during the Battle of the Blackwater, offered to take me with you," said Sansa, needle flashing while Arya poured goblets of water, "You didn't leave, you deliberately spent longer in the Red Keep than you had to, shortened the amount of lead you had on your pursuers, to offer to take me with you. When I said no, you took me at my word. I was foolish, to be sure, but I had much to learn from Cersei, from Littlefinger that I'd never have learned with you. But... you offered, when you didn't have to. You are our family; you made yourself so."
"I'm unmaking myself, then! You can't just declare a man's your Uncle! What if I don't want to be your Uncle, to wear your fancy-ass tunic and run your damn cunt infantry?" growled Sandor Clegane.
Arya handed him and Sansa a goblet of water, "We can and we did. You're the Uncle we chose; you'll always have a place here. You can work as you like, after the war; right now I need you to get the infantry in line - you're pack, and the pack has to work together to survive. Bronze Yohn's got the cavalry in hand, the Scorpion Bear's handling the siege engines, but we've lost all our good infantry commanders. You did more for us than nearly anyone else did, when we needed it most, so get used to it. Kitty's used to being our sister, now, and Gendry and Samwell are getting used to being our brothers. You'll get used to being our Uncle."
"I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. She is Arya Stark of Winterfell. You are Sandor Clegane of Winterfell, for all the rest of your days. Now, drink with us, Uncle Sandor, a toast we can't make with anyone else; they wouldn't understand, like I didn't, long ago. To killing, the sweetest thing there is!" she said, eyeing him steadily as she raised her goblet.
"You like killing, I know," he said, looking at Arya, then scowled into his goblet and turning his head to Sansa, "What do you know about killing, little bird? And don't you have any ale? You're the Queen, I thought you'd be drinking better than this."
"I know that one of my fondest memories to savor is when I killed my husband Ramsay. He'd been starving his hounds for seven days to feed my brother and those who fought with him to. Instead, I fed him to them. That's the only man I've killed, and I hope not to have to kill more... but killing him did bring me joy, just like my sister Arya. Just like my uncle Sandor. Ale is rationed; all our shares are waiting in Great Hall for after the wedding."
Sandor looked at the traces of clear satisfaction on Sansa's face, then at Arya's proud smirk, and nodded, "Not such a little bird anymore. Not like Joffrey or Cersei, either. All right, then, to killing, the sweetest thing there is."
The three of them drank the water, then set their goblets down as Sansa handed Sandor the clothes again, "Try these on. And thank you for saying I'm not a little bird anymore... but if you ever call me big bird, you're not going to taste so much as a drop of ale for a year."
************************
Jon looked at the sets of guards and their incessant tapping of spearbutts as he approached his brother's room, the guards holding him out as they announced him, then the door was opened and he entered, immediately going to his brother and hugging him.
"Bran!"
"Jon. You're on time," said Bran flatly, "I'm the Three-Eyed Raven now."
"What does that mean?" asked Jon.
"He has... visions," said Samwell from behind him, causing Jon to stand and turn, startled, as Samwell continued, "The Three-Eyed Raven is more than a warg, more than a greenseer; there's only ever one at a time. And... he's not really able to be Bran easily, anymore. Sansa and Arya and even Meera said they get to see a little more of him, but... I haven't seen it."
Jon clapped Sam on the shoulder, "Sam! You came back. It's good to see you again. Did you find out anything at the Citadel to fight the Night King?"
Samwell looked at Bran nervously, then back at Jon, "Not exactly to fight the Night King, no. I found out how to cure greyscale, and... another thing we'll need to tell you soon. Maybe after the wedding."
"That's right. Congratulations, Bran. You're marrying well, I heard - Meera Reed, who helped you beyond the Wall. You're happy?" said Jon, then looked at Bran more carefully, "You don't look happy."
"I can't be happy anymore, not really. I'm the Three-Eyed Raven, now," said Bran flatly, then corrected himself, "Almost always."
Jon watched Bran's flat expression, then turned to Sam, who shrugged at him, "I don't understand... but that's normal for Bran now."
"You don't understand? I don't understand anything that's happening! I bent the knee to Dany, and then after we get to Winterfell, Sansa thinks she's the Queen, not Dany. She didn't tell me anything - all those messages, I even met her just before we got here. Not one word!" exclaimed Jon, then frowned, "Not even from Arya."
"Funny thing about that, really," said Samwell, his expression darkening at the mention of the woman that had burned his brother alive alongside his father, "Turns out you didn't actually bend the knee."
"I swore myself to Daenerys Targaryen! I said it to Dany, I even said it right in front of Queen Cersei!"
"You didn't kneel," said Bran flatly, "You didn't draw your sword."
"I don't need to do that! When I say I'll do a thing, I do it! Or I try to. I don't need to put on a show to bend the knee," said Jon, "And why didn't she just tell me? Tell Dany? She could have sent a raven. She could have had one of those messengers on the ships tell us. She could have had someone tell us at White Harbor!"
"Jon, Sansa was worried about you," said Samwell, "You went to Dragonstone, and were kept prisoner there. Then you suddenly pledge to fight for her? I was at the council meeting a few hours ago when they named Sansa to be their queen; they were worried you were being held hostage, like your sister... our sister was in King's Landing, forced to say and write things she didn't mean by a vicious Queen to survive. Daenerys burned my father alive! She burned my brother alive! Not in battle, but when they were helpless, her prisoners. They didn't attack her after they were captured, they didn't insult her, my father just refused to bend the knee and my brother stood by him. And she burned them alive, even my brother! Why would you bend the knee to her, Jon?"
"She what?" asked Jon, stunned, while tears welled up in Sam's eyes and he simply let them fall as the Three-Eyed Raven spoke flatly.
"Dickon said you will have to kill me too. Randall said step back and shut your mouth. Daenerys said who are you. Randall said a stupid boy. Dickon said I'm Dickon Tarly, son of Randall Tarly. Tyrion said you are the future of your house. This war has already wiped one great house from the world. Don't let it happen again. Bend the knee! Randall Tarly nodded. Dickon said I will not. Tyrion said Your Grace, nothing strips bold notions from a young man's head like a few weeks in a dark cell. Daenerys said I meant what I said. I'm not here to put men in chains. If that becomes an option many will take it. I gave them a choice. They made it. Tyrion said Your Grace, if you start beheading entire families. Daenerys said I'm not beheading anyone. Tyrion said Your Grace. Randall grasped Dickon's arm. Daenerys said Lord Randall Tarly, Dickon Tarly, I Daenerys of House Targaryen, first of my name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons sentence you to die. Dracarys. Drogon burned them. They died screaming."
"That's what this woman you pledged yourself to does, Jon. She burns people alive for not bending the knee, just like Stannis did to Mance Rayder - and you put an arrow in his heart as mercy! I still don't know if my mother and sister will make it up North, or if they'll be captured, or killed, or raped, or held hostage, or forced to marry someone to use their claim on Horn Hill."
"I didn't know, Sam. I swear to you, I didn't know."
"And you swore yourself to that woman anyway!" snapped Sam, then softened, "I'm sorry, Jon, but I can't forgive her for burning my brother alive. He deserved better!"
"We need allies to defeat the Night King, and that's the only thing that matters - the survival of the living," said Jon sadly, "And dragons burn the dead. Maybe they can burn the Night King, too."
"Well, wight dragons burn the living, too, and melt the Wall," said Sam somberly, "Why did you do it, Jon? Why'd you bend the knee?"
"The war against the dead is the only thing that matters. I bent the knee! I gave her my word! And it seems my word isn't enough, since Sansa's Queen now!" exclaimed Jon, frustrated even while feeling upset that his lover had not only burned surrendered men alive, but also that he'd heard about it from his brother, their family.
"Mance told you," said Bran quietly.
"What?" asked Jon, "What did Mance tell me?"
"Mance said I don't want them bleedin' for Stannis Baratheon either. You two talked. Mance said pride? Fuck my pride. This isn't about that. You said then bend the knee, and save your people. Mance said they followed me because they respected me, because they believed in me. The moment I kneel for a Southron King, that's all gone. You two talked. Mance said you're a good lad, truly, you are. But if you can't understand why I won't enlist my people in a foreigner's war, there's no point explainin'. You said I think you're makin' a terrible mistake. Mance said the freedom to make my own mistakes was all I ever wanted."
Samwell wiped his eyes and face with his sleeve, clearing away the tears as he thought. Jon always had a peculiar way of looking at things, and Sam knew he needed to get through. Jon may not be a member of the Night's Watch anymore, but they were still brothers, and Sam wanted to keep Jon from making a terrible mistake. He'd heard his brother's name, and his father's name, spoken of with respect here in Winterfell, for having the courage to face death freely, and their determination to do the same... no matter the enemy. Samwell spoke, his voice intense.
"Jon, your sister, our sister, didn't declare herself Queen. She didn't come in with an army and burn fields and food and people. She didn't demand people bend the knee, and threaten to burn people alive, or behead them, or drown them, or anything else if they didn't. They named her Queen of the North and Queen in the Vale, all on their own. They made a choice, their own choice. Not forced, not with a blade at their necks, but only after they heard about what she's done, and what you've done, how you answered when you were away from the dragons and her army. They'll fight the Night King with your Queen, but they won't bend the knee to her, Jon. If I wasn't a brother in the Night's Watch, I wouldn't bend the knee either, not after what she did to my family."
There was a rap at the door, and a guard called through loudly, "Half an hour, m'Lords."
Bran looked on calmly as their expressions changed and Samwell quickly shoved a set of clothes into Jon's hands before approaching Bran with another set, to help him change He'd helped invalids at the Citadel change when they weren't able to; this was easy enough, and would get his mind off of Jon's pledging himself to the crazy woman. He was fairly safe, at least, a man of the Night's Watch in the North. If his mother and sister managed to get up here, well, he supposed he could see why what happened to the South wasn't something the people around him cared about, much.
************************
Meera finished adjusting her dress and maiden cloak, turning to Alira Bogg, who she'd grown up with as much as anyone other than her family, reaching out to accept her sword and fasten it to her belt. She'd discussed that with her father, and with the Stark sisters. Arya had been all in favor of her wearing a full set of weapons; Sansa had suggested she carry at least one obvious weapon, and her father had suggested she carry only the sword and a dragonglass dagger; the bow would be too cumbersome during the ceremony. The sword would be a symbol of her role as a warrior and a soldier, as one who would take up arms to defend Bran, her children, Winterfell, and the North. The dagger, a pure dragonglass one, was both a symbol of her skill with many weapons and an acknowledgment that the army of the dead was approaching.
"Thank you, Alira," said Meera, giving her a careful hug, mindful of the hilt, "And thank you for having been a good friend all these years; good enough to carry my bow and quivers to my own wedding! I've made sure your ration of meat tonight is frogs legs; getting your favorite is the least I can do."
"You're welcome, my lady. You look very beautiful; even the Three-Eyed Raven is bound to notice! Come, my lady, your father must be waiting."
Alira unbarred and opened the door, then carefully shouldered her own dragonglass-encrusted staff, lifted Meera's bow, the quivers with her arrows, and the small bundle with the blowgun and Valyrian steel needles. It wasn't likely they'd need them, but Lady Reed had been clear that there was a danger of the dead attacking by surprise. She gave a curtsey, then jogged out ahead of her Lady to warn people she was coming, and to arrive before she did. Her Lady was about to become the Lady of Winterfell, and rule the entire North, not just the castle! Truly, these were strange times, but she knew Lady Meera would be a great Lady... a great Princess.
Meera smiled at her father, who straightened her already straight cloak before they started down the stairs on the path to the Godswood.
"Are you ready, Meera?" asked her father kindly.
"As ready as I can be, I suppose. The Night King's almost here, we have a Targaryen Queen in the castle... in my castle..., there's two dragons outside the gates, and I'm getting married to a man I love... who is only himself for brief moments at a time," said the Hand's daughter, then turned sad as they approached the gatehouse to the first bailey, "I wish Jojen were here."
"So do I, Meera. Without him, you wouldn't be here. Without you, Lord Bran wouldn't be here. Without him, we would know so much less than we do, and we wouldn't be nearly as prepared. I wish he were here, but I'm proud of what he did. I know he was proud to do it, too; he saw so much - that was the end he chose."
Meera nodded absently, thinking about her brother as the words Valar Morghulis ran through her mind in Arya's voice as she nodded habitually to the guards. All must die; all death matters, and because of his death, she and Bran lived.
Her thoughts were interrupted as she entered the bailey; below the large, quickly falling snowflakes, it was full of smallfolk, guards and maids, pages and servants, stonemasons and carpenters, children and elders. They all had something in common - every one of them was armed with a bow or a crossbow, and as she passed they bowed and curtseyed with murmurs of "Lady Reed."
A glance at her father showed Meera nothing but her father's gentle smile, and a look that meant he was in on this conspiracy in the castle. In her castle, at that; acting Lady of Winterfell for hours and she still knew little of what was happening... though she expected the Stark sisters were behind it. As they approached the Godswood, the baileys were still full, but of the soldiers under her command, now, again bowing and greeting her, filing out after she'd passed, the archers heading out to play wight as the Godswood had been emptied briefly for the wedding.
Bran was waiting for her in his chair, under the weirwood, Sansa standing tall before him. Their guests were in two groups, one on each side of an aisle between them, Ghost and more than a dozen half-direwolf pups attending as well. Alira was at the front of the guests on one side, while Arya was at the front on the other side. She smiled at the guests; nearly all of them were here because she'd wanted them here, or Bran would have wanted them here.
Meera strode up the aisle accompanied by her father; those she was close to that were in Winterfell were all here, the Godswood as familiar to her now as the swamps of home, but strange for its emptiness around them; she was used to it being full of those archers not sharp-eyed and accurate enough to earn a place atop the wall or the towers... it was quiet, now, but for the snow that was starting to pile up on the ground and the guests.
Sansa spoke, "Who comes before the old gods this night?"
Howland Reed answered, "Meera, of House Reed comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"
Bran put his hands on the wooden wheels, rolling forward until he was next to Sansa, "Bran of House Stark. Who gives her?"
Howland answered, "Howland, of House Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch, who is her father."
Sansa asked, "Lady Meera, will you take this man?"
Meera came up to stand directly before Bran, looking at him with a smile, saying "I take this man," as she took his hands in hers and knelt before the heart tree, praying silently. Bran had lived, different it was true, but he had lived, and she had the hope that he would keep getting back more of himself as time went on, and as she helped him, as their families helped him. She prayed for them to survive the army of the dead, to kill the Night King for good, and to have a long and good life together.
Standing, she turned her back to him and bend her knees so that Bran could remove her lizard-lion maiden cloak, which he handed to her father, replacing it with her new direwolf cloak, turning to smile at Bran's flat expression and Sansa's own smile, then to face their guests, looking out at them. Arya was grinning and gave a small nod, as did most of the rest of the small party of guests. Jon... tried, she supposed, despite an uncomfortable distance between himself and Daenerys. Neither of them looked actually happy... but that, she'd leave to her good sisters. That was a matter for the Queen, not the North, and this was her wedding
Meera did wish her wedding didn't have to double as a political tool, though she suspected that nearly every public event from now until her death would be a political tool - there was no respite from that. Well, political or not, she was going to enjoy her wedding, enjoy her feast, and give Bran some memories to compete with his visions, and, if the old gods beyond counting were good, give her the first of many children. Starks liked large families, and that was something she'd wanted. She was a fighter and a woman both, and here in the North, she could be both of those and a ruler as well, and respected for all three.
With a wicked grin, she turned, taking her sword hilt in her left and and swung her right leg up over the arms of his wheeled chair, draping both legs over the chair arm and settling into his lap, her right arm around his shoulders, so he could 'carry' her to the wedding feast.
"Well, husband? The feast awaits! Carry me hence," commanded Meera, at which Bran gave a flicker of a smile and put his hands on the wheels, pushing as hard as he could to get the chair moving over the only partly smoothed, frozen ground, starting them on the way to the feast. The Sansa followed behind and to one side, followed by most of the other guests. If Arya stepped in beside her sister and put her hands on the handles on the chair's back, perhaps pushed a little on the long walk, well, no one was going to comment on that.
They picked up their usual guards as they exited the Godswood, normal activity having resumed in the castle, so the wedding party had to wait for or go around those working groups in their path who had unwieldy loads, though everyone that could did bow, to the Lady of Winterfell and ruler in the North, as well as to the Queen in the North and of Mountain and Vale. Lady of Winterfell in truth, now, thought Meera Stark.
She'd left her maiden days behind, and had a new life ahead of her, though many things would remain the same. Her father would be near, she had Alira with her, a new and growing friendship with... whatever Lady Frey's relationship was to her now, as well as Sansa and Arya as sisters and mentors, each in their own way. And the others adopted into the family, apparently including the Hound! It didn't make up for Jojen, nothing would, but she could be content with what she had.
Upon entering the great hall, Sansa stepped forward past them, raising her voice in the sudden quiet as the guests, lords and ladies, senior servants and smallfolk, and Free Folk all looked to the doors while Bran wheeled her into the great hall, Arya having already stepped away from the wheeled chair to wrap a hand around the Hound's arm before entering.
"May I present my good sister Princess Meera Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Princess in the North!" said Sansa, her voice ringing out clearly and joyfully. This was a wedding she was truly happy to be at. To her surprise, she hadn't had any flashbacks to other weddings; hers and Tyrion's, Margaery and Joffrey's, or even hers and Ramsay's. Perhaps it was that she wasn't being married, that Meera had asked her to officiate the ceremony. Perhaps it was that this was a willing, unforced marriage for all its political uses. Perhaps it was that here and now, she had the power, and she could use that power to help make her brother and good sister happy, and once again set House Stark on a path to a long future.
"Princess Stark!" came the answering call from the crowd as Bran wheeled them over the smooth floor to the head table, waiting a moment for Queen Sansa to sit, followed by Meera slipping easily off the chair and then into her own seat, followed by the rest of the family sitting, and then the Northerners and those of the Vale. The Free Folk, naturally, hadn't dealt with any of the kneeler customs, nor had their overseas allies.
In the center of the table were the usual baskets, full of bread even in the winter, as well as dishes with the rationed food; delicately prepared for the feast by, Meera thought suddenly, her own cooks. She was the Lady of Winterfell, directly responsible for the castle and for Winter Town and all their inhabitants, and as the Princess in the North, she was responsible for the entire kingdom's people. Bran wouldn't be able to rule, but, as she thought about it, she was all right with that. She wouldn't need much help, and the rest of her family would be able to provide what she did need. Winter held little surprise for her, not after what she'd done, and where she'd been.
Meera glanced at Queen Sansa, who made a 'you first' gesture, so Meera reached out to the rationed meats first, selecting a half-portion of frog's legs for herself, a half-portion of chicken for Bran, and with a glance and a smirk at Arya Stark, a half-portion of rabbit for herself and her new husband. Another glance at Sansa showed that her good sister had well and truly left the responsibilities of Lady of Winterfell to her, so the newest member of the Stark family turned to the newcomers - the Hound, Daenerys, and Missandei, to instruct them on how meals worked.
"Meals in the Great Hall are only for those who have had the right amount of stores contributed; in this case, you are all welcome to eat this meal as our guests. You may have as much bread as you like, though meat, fish, fruits and vegetables are generally divided up into half portions and are strictly rationed. On your 'meat days', of which this will be your first, at one meal you may have one full portion of meat, no more. Soups and stews with only meat flavoring don't count against the meat ration as well as the other rations; those are good to dip your bread in," said the Lady of Winterfell.
The Hound looked at the Princess sourly, even as he put an arm out to collect a full portion of chicken immediately, completely ignoring the looks he was getting from many of the others at the table. Sam wasn't surprised by anything that happened here, Gilly didn't know what was and wasn't normal in the South, and she'd read of fosterings and all kind of strange Southron customs, Daenerys was occupied by her own thoughts... but Jon and Gendry were quite puzzled.
"Why're you here?" asked an already upset Jon of the Hound, followed closely by Gendry's own question.
"Wasn't he on your list?"
"Don't ask me," answered the Hound, jerking his head at Arya, "Wolf bitch dragged me up here."
"Wolf bitches," said Sansa impishly, reaching out to take two pieces of chicken herself, then placed them both on Sandor's plate, "the both of us want Uncle Sandor here. He's part of this family too, and today he gets my ration of meat."
Sandor stared at the little bird; he couldn't really imagine her actually calling herself a wolf bitch. Arya, sure, they both knew what she was and weren't shy about it, but the little bird? Looking down at the six small pieces of chicken on his plate, he growled, "The hells?"
"You get my ration today, too, Uncle Hound," said Arya with an insolent grin.
"Don't call me that! It's ridiculous!" exclaimed Sandor.
"What, you're not a hound?" asked Arya.
"Uncle Clegane sounds too formal for you," interjected Sansa with a fond smile, "You're the rough, protective uncle, after all. The one every girl needs in a horrible place like King's Landing, to keep her intact in a nest of vipers - the evil ones, of course, not the better Dornish variety of viper."
"He protected you?" asked Jon. He'd heard from the huge man some stories of Arya's travels with him, told in a disgruntled sort of way, but nothing about Sansa. Only now was he remembering that the Hound had been Joffrey's sworn shield, and would have gone South with his sisters, would have been in the Red Keep when Sansa was there.
"He did," said Sansa, her tone serious with hints of gratefulness as she took up a large piece of bread, "He risked more for me than anyone else did. Tyrion was also very kind, though he had other, more political reasons for many of the things he did as well. Uncle Sandor doesn't deal in politics much."
"Fuck politics," said the Hound, prompting Arya's laughter.
"See? That's the Uncle I chose," said Arya with a grin, taking a small portion of bright red vegetable soup with a strong scent of Braavosi spices, and continued on seeing Sansa's sign for sister, giving the Hound a sidelong look, "I took him off my list, Gendry. Be good to him - he's your Uncle too, since you're my brother. Now, enough about our Uncle - he probably needs some time to think since he's got a new sword and might mean to name it! Meera, why'd you give Bran the rabbit? "
While the Hound glared at Arya around a large bite, Meera looked over at Bran, seeing just a flicker of interest behind the Three-eyed Raven's face, and started her tale, choosing her words carefully, since she knew well her good sister's feelings on Theon. Arya had, as she'd hoped, accepted her sublte invitation to ask about the rabbit; she was indeed improving at the hidden messages Sansa had been drumming into her, and Arya asking was a great excuse to tell the story she'd wanted to.
"When we were making our way North after escaping the Ironborn, I'd hunted a brace of rabbits for breakfast; me and Jojen, Osha and Rickon, Hodor and Bran. Osha and I, well, we didn't get along at all. She was always nasty to me, and I to her. We each started with a rabbit, and she'd got hers on a stick and over the fire before I'd finished getting the skin off mine. She told me I didn't know how to skin a rabbit, and then we started snapping at each other; she said if she'd had a bow, she'd have had a dozen rabbits, I bragged I'd made the bow myself. She said I had a stick up my ass, and next thing I know, we were both standing up for a fight," Meera said, looking up at Bran, at her husband fondly as she saw a flicker of real emotion in his eyes, "And then Bran spoke up; he said he wanted us to make peace with each other. We did; pretty grumpily, but we did."
The feast continued for some time. When those at the head table were mostly finished, and Arya was drawing the carpenter they'd invited to this meal into talking about his week after he'd been mostly tongue-tied after the Queen's gentle attempt to do the same, Meera looked over at Bran again. She'd thought about this since the offer, and had decided that the old custom was something she wanted to do. It would be a strong memory for Bran to return to, and, she hoped, one that would be able to keep him more right here in the present, with her, and less in his visions as time wore on. As she was sure Sansa would have pointed out, it would also make sure all in the North knew this was a real marriage, now and always, and make it nearly impossible for her marriage, and her children, to be challenged. And, well, she was in very good shape; she had no shame of being seen. There hadn't been private bathing north of the Wall, not safely.
Standing, Meera looked out across the hall, having decided she'd announce this herself, and called out once the hall had quieted, "We have stood before the Heart Tree; he has claimed me and I have taken him, but for a marriage to be real, it needs one more thing! This wedding needs a bedding!"
Arya stood beside her, slipping a slender throwing dagger, sheath and all, out of an inside pocket ofher cloak and placing it in Meera's hand as she pulled Bran's chair back from the table, "A bedding for my good sister and my brother is well and good; but take liberties with either of them and you'd better hope the Lady of Winterfell is the one who stabs you!"
With that, she stepped back to allow the maids to come lift Bran up and carry him off to Meera's chambers, undressing him on the way, just as the men did the same for Meera, to wait outside the door until they could hear the consummation, as was the custom.
************************
Last edited:
- Location
- United States, CA
Ninjas are cutting onions near me again, this is too touching.
Yes, Faceless Men doing cooking training are a definite possibility... though if it is Faceless Men, those might not be onions!!!
Months ago, I'd originally thought to have the Uncle Sandor scene play out in the Great Hall alongside the sisters giving up their chicken to him, but they were rather kinder and wanted to give him a heads up in private.
And, well, make sure he didn't cause too much of a scene at Meera's wedding feast, which hadn't been planned months ago, but which grew naturally out of Sansa's need to ensure the continuation of their House and then Meera's necessary inclusion and marraige, the timing dictated by Sansa's insistence to give Meera a choice, Meera's coming to terms with Bran's almost, but not entirely, being the Three-Eyed Raven instead of Bran, her having her father, her family, with her again in Winterfell (so travel time had to be taken into account, to Moat Cailin and back), and then the necessity of managing Daenerys Targaryen... and the oncoming Night King, only days away, meaning there might well be neither time nor place for a wedding anytime soon, depending on how the Night King's attack goes.
And Sansa's been sewing everyone in the extended family new clothes... so they need to dress him before the wedding anyway, and give him space to vent his surliness in private!
I wouldn't say he's a softy... but he does care, and he's actually quite a bit more capable of showing it now, too, after his time with the Septon, as we see when he buries the farmer and his daughter.
Uncle seemed best - he's definitely not a brother, and they aren't trying to replace their father, so an Uncle seemed appropriate. He's perhaps not entirely unlike Uncle Brandon might have been, and Uncle Benjen was First Ranger, so they have a history of tough Uncles.
All in all, they wanted to make sure he knew he has a future with them. Wandering around a war-torn country really isn't safe, even for someone like the Hound. Disease and infection, if nothing else, would eventually kill him.
Thank you for the reply - it's good to know that worked out the way I'd hoped!
Wolfman217
Oh No! Oh No! Oh No!
- Location
- England
Just discovered this yesterday and have binge read it since. I really like it!
I was a bit worried with focus on Sansa (as I really don't like her) but decided to give it a try as Arya is the protagonist too (and she's my favourite GOT character) and I'm pleased to say I've really enjoyed it. Sansa is actually somewhat likeable here which is a bloody miracle.
I'm also really enjoying Dany being made a fool of and not getting what she want, I hate her, so that's fun to see.
Arya being a badass warrior assassin and being an excellent military commander is also really awesome to see, first time I've seen her time as Tywin's cup bearer being interpreted that way - as him inadvertently teaching her the Art of War, which is hilarious by the way, Tywin unknowingly teaching Arya Stark war better then he did any of his own kids.
I was a bit worried with focus on Sansa (as I really don't like her) but decided to give it a try as Arya is the protagonist too (and she's my favourite GOT character) and I'm pleased to say I've really enjoyed it. Sansa is actually somewhat likeable here which is a bloody miracle.
I'm also really enjoying Dany being made a fool of and not getting what she want, I hate her, so that's fun to see.
Arya being a badass warrior assassin and being an excellent military commander is also really awesome to see, first time I've seen her time as Tywin's cup bearer being interpreted that way - as him inadvertently teaching her the Art of War, which is hilarious by the way, Tywin unknowingly teaching Arya Stark war better then he did any of his own kids.
Thank you for giving it a try, and I'm glad you like it!
Sansa started out one of my least favorite characters, and ended up really impressing me with her potential and what she learned. I think a lot of it is that here she's finally out of captivity; she's not safe, not really, but she's where she wants to be, doing what she wants to rule, and she's learned enough to take care of her people first, not herself.
Since Dany wants to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and the North and the Vale (and the Twins and Seagard) want to NOT be part of the Seven Kingdoms, at least someone's not going to get all of what they want.
Part of Dany being 'made a fool of' was that she's never been taught what she needs to know, never even been taught that she needs to learn! Varys didn't set that up when he was working with Illyrio and others to keep Viserys and her in Essos, he didn't teach her when he joined Tyrion, and Tyrion didn't teach her.
Partly as a result of that, Varys has been crippled in his intelligence gathering, and between that and his usual habit of saying very little of what he knows to anyone - including his monarch who he says he serves - she was operating on bad information. Baelish worked very hard to make sure Varys had as little good knowledge as possible, and the sisters continued those efforts.
I really liked the Tywin/Arya scenes, and we see them talking - genuinely talking, in a way that I suspect Tywin did with nobody else at all. We see Arya pouring drinks at war councils, stealing correspondence, fetching books for Tywin's meetings with his generals. One of her defining characteristics is that she learns quickly - I have to think she learned a great deal from Tywin.
More than his children? Yes. She has more talent for strategic warfare than Cersei or Tyrion, much more interest than Jaime, and was not saddled with the ridiculous expectations he had for his own children.
FYI - you might like "A Wolf Amongst Lions" by Kallypso on AO3 - very amazing chemistry between Tywin and Arya after he figures out who she is and calls off the Red Wedding in favor of a different, better plan; Arya is still very much a badass.
It is funny that he taught her, too - Jaime certainly thought so!
Chapter 27 up in a few minutes! Thank you for taking the time to reply!
27 Rages and Lessons
Daenerys followed Johnna through the maze of Winterfell with Missandei beside her; as always, the girl was in a hurry, more so than they were. Daenerys growled, not having slept well in the cold air, and alone - Jon had vanished after the feast, and she wasn't of a mind to track him down. If he wanted to leave her to go brood, she wouldn't go chasing him down like a lovestruck girl. Once again, she pondered why she'd burned the wagons... and why she was here to be 'trained'. The former she'd pondered from time to time; she'd been concerned about feeding her armies, she'd seen the barrels and wheat piled up on the wagons, and yet it had seemed so right at the time. They were her enemies, and she brought her enemies fire and blood.
"You are late, boy," said Arya flatly in the small training yard, her back to the entering Dragon Queen, training armor on over her normal outfit, her cloak hanging on the wall. Missandei followed Daenerys in. Arya had arranged for the first basic training scenarios in how to fight the dead to be held at this time, so she knew Grey Worm and the Dothraki were learning alongside Brienne and the Hound. There weren't any other guards around; this area, the same strange place in the castle she'd first seen her mummer's troupe perform, had been kept free in the gloomy pre-dawn, though a nearly full moon was riding high, illuminating the fresh, uncleared snow on the ground in ghostly white.
"I'm a Queen," exclaimed Daenerys. A boy? She was anything but a man or a boy!
"Here, you should be a staff, nothing more," said Arya as she turned around gracefully to look at the silverhead and her advisor, one lightly padded staff in each hand, nodding to a set of training armor on a table by the entrance, "Tomorrow you will be on time. First, the equipment - if you think you'll be able to learn four simple moves today, then go put on the training armor, and we can train after you're ready."
Daenerys narrowed her eyes as she snatched the armor off the table, sliding it on awkwardly as Missandei moved to help her, before going to stand in the small gap where the two round towers met once she'd done her best; this was different than the Unsullied armor. Once it was on, Arya approached, hands yanking the armor around a bit, settling it; it wasn't very dignified, but Daenerys could feel the armor fitting better after, no longer chafing up against her armpit.
The Queen took one of the staves, then watched as Arya adjusted her grip on the staff twice before precisely but mechanically performing a simple overhead strike, then a two-handed horizontal block, then a horizontal strike, then a two-handed vertical block, returning to the same guard between each.
Arya readjusted her stance slightly with a slight frown, then repeated the actions again, nodding to herself for her visitors to see. She had to make sure they thought she wasn't very good with a staff for now, and she had to goad Dany into a rage to see if what she suspected was, in fact, true. She thought that Maester Luwin would have approved of her experiment, at least in how it would prove or disprove her idea, her hypothesis, as the Maesters call it. She spoke, her voice hard, condescending.
"You may have wanted to fight my sister, but she's had months of training with Chella of the Black Ears, one of the best warriors with spear and staff I've ever seen... but she's busy trying to keep everyone warm and fed for the rest of the winter, so she's got no time for you. And since you're totally untrained, I'm sure I'm a better match for you anyway. Now, take a stance like this, sideface towards me, staff held out like this, if you're not just another soft foreign lady."
"I am a Khaleesi of the Dothraki," snapped Daenerys, glaring at the one insulting her, setting her feet as Arya had shown, "I have lost count of the assassins who have tried to kill me, I have faced off against the Khals at Vaes Dothrak, and I walked away when they did not. I have faced the Lannisters on the field of battle and won!"
Arya rolled her eyes, striding forward and leaning down to adjust Dany's legs, then her arms, and after a moment of looking, the angle of the staff and precisely where her hands were gripping, how far apart they were, even the angle of her back and head. Stepping back, Arya repeated the same motions.
"Four moves to start, " said Arya, "Strike from above. Block that strike. Strike from the side. Block that strike. If it'll help, I'll go put on a barrel, put some wheat in my hair - then maybe you'll get in the right frame of mind, Khaleesi. Or maybe you'd like it if the staff were on fire, since you're the Unburnt? No cheating with magic for you here - here, you work for what you get, there's no free ride. You're even starting with a two-handed weapon to make it easier, not a real weapon like my sword! Now, do as I do!"
"I came here to save you from the Night King, and you've been insulting me at every turn," exclaimed Dany sharply, repeating the attacks and blocks, "I'm not a swordfighter, but I can use a simple stick!"
"Obviously not. Too weak, too slow; worthless without a dragon, just another Lady. Return to the same stance; your staff's too close to your body. Again!"
"I am not worthless, I am the Queen!"
"You're not the Queen here; you're just another guest. Straight up and straight down! This isn't some fancy Meereenese dance, this is staffwork! Again!"
Daenerys repeated the set of moves a dozen times, each set coming with another insult, another correction, then another dozen repetitions, as she grew angrier, then yet another dozen without a single break, without one kind word, without a shred of respect!
"Your staff's too close again; perhaps if you'd keep your mind on your lessons you'd actually improve. Pay attention!" taunted Arya in a low growl, "Or is that something you're as incapable of as Viserys was?"
"I am not my brother," replied Dany angrily, going through the same motions again, padded staffs thwacking each other with muted sounds, "Maybe I should be learning from someone better!"
"Oh? You want to take my sister - a real Queen's - time? Or are you thinking of playing around with my brother, hmm, indulging yourself at his expense? Fine. Attack me - put me on the ground, if you can, and then you can go find yourself a better teacher - you can find one who'll coddle you like a helpless child, since you can't handle my teaching," snarled Arya, seeing Dany's temper was at the breaking point. Now to find out if she was right.
Daenerys struck at Arya with a sideswipe, instead of leading with the overhand strike as each of the sets had been; the block Arya performed was the one she'd been doing the entire time, but faster and much, much stronger; she could easily feel the backlash from the clash through her gloves; recovering, she attacked again. The girl wanted to be put on the ground? She'd do just that!
Arya blocked the overhand strike, hard and fast, using exactly the same block she'd shown the Dragon Queen, then struck with a sideswipe of her own at the opening the novice had left, hitting Daenerys in the training armor over her ribs, but not hard enough to knock her down.
"You should go train with the children; I've seen small girls stronger than you! You're nothing by yourself, without your armies, your dragons... without my brother, you don't have a single kingdom here," said Arya sharply as she advanced, striking with that same sideswipe and hitting Daenerys in the side again, then again using the same attack as the two staffs met when the older woman blocked, but not properly; Arya pulled her staff back rather than let it slide along Dany's poorly angled block towards her hands, then brought her staff back to the simple guard she'd been using.
"I am not nothing!" spat Daenerys as she struck again, harder and faster, her frustration growing; her side was starting to hurt where Arya had struck her, she hadn't slept well, and the girl was not only beating on her, but also bringing up every frustration she'd had.
Arya blocked with the same moves again, taking a step back as she returned an overhead strike, retreating again as Dany attacked again. Were this any normal training, she'd have called a stop long before... of course, were this any normal training, she'd have had quite a bit of preparation on how to move, how to fall, how to strike and parry before being ready for full contact training like this. Unless she were a Faceless Man novice who'd killed the wrong person. This, however, was mostly training of a different sort entirely, and it was proceeding as it must.
"Here and now, you're nothing," growled Arya, starting an alternating pattern of overhead and side attacks, just a little faster than she'd been doing, fast enough to keep Daenerys from launching an attack of her own, standing her ground as she continued.
"You're nothing but a little girl with a stick you've never learned to use properly," continued the Stark as she broke the pattern, delivering a second horizontal attack in a row while Daenerys kept to the pattern and sustained a smack to her side, painful and bruising even through the training armor, "Go on, little girl! Show me what's inside that soft girl I see!"
Arya shifted around, putting the wall she'd backed towards behind Daenerys and the maximum amount of space behind her, then held her ground as Dany attacked, stronger and with less control. The Queen's blows weren't nearly as strong as Sansa's were now, though they were a little stronger than her sister had been at the start of the training, before she built up her muscles and learned to make use of her entire body; that meant the silverhead was somewhat stronger than Sansa had been, since she had less leverage.
Twice when the other woman started slowing down, Arya landed a blow - once to the arm with an overhead strike, once to the thigh with a side attack, always with her right hand leading, as she'd done this entire time. Then, she saw the shift in Daenerys and started retreating each time Dany attacked harder or faster or with less restraint.
The divot in the frozen ground she'd made earlier with boiling water and a shovel was behind her as she backed up in the face of a furious Dragon Queen's clumsy attacks; five steps, four, three... and then Arya tried to put in an attack between Dany's, just slow enough that her staff was out of position and Dany hit her in the side even as Arya broke the pattern, striking with her left hand leading at Dany in a sideways blow even as she shifted her body to take the brutal overhead strike from Daenerys as a glancing blow on her armored arm, stepping back and tripping on the ground, falling as Daenerys continued attacking.
Arya grunted as she blocked the wild attacks three times, then loosened her grip on her staff enough that it was knocked out of her right hand the next time; she let out a pained, high-pitched yelp, then another as her staff was knocked entirely out of her hands and out of the way. She rolled over onto her sides and put her arms up over her head, taking the continued hits on the thick armor she had on even under the training armor, metal plates under the leather she wore atop the thick gambeson, her yelps changing to pained gasps, fading quieter with each blow as she waited.
"My Queen, she's unarmed!" exclaimed Missandei from where she was standing. Arya Stark had been unrelentingly insulting, and she was furious with how her queen had been treated, but this was far beyond what any kind of training among the free could countenance. The only time she'd heard of anything like this was for slave training, like that of the Unsullied, where the lives of the slaves were of no value... and she was quite certain that if Daenerys killed Arya Stark, none of them would be leaving the castle alive. She had seen the way the soldiers regarded Lady Winter, and there would be no excusing this as a training accident... nor would the Queen in the North allow excuses.
"Please stop, my queen! Daenerys!" called out Missandei, desperate to prevent the situation from getting even worse, starting forward, her hands raised to try and pull her queen back from continuing to attack the small figure crumpled on the ground, so she could go fetch a Maester. Arya had tormented her queen verbally, had hit her first; her Queen had just been pressed beyond the limits of her temper. This wasn't what the Daenerys she knew was!
Arya listened carefully to the staff whistling through the air, twitching and shuddering to hide her adjusting her position slightly to make sure each blow landed on properly angled armor. Once Missandei started forward, she waited through the next blow and then rolled quickly, planting her foot under her and launching herself up to grab the staff Daenerys was raising, rotating quickly and pushing hard up and over with one foot, whipping the Dragon Queen around an entire rotation before landing atop her, one of her feet on the ground and the other one knee driving into Dany's belly just hard enough to put the wind out of her and leave what the untrained would call a large but mild bruise, the staff held across her throat as Arya stared down at her and spoke, all traces of pain gone from her voice, a scowl on her face.
"Learn to stop yourself, or someone will most certainly stop you. Look inside yourself, Daenerys Targaryen; look at what you were just feeling, at what you're feeling now, at what you were feeling when you started attacking, at what you felt when you continued attacking what you thought was an unarmed, helpless person curled up on the ground. Commit them to memory, and pay attention to yourself. You must learn to recognize when you are going too far, and stop yourself early," commanded Lady Winter, waiting a moment for Dany's expression to start shifting, the look in her eyes to change before pulling the staff back and standing easily, keeping hold of the staff while holding her other hand out to the woman on the ground.
"Come on, get up and fetch your staff, dead girl," continued Arya, waiting patiently until Daenerys grasped the hand, pulling her to her feet in one easy motion, stepping back with a blindingly fast twirl of her training staff, passing it from one hand to the other.
"You were faking!" said Daenerys, her voice full of anger and shock, "You weren't helpless! You just... just played with me, let me think I had a chance!"
"Yes," said Arya casually, "If you fought Sansa, you'd make the same mistakes anyone with zero training would, and you'd be going to the Maesters; she's not good enough to do full contact training with a true novice safely; novices do the craziest things, and Sansa'd react as she's been trained. I'm not as good with a staff as a sword, but I am good enough to keep you from being injured."
"You insulted me!" exclaimed Daenerys, less stridently.
"Yes," came the calm reply, "And you were stupid enough to fall for it. You've met the Hound; you think people won't insult you on the battlefield? Won't try to make you feel what they want you to in the throne room, because they think it'll give them an advantage, make you predictable?"
"You taunted me," said Daenerys, regaining her breath and her composure both, "You goaded me. You wanted to enrage me."
"Yes. And then you attacked someone you thought you could get a lucky hit in against, you beat someone you thought helpless. You're right, I wasn't, but when you were doing it, you thought I was. And yet you beat me."
"You... whimpered in pain as I beat you," said Daenerys, horror edging into her voice as she recalled the breathy, pained sounds coming from a small figure curled up on the ground before her as she smashed the staff down again and again and again. That wasn't what she wanted to be! That wasn't killing an enemy in battle, or executing a traitor... that was a step towards what her brother had been. What her father had been... what the Mad King had been.
That was not a path she wanted to keep going down. Even if the small figure had been taunting her before, had been faking the helplessness during. That beating was not the way someone who would leave the world a better place than she found it would act.
That was not the way she wanted to act.
"Yes, I did," replied Arya casually. The pain hadn't bothered her, and between the extra armor and Dany having neither strength nor technique, she was probably not even bruised by it. The show seemed to have gotten through to the silverhead, at least, so it was time to push, "And you kept attacking, just as once you entered battle on the Rose Road, you kept attacking, even wagons full of food. Even when you thought you were beating me to death, you continued. Even when Missandei bid you to stop, you continued. Even though you should have known that you wouldn't be able to explain why you'd killed me here in Winterfell. Why?"
"I... don't know," replied Daenerys, shame in her voice, on her face. She hadn't planned on beating Arya over and over, hadn't decided on it, hadn't really thought about it, not really... and yet she had done it. Had kept doing it.
Hadn't recognized Missandei speaking.
"In the world, there have always been some warriors who lose themselves in the fight, to the exclusion of all else," lectured Arya, "Properly trained, they can be very dangerous on the battlefield, but they are often easy to kill by anyone and everyone except who they're attacking... or by anyone fast, skilled and patient enough to dodge or turn the first blows and exploit the opening that's almost certainly there. You ride a dragon in battle; you cannot afford to lose yourself, lest you start to burn friend and ally along with foe. You cannot afford to lose yourself on the ground, in court, lest you burn people without proper consideration of the consequences. You wear the face of a bear in battle, Daenerys; you are a berserker. You must learn to control that face, for just now, it controlled you. If you fight the Night King as you are, you will die, and Drogon will be raised as a wight alongside his brother."
"I am a Khaleesi and a Queen. I... did not think. I did not recognize you speaking, Missandei," said Daenerys introspectively as she started to really consider what had just been demonstrated.
"Once you feel you are on a battlefield, or under pressure, you attack indiscriminately; you ordered one hundred and sixty three masters crucified, once. The number was directly tied to the slave children who were crucified, so you had some judgment there, good or bad. You gave, however, not the slightest thought to, or judgment of, how the one hundred and sixty three Masters would be chosen. As a result, you ended up crucifying the slow, the stupid, and those who happened to live near the place where you gave the order. Your men didn't crucify your greatest enemies. Your men didn't pick out and kill the smartest, or the most vicious, or the most depraved, or those who proposed the crucifixion, or even those who had voted for the children's crucifixion. Enough of the past; now is a time for training! Tell me, do you hurt now?"
"A little," replied Daenerys stiffly. Lesson she needed or not, she wasn't going to give Arya the satisfaction.
"That is good! Every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better, as Syrio, and my own hurts, taught me. Believe me when I tell you that I know about killing to make a point, and for vengeance; ask anyone about what happened to the Freys. You made no point in Meereen but that you would lash out randomly... and that does not make your reign more stable. Politics is like fighting - if you let your enemy make you do what they want you to, you are a dead woman. Now, pick up your staff, and keep control of yourself. Again! Less like a crippled kitten, this time!"
Missandei considered what she had seen while she stood against the stone wall and watched as Arya Stark continued to goad and taunt her Queen while trading blows back and forth, constantly berating and correcting the silver-haired woman. Her Queen had done wonderful things, things no Master had ever considered; had freed slaves in not one but three cities, had given slaves a voice, had raised up herself and Grey Worm, had asked for her advice! Yet... her Queen had just honestly tried to kill what they had thought was a helpless Arya Stark in a blind rage... a berserk rage.
Perhaps this, too her Queen had felt this when she'd crucified the Masters, and then it was a force for good, for talking to the Masters in the only language they understood. She had not seen her Queen's attack on the Lannister army; had not seen when the Tarly men were burned; her Queen had bid her and Grey Worm stay behind, taking only Tyrion and the Dothraki... but now she thought to what she'd heard of that time and truly wondered if her Queen had been in a rage then.
And if she had, had that rage lasted from when she left the beach, moved the Dothraki army, attacked the enemy army, and remained even when she demanded the surviving nobility bend the knee? Grey Worm had not been there either, but she would talk to him. He and Qhono were getting along very well now, so perhaps he could get a recounting from the bloodrider directly. Arya Stark had made the point that her Queen had not exercised sufficient care in choosing which Masters to slay; while all Masters were evil, it was true that some were especially evil, and it would be better to kill those first. Had there been other times when her Queen could have made a better decision, but didn't?
"Again! Faster! Right now a pampered Northern girl of ten would put you down without even trying; you'll never get any respect even in the South, much less a real land like the free North if the best you can do is flail around helplessly and cry like a babe when you trip over yourself and land on your ass," came the call from Arya, tossing the training staff to Dany again and tapping the ground in front of her with her own.
Missandei focused her attention on her Queen's expression, and remembering the lessons she'd learned from the whips of the Masters, called out encouragingly, "You can do it, your Grace! Keep your mind only on yourself, not on her words, not your pain!"
************************
A somewhat subdued Daenerys climbed the stairs in the tower, keeping to the right as she'd been instructed, followed by Grey Worm, Missandei, and Qhono. She'd been told there was limited space, and - humiliatingly - that she was being included as a courtesy and to help translate after. She cut that train of thought off with a return to the stomach-wrenching memory of being 'stopped' by Arya; dwelling on the humiliation she felt was another wingbeat towards losing control.
The wind was brisk and cold on her face as she emerged onto the top of the crowded stone tower, a slight creaking above her drawing her attention to the strong wooden beams and ceiling above, which she knew held a ballista. To all sides it was open apart from a low railing. The view wasn't much compared to the Great Pyramid in Meereen, or to the view atop a dragon, but it was still quite impressive, if marred a little by the several crossbows mounted on some sort of swivel arrangement placed around the railing, as well as two tubes on the same sort of mount she didn't recognize, two ropes hanging down on one side and a complicated arrangement of ropes on the other, as she'd seen on her ships. There were some decorative plaques on the railing, adding color... no, those were house sigils!
Jon was already here, next to both his sisters, so she made her way over to stand by her lover. He still wasn't happy after the very uncomfortable conversation they'd had earlier that day, but he did give her a ghost of a smile. His sisters also gave a brief nod of greeting, both of them, and she had the uncomfortable feeling she owed Arya or Sansa for talking to Jon... and that she owed Arya for showing her something she'd been missing about herself, something that had almost, she thought, cost her Jon. May still have cost her Jon - he had been... incredibly unhappy about what she'd done with Randall and Dickon Tarly, the father and brother of his best friend, his brother by choice. She wasn't sure what would happen with them, now, between that and the fact that, as Tyrion had advised her, marrying him wouldn't do anything for the loyalty of the North or the Vale, not now.
Arya glanced around, then gave a complicated whistle, and a few of those present on the crowded platform started as a figure dressed in dark leather with a cloak flying up behind her dropped suddenly down on one of the ropes, swinging in over the railing and landing lightly on the wooden floor of the hoarding that encircled the tower. Arya let her smirk show as she took in the reactions to the short newcomer.
"All right, introductions. Everyone who just jumped at the Scorpion Bear swinging in is new. Everyone else is old. New people are Lord Commander Jamie Lannister of the Night's Watch, who will be my second for logistics and strategy. Brienne of Tarth, Lady Commander of my sister's Queensguard, who will be in overall command of the infantry. Grey Worm, your Unsullied will be under her command. Our Uncle by choice Sandor Clegane, who will be Brienne's second and command in the field. Grey Worm, commander of the Unsullied forces of Queen Daenerys, currently en-route from White Harbor on the horse caravan. Qhono, commander of the Dothraki horse archers, also en-route. Queen Daenerys is observing. For the old hands, we've got Lord Royce, in charge of all cavalry, who is, and remains, my second for tactical command. In battle, his orders override anyone else's except mine. Princess Stark, in charge of all archers. Lady Mormont the Scorpion Bear, in charge of all artillery. Skamund, under Lord Royce, in charge of all the Free Folk light cavalry, including the dogsled scorpions. Qhono, your Dothraki will fit in under Skamund's command."
Arya continued down the list until every person had been introduced, albeit briefly, including guests like Alleras, Patrek, and a handful of Essosi merchants who would carry the word back to their homes after seeing the army of the dead with their own eyes. She then gestured out at the vast fieldworks and cleared area outside. Even now the loggers had already come in with their last loads, and all hands were doing the final work on the fighting positions on and behind the ice and snow ramparts, which were reinforced internally with the branches too small for building with.
"All right, from the inside out! We've got the castle wall and Winter Town's wall, the moat around both, then the inner ring, or first ring, a hundred yards from the wall. Second ring is seventy five yards farther out. Those two are critical - they're full of people and food animals. Once the Night King's here, we've got only what we can keep alive, and we need to keep both our people, and our animals alive, or we starve to death in the winter. Three more rings after the second, all at fifty yard intervals. Princess Stark, go over ranges and the walkers, please."
Meera stepped into the center, looking around as Sansa had taught her, noting the sisters stopping Jon from interrupting, and spoke with confidence, "Ring three's the end of heavy war arrow range; that means that war shafts from the walls are only good for the fifty yards inside of ring three, and for very close support in ring two and one. From the towers, it depends on the tower, as usual. Four hundred yards is the limit of flight shaft range from the walls, that's seventy five yards past ring five, the outer ring. Properly knapped dragonglass is very, very sharp; even a tiny fragment as the head a flight shaft will take down a wight if it hits flesh at the end of its range. All massed archers will be using flight shafts unless ordered otherwise - that includes horse archers."
She looked around, seeing general nods on most, and interest on others - none of that was news to anyone here, or it shouldn't be. She continued steadily.
"Dragonglass, what Queen Daenerys has provided and what we have bought, will take down White Walkers if it hits them in the flesh, penetrates enough. Samwell Tarly stabbed an unarmored White Walker in the shoulderblade from behind; it had time to turn and scream before it slowly turned to ice and shattered. I watched one of the Children of the Forest use a dragonglass-headed spear and stab an armored White Walker in the gut with no effect at all; my own thrown spear took it in the neck and it turned to ice immediately, then shattered. Flight arrows will not penetrate any armor at all past the inner ring, and only thin leather or gambesons, or rotted armor, inside it! They won't penetrate bear or elk at long range, either, but the animal wights are often pretty rotten, so don't be surprised when some go down and others don't."
The Princess stepped back to let Lady Mormont claim the center and lecture.
"We've got three types of siege engines to use, of differing sizes and capabilities. Smallest are the scorpions; maximum range is four to five hundred yards, so any of the ones on the roofs can reach out past ring five with most of our ammunition, shorter with rocks. Ballista are bigger, good to about seven hundred yards, again shorter with rocks. Those two are on universal joints, and can be aimed in any direction easily; that's how we kill enemy dragons. The trebuchets are clumsy, but they can reach just past ring five with large stones or full barrels, and out to about a thousand yards with the lightweight fire or wildfire ammunition."
At a brief glance from Sansa, the Scorpion Bear continued, her tone softening only slightly, though her delivery was a bit stilted, "We thank the merchants who sold and the traders who delivered torsion springs, universal joints, dragonglass, wildfire, tar, and the other weapons and parts we need to fight the dead, as well as the pyromancers and the Maesters, and Queen Daenerys of Meereen for the dragonglass, and the House of Black and White for the Valyrian steel."
"You'll note we've cleared the snow until about eleven hundred yards past the wall," said Arya as she took back the lecture, "There are two purposes; the first is to mark range for the trebuchets, and the second is to make it harder for wights to sneak up on us. We don't know if they'll try sapping or not, but we know they don't need to breathe and can lay under the snow, possibly for centuries. It seems likely they can tunnel through snow easily enough, so we've denied them that for now. Each ring has two fire trenches on each side; for ring 3 and beyond, those will be lit only on central command. Ring two and closer can be lit by local defenders on their own judgment."
Her voice hardened as she continued, "I've just spoken with the wargs and my brother the Three-Eyed Raven. We have at least fifty and two hundred thousand wights bearing down on us; their outriders are already to our south, and can attack from any direction, though the outriders aren't a risk to our caravans, not yet. There's at least another fifty and a hundred thousand heading for White Harbor; they're likely to be hit at about the same time we are. Both groups have a few hundred wight giants and the same in mammoths scattered through the army. Night King's staying on his wight dragon, but he could be anywhere at any time; dragons are too fast, and he's too hard for the Three-Eyed Raven to track. Night King's army came in on a wave of cold, snow, and fog; be ready for low visibility, a few hundred yards or less, at any time."
There was some worried muttering from those present as they took in the numbers they were hearing; that was an incredible number. Arya didn't give them more than a few seconds before she cut it off; it wasn't productive, not now.
"The plan's the same. Our first and most important goal is to sucker the Night King and the wight dragon in close and hit them with the ballista and scorpions using wildfire, dragonglass backed plate cutters and the Death's Head, Wolf's Head, and Heartsbane Valyrian steel plate cutters. Be careful with the green shit, watch what's along the entire path, let's not burn ourselves up! Don't use it without my command or a good shot at a wight dragon or the Night King," said Arya, laughing internally about the Hound's mutter about even more fucking fire, which had been even funnier than Daenerys's expression on hearing about the anti-dragon weapons. She kept talking; everyone new needed to know, and everyone experienced needed a reminder.
"Second most important goal is to keep some of our capabilities in reserve; Night King's a greenseer, but the Three-Eyed Raven's been trying to block him. We're going to bait them in as often as we can, take down as many wights and especially White Walkers as we can, and teach them that attacking us in a headlong rush, like they did at Hardhome, is a losing tactic; we of the North and the Vale are too tough to chew easily! The Night King and the White Walkers use tools! They carry weapons, they wear armor, they bring giant chains underwater to drag dragons out of lakes. They will use tools against us! Wights carry weapons and shields, and some have thick hides or armor! Marksmen will take on the most dangerous of what gets through massed missile fire and the fieldworks."
Arya continued easily, "We're going to continue operating on watches, just like a ship's crew, as we have been. This is going to be a long siege, the dead don't rest, and we don't know how long we'll have daylight left for. I'll be directing the battle from up here; watch out, we may end up with fog or snow, that's what happened at Hardhome. Grey Worm, Qhono, Lord Commander, you're going to be having thousands of untrained soldiers show up soon - you three above all need to pay attention to how the veterans are doing everything, and make sure your people fall in line as soon as possible. Brienne, Uncle, you'll need to listen to your seconds and your troops. Anything seems strange, ask one of the rest of us first; the infantry's still rough around the edges, but they're solid at the core."
With a nod to Meera, Arya stepped back while giving a simple instruction, "Step into the center, away from the railing, then turn your attention outwards!"
Princess Stark pointed at the railing, where small wooden plaques with brightly painted sigils were spaced along the railing irregularly, with different colored hashmarks in between, always in the same pattern starting with each sigil.
"Calls for arrows will be made based on the location of the target; imagine lines from the center of Winterfell through the center of each camp; that's what the infantry and cavalry will use out on the field as a reference based on the signs we've marked out there. That, plus the rings, will be used in our signals on the horns and gongs to call for missile support, on the drums to command the infantry, and so on. Each location with missile weapons has the sigils marked relative to that positions; our Maesters and other mathematicians have worked themselves into the ground calculating these references. On these pillars, too, there are marks to represent the rings out to imaginary ring 20, just past maximum trebuchet range; they take some getting used to, but after you do, any archer or crewman can get accustomed to a new position very quickly."
"Training on the signals are in the library for anyone who's not getting them as part of on the job training. Qhono, Grey Worm, Missandei, you're with Lord Royce and Skamund today; pick up a horn and a small drum, you need to start learning signals as well as tactics. Queen Daenerys, Jon, you two and your dragons are with me for training. Lord Mallister, the man behind you will instruct you on fieldworks and construction. Guests, please exit immediately; I recommend the library for further learning. Everyone else, continue the exercises. Go!"
With that, Arya turned and hopped atop the railing, looped an around around the dangling rope and vanishing downward with a call of, "You're late, Jon!"
************************
Tyrion tucked his head in as he crossed the covered bridge to the library tower quickly, closing the outer door behind him before opening the inner door. The cold was... bracing, since he'd foregone extra clothing for just the short dash. The wind had been an unpleasant surprise, up above the level of the walls it was quite brisk, though with the recommendation to visit the library had come a page to guide him, so he felt it wise to accept.
Entering the library proper, he was greeted immediately by a soft voice.
"Lord Hand," said Lord Reed courteously, inclining his head only slightly.
Tyrion turned to look at the older man leaning casually against the wall, a dragonglass spear resting beside him and guards behind him... a pin very similar to his own on the short crannogman's chest, and nodded himself as he replied, "Lord Hand, what a surprise. Your Queen works very quickly, naming a Hand already."
"We have a full Small Council, already, containing both the normal members and those specific to these kingdoms, as well as plans for the succession. Maester Wolkan has just been appointed Grand Maester by our own Maesters," said Lord Reed softly as he took up his spear and walked, the butt tapping on the floor as he used it like a walking staff, "Come, walk with me. You'll need to advise your Queen on what lessons she should attend, after all... unless you can tell me that she's already had the education she needs to rule those kingdoms that she might conquer wisely?"
"Our... my Queen is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne!" proclaimed Tyrion in a low but intense voice as they strode past a group listening to Gilly reading from an ancient diary of one of the early Barrow Kings describing a tale of a long winter thousands of years ago; in particular, what they ate... and how they decided who didn't eat.
"As Keyholder Tormo likes to say, the Iron Throne is currently occupied by Cersei Baratheon, and in Westeros, our stories are filled with words like usurper," said Lord Reed, watching Tyrion's second twitch in a row carefully as he uttered what he knew was a word Daenerys used often, "And madman and blood right. The Keyholder prefers stories that are more plain, less open to interpretation; as do we, here in the North and the Vale, and the Twins. What the rest of the kingdoms prefer, well, that is not a matter for me unless they choose to make it so... by their own choice, not by my Queen's conquest."
"And that is a wonderful idea, yes, but every ruler needs to inspire a bit of fear, and my sister won't surrender the throne peacefully. You mentioned a Keyholder? I heard Lord Stannis was able to secure a loan from the Iron Bank before he sailed North; was your visit to the Iron Bank as fruitful as his?" questioned Tyrion with interest as they passed a slender four-link Maester-to-be with skin the color of teak and a goldenheart greatbow leaning next to him instructed a large group of scruffy but very intent young teens on the mathematics of calculating the flight of projectiles in high winds, including a method for very quick but rough approximation Tyrion thought was quite clever.
Tyrion took a second, longer look at the acolyte; that was a young woman, not a young man! Well, if she wanted to hide herself, that was her business, he supposed... though, he supposed, he might be able to use that little bit of information to learn some more from her. She surely wouldn't want the other Maesters to somehow find out they'd given four links to a girl!
"Oh, no, my Lord Hand, we didn't send anyone to Braavos," replied the Hand of Queen Sansa easily, "They send the Keyholder to us. If you have a matter of trade you need a loan for, I can arrange an introduction if you'd like, though I don't believe your Queen is likely to be considered very likely to keep to contracts and agreements after that business in Astapor. You reinstating slavery in Astapor and Yunkai on her behalf won't help, nor will her introduction of bond slavery in Meereen with one year contracts after having banned slavery."
"Ahh. That," said Tyrion.
"Here was are. Listen, Lord Hand; you'll find this educational," whispered Lord Reed as he led them both up to a group comprised mostly of a mix of Free Folk and merchants, along with a smattering of lords and ladies.
The teacher of this group was a portly man in the front in dark blue silks over his thick woolen outfit, wearing a slender bravo's blade in his belt across from a three foot stick with a dragonglass shard affixed to the tip on the other side. He was telling a story, his arms waving in grand gestures as he did so.
"And so, during this Choosing of the Sealord, there were three great contenders, but only two were seen as likely to win. One of those thought to have his rival killed, as is normal during the Choosing, but the cutthroats he sent could not do it. His rival was no bravo to be dueled, and the very failure of those cutthroats enhanced his rival at his own cost such that it was impossible for him to win. And so he thought to hire an assassin, a Faceless Man... but he knew he would not want to pay the price. So... what was he to do?" said the Braavosi merchant teaching about the governance and politics of his city, his arms spread wide.
"Challenge him!" exclaimed a woman of the Free Folk.
"No, his rival accepted no challenges; we do not require our leaders to fight duels, though many can and some do. What else?" replied the teacher.
"Give it up as a bad deal, wait for the next opportunity," said a Pentoshi merchant in the group.
"Yes, that is good! Alas, the Sealord of Braavos is the Sealord for life, and this man was both unwilling to chance waiting that long, and determined that he would be Sealord. So... what else?"
"Since he is unscrupulous, he could try bribes," said a Northern merchant.
"He is absolutely without scruple, though he had hidden that very well before. Alas for him, no bribe can win the Choosing, and only a great fool would think to try. Come, we have two Hands of Queens with us; surely you gentleman have some ideas!" said the Braavosi merchant, gesturing to the back, just as Lord Reed had made sure the Maesters overseeing all the lessons would pass on to those teaching it was all right, and indeed encouraged, to do.
Howland looked down at Tyrion, gesturing for his visitor to go first, "Come, Lord Hand; you've been Queen Daenerys's Hand in Essos. What are your thoughts on this riddle?"
"Well, let's see. He can't win, he won't bend the knee, he can't challenge, his cutthroats don't succeed, he can't bribe, and he won't pay the price for a Faceless Man. That leaves getting someone else to pay the price for a Faceless Man."
"Just so!" exclaimed the teacher, "He forged a message to a bravo in his rival's employ to duel the only son of one of a man uninterested in the Choosing, a man famous for his thirst for vengeance, but not for his wisdom. And, it must be said, a man whose greatest friend was bribed to ensure he would believe it was the rival who genuinely ordered it. And so the challenge was offered, the son foolishly accepted, as young men often do, and was killed. The grieving father went to the House of Black and White, and offered the price for the name of the leading contender. The next week, there was a meeting between the contenders to speak together was scheduled; what do you all think happened?"
He waited for a moment, letting the group talk among themselves for a moment, then leaned forward, pantomining as he explained.
"They were all three candidates there by the Moon Pools, each with their guards around them. First the leading contender spoke, the one whose name had been given to the Faceless Men because of false information. When the unscrupulous contender who had set up the situation started to speak, though, a dart suddenly appeared in his tongue and he collapsed immediately, shivering and spasming and frothing at the mouth."
With a grim look, he continued, "None could see from whence the dart had come, nor knew quite what had happened until, from the streets around the Moon Pools, fully three hooded Faceless Men, full priests, appeared; outside their temple, they are almost always alone, or in the company of an acolyte or novice. The priests told the tale of how this man had tried to cheat the Many-Faced God of the required price; for it is never gold alone, but sacrifice the Many-Faced God demands. Death had been promised, a price was paid, but Death will not be cheated. This man had committed blasphemy by seeking to avoid the price, and that the gods, and their priests, will not abide, so his name and his life was given to Death instead. Thus is the fate of those who try to cheat Death."
A minute later, Lord Reed led Lord Lannister onwards, satisfied that what his Queen and kingdoms required the Targaryen's Hand to know was now known. It was up to Tyrion to ensure his Queen knew of both the danger of Faceless Men, and the danger of trying to cheat them. At least, once he figured out there was an entire House of Black and White in Westeros now... and one that would be available to any man or woman willing to pay the price, should Daenerys continue giving people reasons for just vengeance. Next, he had to give a reference to their strong military naval alliance with the greatest naval power in the world... as opposed, say, to the Southron alliances with the various leaders of the Ironborn.
Dragons were not the only great power available, and those who liked to play the game of thrones should be properly wary, whether they played on their own behalf, on another's, or using others as game pieces. This was not a game for two, indeed, Howland thought.
************************
All those with Stark blood were gathered in Bran's room, the sisters on either side of Jon, while Bran sat by the small fire.
"Jon, you are our brother," said Sansa, "And nothing in the past can change that."
"And I've already told you what'll happen to you if you try to change that yourself, idiot," continued Arya, making the sign for me.
"What's going on with you two? What's with you being so serious? God, Sansa, you're the Queen, and you didn't even tell me. Arya, you've got all this about Lady Winter going on, neither of you told me anything," replied Jon, though at Arya's glare he corrected himself, "All right, no, I didn't send a raven back, and I was gone. But... don't you two trust me anymore?"
"Jon, you were with a woman who wants to conquer our home, who employs the Spider," said Arya, her expression softening, "He was not only reading our ravens, but sharing them with Tyrion. You were only four hundred miles from King's Landing; she could have intercepted the ravens as well. Bran would have told us afterwards, but she'd have already known it. So it's not that we don't trust you in any ways, it's that you weren't in a trustworthy place... and you've never learned to judge who to trust and who not to, even before the Red Woman raised you from the dead. And you're you; I love you, but you've never learned when to act, when to speak, and when to neither act nor speak."
"And you have?" asked Jon, remembering his wolf-blooded little sister, and considering just what kind of woman she'd grown into. He'd heard a little of where she'd been, of what she was... but he still had a hard time coming to grips with everything having changed under him, changed around him.
"I have," came Arya's calm and utterly confident reply.
"I've been a captive before, Jon," said Sansa, "You weren't being mistreated, we knew, but how worried you were, how scared you were? That we didn't know. That's part of why we came out to meet you, why Arya offered to rescue you, even though you came in riding on a dragon. Daenerys had a lot of experience on you, and we still don't have any good way to tell if Rhaegal is your dragon, hers, or neither."
"What do you mean? Of course he's hers; she just asked him to let me ride. I'm not a Targaryen, I can't have a dragon," said Jon irritably.
"But you can, because you are," said the Three-Eyed Raven flatly, "You're the heir to the Iron Throne."
The small pillow Arya threw fell from Bran's face to his lap while Arya huffed, "Bran! Would it kill you to try to ease Jon into it? And, again, he's not the heir."
"No."
Rolling her eyes at Jon's bewildered expression, Sansa spoke, "Since Bran is incapable of keeping his mouth shut when he gets an idea into his head, let's go over this. You are our brother. Nothing changes that. You share our blood. Nothing changes that, either. You were born to a married Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen; we don't know her true feelings on the matter, and never will. Our father, your father, took you in and lied to everyone to protect your life, to honor a vow made on Lyanna's deathbed, your birthing bed, to protect you. You are, however, not the heir to the Iron Throne any more than Daenerys is; the Targaryens were deposed before you were even born. Unless you have a burning desire to take the Iron Throne?"
"Gods, no! But... father, Ned, lied? I'm not his son?"
Arya thwacked him on the back of the head, "Don't be an idiot. He's your father; the one who raised you, who taught you, whose honor you share. We're your sisters. Bran's your brother. All the rest of our family is your family, whether you like it or not, from our nephew Little Sam to Uncle Sandor. Now, are you sure you don't want the Iron Throne?"
"Of course I'm sure! I didn't even want the Northern throne."
"We can tell," said Sansa dryly, "You gave it up so quickly, and for so little reason. She was already providing the dragonglass we needed, even without your bending the knee. She'd just seen the army of the dead, lost one of her dragons, who she calls her children. You knew that! She gave you her word that she was going to destroy the Night King with you, together, before you pledged yourself to her. Before you tried, and failed, to bend the knee. You had already gotten an alliance with her! There was less to gain at that time, in that place, than at any time since you left for Dragonstone. Gods, Jon, I'm proud you refused to bend the knee so many times before that, I'm glad you secured an alliance, but that was stupid," lectured Sansa, her voice moving through harsh tones to sisterly ones, ending in utter exasperation.
"She saved me," said Jon weakly, "She was a good woman, a good queen... or I thought she was, before I heard..."
Arya grabbed his shoulder, squeezing tight, "She opened up a gap in the Night King's forces, but if the Red Woman hadn't paid for bringing you back, if you'd been a normal man, you'd have died again, Jon. You'd never have survived being immersed in freezing water. If Uncle Benjen hadn't found you, given you his horse, you'd have been killed again. No ruler can be a good person like you're thinking, not without someone like me to inspire fear in those who respond to nothing else, and to kill those who don't fear, either, like Roose Bolton was for our father. She might be good enough, she might not; we'll have to see, but she's still living in stories, like Sansa used to."
Arya released Jon's shoulder to give Sansa a playful shove, ducking away from the retaliatory swipe the taller sister gave over Jon's head as he squawked, "Hey! I'm right here."
"And?" asked both sisters simultaneously.
"And..." said Jon with a smile, which quickly faded into puzzlement, "I was alone with Dany when I woke up. How do you know what she said? How do you know all this?"
"I have visions," said Bran flatly, then with a flicker of a grin on his lips, continued, "I told you that already."
"You... had a vision of me and Dany?"
"Visions," said Bran, "Many visions."
"Which we will not be going into now, thank you very much," interrupted Sansa archly, "I've heard quite enough about you and Dany."
"What?"
"You think her neck is beautiful, do you?" asked Arya, raising her eyebrows and elbowing him as he flushed.
"I... she's my Aunt?"
"Yes, she's your Aunt," replied Sansa repressively, "Which, as long as you keep all the details to yourself, isn't that much of a problem. She's Targaryen, so even if you were her brother, that's not unexpected, though that would be a serious problem. Our own ancestors Serena and Sansa Stark married their half-uncles Edric and Jonnel. I was almost married off to our first cousin Robin Arryn. Without the Faith Militant, if Daenerys takes the Iron Throne and holds it strongly, the Faith of the Seven is unlikely to object; if she doesn't take the throne, or her rule is contested within the South, your having been bedding her will be a problem. Don't go South, and it won't matter much, not with our family's support."
"I'm... thinking about things. I didn't think she'd... I didn't think she was like that. You spied on me, Bran?"
"I can see everyone, everywhere. Everyone except the Night King; he knows how to block me."
"Don't go off against everyone's advice and expect us not to check on our brother, Jon," chided Sansa, "You have made idiotic choices, but we love you all the same, and want to see you safe. Other than making you a greater target for Cersei and anyone else trying to get rid of potential contenders for the throne, the other part of your heritage means nothing. You have no lands, no armies, no real political power, and you're only borrowing your dragon. Not everyone sees it that way, but if you stay with Daenerys, you won't be too vulnerable. You'll also always have a place here, Jon, whenever you want. You're our brother, and you're more our father's son than any of the rest of us... his good qualities and his flaws both."
"What do you mean, vulnerable? And stay with Daenerys? You know she burned Sam's family alive; she burned the food from the Reach, too! All she told me was that she had less enemies. I tried to stay out of it, but she asked me what to do, and I told her that if she melted castles and burned cities, she was just more of the same, not different."
"I've lived in Harrenhal, Jon, inside the melted castle," said Arya quietly, "Her ancestors did that, not her. They caused war after war, one after the other... just like so many kings before them. Our ancestors, too, fought wars - not just defended their people but also attacked and conquered other people, the Barrow Kings, the Marsh Kings, the Red Kings, and many others. Grandfather didn't have to, Father didn't have to, we don't have to; and we're lucky for it. Sansa has the skills and a well trusted, respected face; she's our mother's daughter, and our father's, ruling wisely and because the highborn want her to and the smallfolk know they're well cared for."
With a self-satisfied smirk, Arya continued, "I'm the one who talks to the smallfolk, and who makes sure anyone who thinks they can take the throne from Sansa knows I'll kill them if they try. I don't have to do much anymore; everyone knows I gave the gift to the Freys. Daenerys is trying to claim the throne by right of conquest, whatever she says; you knew that when you swore yourself to her, Jon. It's not like she wasn't demanding you bend the knee. Her burning food, she talked to you about that? Yes, good. She's still not sure she won't lose herself again? Good; she shouldn't be sure, yet. I'll work on her control of herself, if she shows up to her lessons. And if not, well, guests don't stay forever."
"You're going to teach someone self-control? You?" asked Jon incredulously, remembering what she'd gotten up to as a child, just as he'd done for years when he tried to recall Arya, to hope she was still alive.
Arya made a fist and thumped him on the arm hard enough he winced, "Shut up!"
"That's the self-control you'll be teaching her? How to hit people that talk to her?" asked Sansa archly, making the sign for jape, "I know you spent a long time with Uncle Sandor; perhaps you need lessons in how to behave in civilized company. Or any company, really."
"Well, not yet; she'd only get herself in trouble with it until she learns to fight properly," replied Arya somberly, "But she needs to learn the control she was never taught, and learn quickly; if she loses control and kills people unjustly here in any of Sansa's lands, I'll give her the gift, just as any other criminal who justly deserves death."
"What? If she loses control? You can't just kill her for losing control!" exclaimed Jon, sitting straight as he responded instinctively, "I won't have people killed for accidents!"
"She can and she will, Jon. I am the Queen in the North, and my duty is to protect my people first, and my allies second," said Sansa sternly, her eyes narrowing, "She is not a child. She has declared herself a Queen, and come here with an army and untrained dragons, accepting guest right. If she breaks guest right, if she kills my people in a fit of temper, or a rage, or battle blindness, or whatever the Maesters call it, then she has committed a capital crime, a trial will be held, and she will be held accountable for her actions and those of her dragons. The Justice in the North will carry out the sentence to protect our people, just as Father would have protected his people."
Arya watched Jon deflate, waited for him to take in Sansa's words, to realize that they were quite serious about this. They were not girls to be sheltered, not Sansa, not herself, and not Daenerys either. Death was always serious, and should the Dragon Queen take it upon herself, or her dragons take it upon themselves to bring death to those sworn to Sansa, then they would be judged, and sentenced. Wars had started for far less than that; a trial and execution, or an assassination would be far less destructive than a war, particularly a winter war.
"This isn't a game, Jon," said Arya quietly, her tone intense, "Just because Melisandre brought you back, don't think that others will come back. Death is, almost always, final, and is always both serious and sacred. Death comes to all in its time, be it soon or late, but it is not for her to hasten our people's deaths. She wants to be a Queen; she needs to learn that it's not like in the stories, that her actions have consequences, both for others and for her, personally."
Sansa spoke, equally intense, "She can incite wars, or rebellions, with her words, her actions, even with her expression or how she treats people. She needs to learn politics; she's less subtle than you, and just as aware of people's feelings as Bran."
Jon responded with little more than a grimace and a sigh, "She's... very proud. Gods, why is nothing like it should be? Before we all left Winterfell, I thought I'd go on to an honorable life in the Night's Watch, guarding against wildlings. Celebrate when I heard the rest of you got married, had children and grandchildren. Maybe come back to Winterfell sometimes, like Uncle Benjen did. I didn't believe White Walkers existed. But now, nothing's certain, except the Night King coming. That's what matters!"
"That's what matters most," said Bran flatly, "But it's not the only thing that matters. I had a hard time with that, too."
"Our family matters, Jon. You matter. Arya matters. Bran and Meera matter, Samwell and Kitty and all the rest matter. Our lords and ladies matter, our allies matter, our smallfolk matter. They matter now, they'll matter when we're under siege, they'll matter during the winter, and in the spring after," said Sansa quietly.
"There's never only one thing that matters, Jon. That's like thinking only the infantry advancing on your front matters, not the cavalry charging at your flanks, not the skirmishers cutting your supply lines, not the muddy water in your army's tents spreading disease, not the conditions of the fields feeding your soldiers," continued Arya.
"Not the other enemy who won't fight with you, who will attack where you are weak, when you are distracted. Who will say they're coming to help, and send troops only to turn on you at the victory feast... or the wedding," said Sansa, then squeezed his arm, "Arya and I and the rest of our family will handle the other enemies; that's what we're trained for. You concentrate on teaching Rhaegal to burn only the dead, to fight the wight dragon, and you decide what you want to do, where you want to be when the Night King is truly dead."
Arya looked up at her brother fondly, lightening the tone, "Jon, if you don't want to be King, you should renounce your claim publicly; you don't have to say anything about being trueborn one way or the other, but you might as well tell people you were born to Lyanna of Rhaegar. You're riding a dragon, so you might as well admit to having Targaryen blood in addition to Stark blood. It doesn't actually follow - your mother could easily been a purebred Lysene whore of Valyrian bloodlines, and the blood may or may not actually be truly required any more than it is to train dogs or direwolves."
With a smirk, Arya continued, "If you want to get cut in on the betting first, I can do that, too. I know a man who knows a man."
"Betting? What betting?"
With a roll of her eyes, Sansa answered impishly, "You're the son of a great and still-revered Lord of famously strict honor, thought a bastard with an unknown mother; you don't think people have been speculating on who she was to tempt our father? Then you came flying in on a dragon right in front of everyone. What did you expect people to do, ignore it entirely?"
************************
As the sun peeked over the horizon to illuminate the short day to come, Arya jogged over the sliding bridge across the inner moat onto the area reserved for the dragons, a line of seven huge puppies running along behind her in a set of traces, a small sled piled with rope and cloth behind them. She saw the Dragon Queen for the second time that morning, having finished another temper and staff training session with her earlier. There was still discomfort between them, but at least they seemed ready for dragon training.
"Halt! Sit!," she commanded the dogs, pushing one back down then giving them all a quick head-rub as they obeyed properly, giving the dragons a good example to follow, then greeted the others, "Jon, you're finally up! Daenerys, stretch some more; you'll be stiff, otherwise. Drogon, Rhaegal, are you two ready for today? Good! I've got repaired harnesses and fresh targets you can tow for the marksman later while you practice dodging in the air; the tow rope's a little longer, two hundred yards. But first, a test!"
With that, she pulled out a silver horn with a distinctive, carrying sound they'd been using only for the dragons and blew a set of notes and pointed at Jon.
"Umber, roaring giant with silver chains on flame-red," said Jon immediately, then thought for a moment, "Northeast?"
"Correct; southeast of Royce, northwest of Mormont," said Arya, blowing another quick tune on the horn before pointing at Daenerys.
"Reed... a white lion on green, southeast," said Daenerys, much less certain about the sigil than about the direction. She'd been drilling constantly on the sigils and the camps, since that was how Jon's sister had apparently decided to arrange the signals and the commands and the signs. It was easy enough for those who had grown up learning the houses of the North and the Vale, like Jon, but she'd never been taught any of that.
"Right and wrong; Reed, a black lizard-lion on gray-green, southeast. They're a few camps southwest of Mollen and several northeast of Flint." replied Arya, stopping as her head snapped around instantly just as a second long, steady horn note followed the one that had just ended... and then a third sounded. She held up her hand, listening intently to the faint beats of the outer watchtower's drums, which even she wouldn't have been able to make out inside the castle, then started speaking even as the drumbeats from the inner watchtower ring started relaying the message inwards. Somehow the Night King had gone much faster than she'd anticipated; they were out of time.
"Wargs just found the army of the dead; they must have been running under the fog since yesterday's blizzard; they're moving fast, probably hit the outer watchtower line in two hours. Get the harnesses on Drogon and Rhaegal and get in the air, close patrol; stay inside the second ring; you can't see the Night King if he's above us in the clouds, and he or White Walkers could be hidden under the snow or in the trees out there already. Listen for the signals; we'll try to repeat them from the direction you're needed. Remember, have the dragons breathe fire into the air before approaching the defenses, so they can see you're friendly! Go!"
She shoved the rope harnesses for the dragonriders off the sled, moving quickly away from the dragonriders as they started readying the dragons for combat and commanding the dogs to follow. She jogged back to the castle, shouting commands as she started over the drawbridge into the castle itself.
"Messengers! Second watch archers and engine crews, battle positions, look to the skies! Third watch archers and engine crews, reserve positions, prepare to relieve! Kitchens to send food out! Guards, close the castle up and prepare for wight dragon! Auxiliaries, sweep every hall and room, check for more surprises! Siege engine crews and archers check your targets carefully - friendly dragons are on patrol! Remember, red fire good, blue fire bad! Cavalry, run a patrol of the cleared zone, check the moats and trenches! Infantry, equipment check, then eat and sleep while you can! Go! The Night King's lost his patience with us!"
Behind her the drawbridge came up, the portcullises down, the great doors closed, four inch thick steel bars slotting deep into stone to reinforce them and bar them shut. Dozens of workers raced in to shove thin, wide bronze plates holding the giant stacks of ice blocks across the carefully maintained icy ground to fully cover inner and outer doors with thick ice, children pouring nearly-freezing water down to bind them solidly in place; if the Maesters were right and the White Walkers shattered weapons by making them too cold, like cheap iron in the lands of always winter, the ice might last longer than either doors or portcullises, and it wouldn't hurt against giants or mammoths or dragons, eithers - they'd be getting in and out by rigging and ropes, now.
The castle and camps came to purposeful life as final preparations were made; the dead were upon them, and they would hold a quarter million or more of them back, or they would die, for the army of the dead was upon them.
************************
"You are late, boy," said Arya flatly in the small training yard, her back to the entering Dragon Queen, training armor on over her normal outfit, her cloak hanging on the wall. Missandei followed Daenerys in. Arya had arranged for the first basic training scenarios in how to fight the dead to be held at this time, so she knew Grey Worm and the Dothraki were learning alongside Brienne and the Hound. There weren't any other guards around; this area, the same strange place in the castle she'd first seen her mummer's troupe perform, had been kept free in the gloomy pre-dawn, though a nearly full moon was riding high, illuminating the fresh, uncleared snow on the ground in ghostly white.
"I'm a Queen," exclaimed Daenerys. A boy? She was anything but a man or a boy!
"Here, you should be a staff, nothing more," said Arya as she turned around gracefully to look at the silverhead and her advisor, one lightly padded staff in each hand, nodding to a set of training armor on a table by the entrance, "Tomorrow you will be on time. First, the equipment - if you think you'll be able to learn four simple moves today, then go put on the training armor, and we can train after you're ready."
Daenerys narrowed her eyes as she snatched the armor off the table, sliding it on awkwardly as Missandei moved to help her, before going to stand in the small gap where the two round towers met once she'd done her best; this was different than the Unsullied armor. Once it was on, Arya approached, hands yanking the armor around a bit, settling it; it wasn't very dignified, but Daenerys could feel the armor fitting better after, no longer chafing up against her armpit.
The Queen took one of the staves, then watched as Arya adjusted her grip on the staff twice before precisely but mechanically performing a simple overhead strike, then a two-handed horizontal block, then a horizontal strike, then a two-handed vertical block, returning to the same guard between each.
Arya readjusted her stance slightly with a slight frown, then repeated the actions again, nodding to herself for her visitors to see. She had to make sure they thought she wasn't very good with a staff for now, and she had to goad Dany into a rage to see if what she suspected was, in fact, true. She thought that Maester Luwin would have approved of her experiment, at least in how it would prove or disprove her idea, her hypothesis, as the Maesters call it. She spoke, her voice hard, condescending.
"You may have wanted to fight my sister, but she's had months of training with Chella of the Black Ears, one of the best warriors with spear and staff I've ever seen... but she's busy trying to keep everyone warm and fed for the rest of the winter, so she's got no time for you. And since you're totally untrained, I'm sure I'm a better match for you anyway. Now, take a stance like this, sideface towards me, staff held out like this, if you're not just another soft foreign lady."
"I am a Khaleesi of the Dothraki," snapped Daenerys, glaring at the one insulting her, setting her feet as Arya had shown, "I have lost count of the assassins who have tried to kill me, I have faced off against the Khals at Vaes Dothrak, and I walked away when they did not. I have faced the Lannisters on the field of battle and won!"
Arya rolled her eyes, striding forward and leaning down to adjust Dany's legs, then her arms, and after a moment of looking, the angle of the staff and precisely where her hands were gripping, how far apart they were, even the angle of her back and head. Stepping back, Arya repeated the same motions.
"Four moves to start, " said Arya, "Strike from above. Block that strike. Strike from the side. Block that strike. If it'll help, I'll go put on a barrel, put some wheat in my hair - then maybe you'll get in the right frame of mind, Khaleesi. Or maybe you'd like it if the staff were on fire, since you're the Unburnt? No cheating with magic for you here - here, you work for what you get, there's no free ride. You're even starting with a two-handed weapon to make it easier, not a real weapon like my sword! Now, do as I do!"
"I came here to save you from the Night King, and you've been insulting me at every turn," exclaimed Dany sharply, repeating the attacks and blocks, "I'm not a swordfighter, but I can use a simple stick!"
"Obviously not. Too weak, too slow; worthless without a dragon, just another Lady. Return to the same stance; your staff's too close to your body. Again!"
"I am not worthless, I am the Queen!"
"You're not the Queen here; you're just another guest. Straight up and straight down! This isn't some fancy Meereenese dance, this is staffwork! Again!"
Daenerys repeated the set of moves a dozen times, each set coming with another insult, another correction, then another dozen repetitions, as she grew angrier, then yet another dozen without a single break, without one kind word, without a shred of respect!
"Your staff's too close again; perhaps if you'd keep your mind on your lessons you'd actually improve. Pay attention!" taunted Arya in a low growl, "Or is that something you're as incapable of as Viserys was?"
"I am not my brother," replied Dany angrily, going through the same motions again, padded staffs thwacking each other with muted sounds, "Maybe I should be learning from someone better!"
"Oh? You want to take my sister - a real Queen's - time? Or are you thinking of playing around with my brother, hmm, indulging yourself at his expense? Fine. Attack me - put me on the ground, if you can, and then you can go find yourself a better teacher - you can find one who'll coddle you like a helpless child, since you can't handle my teaching," snarled Arya, seeing Dany's temper was at the breaking point. Now to find out if she was right.
Daenerys struck at Arya with a sideswipe, instead of leading with the overhand strike as each of the sets had been; the block Arya performed was the one she'd been doing the entire time, but faster and much, much stronger; she could easily feel the backlash from the clash through her gloves; recovering, she attacked again. The girl wanted to be put on the ground? She'd do just that!
Arya blocked the overhand strike, hard and fast, using exactly the same block she'd shown the Dragon Queen, then struck with a sideswipe of her own at the opening the novice had left, hitting Daenerys in the training armor over her ribs, but not hard enough to knock her down.
"You should go train with the children; I've seen small girls stronger than you! You're nothing by yourself, without your armies, your dragons... without my brother, you don't have a single kingdom here," said Arya sharply as she advanced, striking with that same sideswipe and hitting Daenerys in the side again, then again using the same attack as the two staffs met when the older woman blocked, but not properly; Arya pulled her staff back rather than let it slide along Dany's poorly angled block towards her hands, then brought her staff back to the simple guard she'd been using.
"I am not nothing!" spat Daenerys as she struck again, harder and faster, her frustration growing; her side was starting to hurt where Arya had struck her, she hadn't slept well, and the girl was not only beating on her, but also bringing up every frustration she'd had.
Arya blocked with the same moves again, taking a step back as she returned an overhead strike, retreating again as Dany attacked again. Were this any normal training, she'd have called a stop long before... of course, were this any normal training, she'd have had quite a bit of preparation on how to move, how to fall, how to strike and parry before being ready for full contact training like this. Unless she were a Faceless Man novice who'd killed the wrong person. This, however, was mostly training of a different sort entirely, and it was proceeding as it must.
"Here and now, you're nothing," growled Arya, starting an alternating pattern of overhead and side attacks, just a little faster than she'd been doing, fast enough to keep Daenerys from launching an attack of her own, standing her ground as she continued.
"You're nothing but a little girl with a stick you've never learned to use properly," continued the Stark as she broke the pattern, delivering a second horizontal attack in a row while Daenerys kept to the pattern and sustained a smack to her side, painful and bruising even through the training armor, "Go on, little girl! Show me what's inside that soft girl I see!"
Arya shifted around, putting the wall she'd backed towards behind Daenerys and the maximum amount of space behind her, then held her ground as Dany attacked, stronger and with less control. The Queen's blows weren't nearly as strong as Sansa's were now, though they were a little stronger than her sister had been at the start of the training, before she built up her muscles and learned to make use of her entire body; that meant the silverhead was somewhat stronger than Sansa had been, since she had less leverage.
Twice when the other woman started slowing down, Arya landed a blow - once to the arm with an overhead strike, once to the thigh with a side attack, always with her right hand leading, as she'd done this entire time. Then, she saw the shift in Daenerys and started retreating each time Dany attacked harder or faster or with less restraint.
The divot in the frozen ground she'd made earlier with boiling water and a shovel was behind her as she backed up in the face of a furious Dragon Queen's clumsy attacks; five steps, four, three... and then Arya tried to put in an attack between Dany's, just slow enough that her staff was out of position and Dany hit her in the side even as Arya broke the pattern, striking with her left hand leading at Dany in a sideways blow even as she shifted her body to take the brutal overhead strike from Daenerys as a glancing blow on her armored arm, stepping back and tripping on the ground, falling as Daenerys continued attacking.
Arya grunted as she blocked the wild attacks three times, then loosened her grip on her staff enough that it was knocked out of her right hand the next time; she let out a pained, high-pitched yelp, then another as her staff was knocked entirely out of her hands and out of the way. She rolled over onto her sides and put her arms up over her head, taking the continued hits on the thick armor she had on even under the training armor, metal plates under the leather she wore atop the thick gambeson, her yelps changing to pained gasps, fading quieter with each blow as she waited.
"My Queen, she's unarmed!" exclaimed Missandei from where she was standing. Arya Stark had been unrelentingly insulting, and she was furious with how her queen had been treated, but this was far beyond what any kind of training among the free could countenance. The only time she'd heard of anything like this was for slave training, like that of the Unsullied, where the lives of the slaves were of no value... and she was quite certain that if Daenerys killed Arya Stark, none of them would be leaving the castle alive. She had seen the way the soldiers regarded Lady Winter, and there would be no excusing this as a training accident... nor would the Queen in the North allow excuses.
"Please stop, my queen! Daenerys!" called out Missandei, desperate to prevent the situation from getting even worse, starting forward, her hands raised to try and pull her queen back from continuing to attack the small figure crumpled on the ground, so she could go fetch a Maester. Arya had tormented her queen verbally, had hit her first; her Queen had just been pressed beyond the limits of her temper. This wasn't what the Daenerys she knew was!
Arya listened carefully to the staff whistling through the air, twitching and shuddering to hide her adjusting her position slightly to make sure each blow landed on properly angled armor. Once Missandei started forward, she waited through the next blow and then rolled quickly, planting her foot under her and launching herself up to grab the staff Daenerys was raising, rotating quickly and pushing hard up and over with one foot, whipping the Dragon Queen around an entire rotation before landing atop her, one of her feet on the ground and the other one knee driving into Dany's belly just hard enough to put the wind out of her and leave what the untrained would call a large but mild bruise, the staff held across her throat as Arya stared down at her and spoke, all traces of pain gone from her voice, a scowl on her face.
"Learn to stop yourself, or someone will most certainly stop you. Look inside yourself, Daenerys Targaryen; look at what you were just feeling, at what you're feeling now, at what you were feeling when you started attacking, at what you felt when you continued attacking what you thought was an unarmed, helpless person curled up on the ground. Commit them to memory, and pay attention to yourself. You must learn to recognize when you are going too far, and stop yourself early," commanded Lady Winter, waiting a moment for Dany's expression to start shifting, the look in her eyes to change before pulling the staff back and standing easily, keeping hold of the staff while holding her other hand out to the woman on the ground.
"Come on, get up and fetch your staff, dead girl," continued Arya, waiting patiently until Daenerys grasped the hand, pulling her to her feet in one easy motion, stepping back with a blindingly fast twirl of her training staff, passing it from one hand to the other.
"You were faking!" said Daenerys, her voice full of anger and shock, "You weren't helpless! You just... just played with me, let me think I had a chance!"
"Yes," said Arya casually, "If you fought Sansa, you'd make the same mistakes anyone with zero training would, and you'd be going to the Maesters; she's not good enough to do full contact training with a true novice safely; novices do the craziest things, and Sansa'd react as she's been trained. I'm not as good with a staff as a sword, but I am good enough to keep you from being injured."
"You insulted me!" exclaimed Daenerys, less stridently.
"Yes," came the calm reply, "And you were stupid enough to fall for it. You've met the Hound; you think people won't insult you on the battlefield? Won't try to make you feel what they want you to in the throne room, because they think it'll give them an advantage, make you predictable?"
"You taunted me," said Daenerys, regaining her breath and her composure both, "You goaded me. You wanted to enrage me."
"Yes. And then you attacked someone you thought you could get a lucky hit in against, you beat someone you thought helpless. You're right, I wasn't, but when you were doing it, you thought I was. And yet you beat me."
"You... whimpered in pain as I beat you," said Daenerys, horror edging into her voice as she recalled the breathy, pained sounds coming from a small figure curled up on the ground before her as she smashed the staff down again and again and again. That wasn't what she wanted to be! That wasn't killing an enemy in battle, or executing a traitor... that was a step towards what her brother had been. What her father had been... what the Mad King had been.
That was not a path she wanted to keep going down. Even if the small figure had been taunting her before, had been faking the helplessness during. That beating was not the way someone who would leave the world a better place than she found it would act.
That was not the way she wanted to act.
"Yes, I did," replied Arya casually. The pain hadn't bothered her, and between the extra armor and Dany having neither strength nor technique, she was probably not even bruised by it. The show seemed to have gotten through to the silverhead, at least, so it was time to push, "And you kept attacking, just as once you entered battle on the Rose Road, you kept attacking, even wagons full of food. Even when you thought you were beating me to death, you continued. Even when Missandei bid you to stop, you continued. Even though you should have known that you wouldn't be able to explain why you'd killed me here in Winterfell. Why?"
"I... don't know," replied Daenerys, shame in her voice, on her face. She hadn't planned on beating Arya over and over, hadn't decided on it, hadn't really thought about it, not really... and yet she had done it. Had kept doing it.
Hadn't recognized Missandei speaking.
"In the world, there have always been some warriors who lose themselves in the fight, to the exclusion of all else," lectured Arya, "Properly trained, they can be very dangerous on the battlefield, but they are often easy to kill by anyone and everyone except who they're attacking... or by anyone fast, skilled and patient enough to dodge or turn the first blows and exploit the opening that's almost certainly there. You ride a dragon in battle; you cannot afford to lose yourself, lest you start to burn friend and ally along with foe. You cannot afford to lose yourself on the ground, in court, lest you burn people without proper consideration of the consequences. You wear the face of a bear in battle, Daenerys; you are a berserker. You must learn to control that face, for just now, it controlled you. If you fight the Night King as you are, you will die, and Drogon will be raised as a wight alongside his brother."
"I am a Khaleesi and a Queen. I... did not think. I did not recognize you speaking, Missandei," said Daenerys introspectively as she started to really consider what had just been demonstrated.
"Once you feel you are on a battlefield, or under pressure, you attack indiscriminately; you ordered one hundred and sixty three masters crucified, once. The number was directly tied to the slave children who were crucified, so you had some judgment there, good or bad. You gave, however, not the slightest thought to, or judgment of, how the one hundred and sixty three Masters would be chosen. As a result, you ended up crucifying the slow, the stupid, and those who happened to live near the place where you gave the order. Your men didn't crucify your greatest enemies. Your men didn't pick out and kill the smartest, or the most vicious, or the most depraved, or those who proposed the crucifixion, or even those who had voted for the children's crucifixion. Enough of the past; now is a time for training! Tell me, do you hurt now?"
"A little," replied Daenerys stiffly. Lesson she needed or not, she wasn't going to give Arya the satisfaction.
"That is good! Every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better, as Syrio, and my own hurts, taught me. Believe me when I tell you that I know about killing to make a point, and for vengeance; ask anyone about what happened to the Freys. You made no point in Meereen but that you would lash out randomly... and that does not make your reign more stable. Politics is like fighting - if you let your enemy make you do what they want you to, you are a dead woman. Now, pick up your staff, and keep control of yourself. Again! Less like a crippled kitten, this time!"
Missandei considered what she had seen while she stood against the stone wall and watched as Arya Stark continued to goad and taunt her Queen while trading blows back and forth, constantly berating and correcting the silver-haired woman. Her Queen had done wonderful things, things no Master had ever considered; had freed slaves in not one but three cities, had given slaves a voice, had raised up herself and Grey Worm, had asked for her advice! Yet... her Queen had just honestly tried to kill what they had thought was a helpless Arya Stark in a blind rage... a berserk rage.
Perhaps this, too her Queen had felt this when she'd crucified the Masters, and then it was a force for good, for talking to the Masters in the only language they understood. She had not seen her Queen's attack on the Lannister army; had not seen when the Tarly men were burned; her Queen had bid her and Grey Worm stay behind, taking only Tyrion and the Dothraki... but now she thought to what she'd heard of that time and truly wondered if her Queen had been in a rage then.
And if she had, had that rage lasted from when she left the beach, moved the Dothraki army, attacked the enemy army, and remained even when she demanded the surviving nobility bend the knee? Grey Worm had not been there either, but she would talk to him. He and Qhono were getting along very well now, so perhaps he could get a recounting from the bloodrider directly. Arya Stark had made the point that her Queen had not exercised sufficient care in choosing which Masters to slay; while all Masters were evil, it was true that some were especially evil, and it would be better to kill those first. Had there been other times when her Queen could have made a better decision, but didn't?
"Again! Faster! Right now a pampered Northern girl of ten would put you down without even trying; you'll never get any respect even in the South, much less a real land like the free North if the best you can do is flail around helplessly and cry like a babe when you trip over yourself and land on your ass," came the call from Arya, tossing the training staff to Dany again and tapping the ground in front of her with her own.
Missandei focused her attention on her Queen's expression, and remembering the lessons she'd learned from the whips of the Masters, called out encouragingly, "You can do it, your Grace! Keep your mind only on yourself, not on her words, not your pain!"
************************
A somewhat subdued Daenerys climbed the stairs in the tower, keeping to the right as she'd been instructed, followed by Grey Worm, Missandei, and Qhono. She'd been told there was limited space, and - humiliatingly - that she was being included as a courtesy and to help translate after. She cut that train of thought off with a return to the stomach-wrenching memory of being 'stopped' by Arya; dwelling on the humiliation she felt was another wingbeat towards losing control.
The wind was brisk and cold on her face as she emerged onto the top of the crowded stone tower, a slight creaking above her drawing her attention to the strong wooden beams and ceiling above, which she knew held a ballista. To all sides it was open apart from a low railing. The view wasn't much compared to the Great Pyramid in Meereen, or to the view atop a dragon, but it was still quite impressive, if marred a little by the several crossbows mounted on some sort of swivel arrangement placed around the railing, as well as two tubes on the same sort of mount she didn't recognize, two ropes hanging down on one side and a complicated arrangement of ropes on the other, as she'd seen on her ships. There were some decorative plaques on the railing, adding color... no, those were house sigils!
Jon was already here, next to both his sisters, so she made her way over to stand by her lover. He still wasn't happy after the very uncomfortable conversation they'd had earlier that day, but he did give her a ghost of a smile. His sisters also gave a brief nod of greeting, both of them, and she had the uncomfortable feeling she owed Arya or Sansa for talking to Jon... and that she owed Arya for showing her something she'd been missing about herself, something that had almost, she thought, cost her Jon. May still have cost her Jon - he had been... incredibly unhappy about what she'd done with Randall and Dickon Tarly, the father and brother of his best friend, his brother by choice. She wasn't sure what would happen with them, now, between that and the fact that, as Tyrion had advised her, marrying him wouldn't do anything for the loyalty of the North or the Vale, not now.
Arya glanced around, then gave a complicated whistle, and a few of those present on the crowded platform started as a figure dressed in dark leather with a cloak flying up behind her dropped suddenly down on one of the ropes, swinging in over the railing and landing lightly on the wooden floor of the hoarding that encircled the tower. Arya let her smirk show as she took in the reactions to the short newcomer.
"All right, introductions. Everyone who just jumped at the Scorpion Bear swinging in is new. Everyone else is old. New people are Lord Commander Jamie Lannister of the Night's Watch, who will be my second for logistics and strategy. Brienne of Tarth, Lady Commander of my sister's Queensguard, who will be in overall command of the infantry. Grey Worm, your Unsullied will be under her command. Our Uncle by choice Sandor Clegane, who will be Brienne's second and command in the field. Grey Worm, commander of the Unsullied forces of Queen Daenerys, currently en-route from White Harbor on the horse caravan. Qhono, commander of the Dothraki horse archers, also en-route. Queen Daenerys is observing. For the old hands, we've got Lord Royce, in charge of all cavalry, who is, and remains, my second for tactical command. In battle, his orders override anyone else's except mine. Princess Stark, in charge of all archers. Lady Mormont the Scorpion Bear, in charge of all artillery. Skamund, under Lord Royce, in charge of all the Free Folk light cavalry, including the dogsled scorpions. Qhono, your Dothraki will fit in under Skamund's command."
Arya continued down the list until every person had been introduced, albeit briefly, including guests like Alleras, Patrek, and a handful of Essosi merchants who would carry the word back to their homes after seeing the army of the dead with their own eyes. She then gestured out at the vast fieldworks and cleared area outside. Even now the loggers had already come in with their last loads, and all hands were doing the final work on the fighting positions on and behind the ice and snow ramparts, which were reinforced internally with the branches too small for building with.
"All right, from the inside out! We've got the castle wall and Winter Town's wall, the moat around both, then the inner ring, or first ring, a hundred yards from the wall. Second ring is seventy five yards farther out. Those two are critical - they're full of people and food animals. Once the Night King's here, we've got only what we can keep alive, and we need to keep both our people, and our animals alive, or we starve to death in the winter. Three more rings after the second, all at fifty yard intervals. Princess Stark, go over ranges and the walkers, please."
Meera stepped into the center, looking around as Sansa had taught her, noting the sisters stopping Jon from interrupting, and spoke with confidence, "Ring three's the end of heavy war arrow range; that means that war shafts from the walls are only good for the fifty yards inside of ring three, and for very close support in ring two and one. From the towers, it depends on the tower, as usual. Four hundred yards is the limit of flight shaft range from the walls, that's seventy five yards past ring five, the outer ring. Properly knapped dragonglass is very, very sharp; even a tiny fragment as the head a flight shaft will take down a wight if it hits flesh at the end of its range. All massed archers will be using flight shafts unless ordered otherwise - that includes horse archers."
She looked around, seeing general nods on most, and interest on others - none of that was news to anyone here, or it shouldn't be. She continued steadily.
"Dragonglass, what Queen Daenerys has provided and what we have bought, will take down White Walkers if it hits them in the flesh, penetrates enough. Samwell Tarly stabbed an unarmored White Walker in the shoulderblade from behind; it had time to turn and scream before it slowly turned to ice and shattered. I watched one of the Children of the Forest use a dragonglass-headed spear and stab an armored White Walker in the gut with no effect at all; my own thrown spear took it in the neck and it turned to ice immediately, then shattered. Flight arrows will not penetrate any armor at all past the inner ring, and only thin leather or gambesons, or rotted armor, inside it! They won't penetrate bear or elk at long range, either, but the animal wights are often pretty rotten, so don't be surprised when some go down and others don't."
The Princess stepped back to let Lady Mormont claim the center and lecture.
"We've got three types of siege engines to use, of differing sizes and capabilities. Smallest are the scorpions; maximum range is four to five hundred yards, so any of the ones on the roofs can reach out past ring five with most of our ammunition, shorter with rocks. Ballista are bigger, good to about seven hundred yards, again shorter with rocks. Those two are on universal joints, and can be aimed in any direction easily; that's how we kill enemy dragons. The trebuchets are clumsy, but they can reach just past ring five with large stones or full barrels, and out to about a thousand yards with the lightweight fire or wildfire ammunition."
At a brief glance from Sansa, the Scorpion Bear continued, her tone softening only slightly, though her delivery was a bit stilted, "We thank the merchants who sold and the traders who delivered torsion springs, universal joints, dragonglass, wildfire, tar, and the other weapons and parts we need to fight the dead, as well as the pyromancers and the Maesters, and Queen Daenerys of Meereen for the dragonglass, and the House of Black and White for the Valyrian steel."
"You'll note we've cleared the snow until about eleven hundred yards past the wall," said Arya as she took back the lecture, "There are two purposes; the first is to mark range for the trebuchets, and the second is to make it harder for wights to sneak up on us. We don't know if they'll try sapping or not, but we know they don't need to breathe and can lay under the snow, possibly for centuries. It seems likely they can tunnel through snow easily enough, so we've denied them that for now. Each ring has two fire trenches on each side; for ring 3 and beyond, those will be lit only on central command. Ring two and closer can be lit by local defenders on their own judgment."
Her voice hardened as she continued, "I've just spoken with the wargs and my brother the Three-Eyed Raven. We have at least fifty and two hundred thousand wights bearing down on us; their outriders are already to our south, and can attack from any direction, though the outriders aren't a risk to our caravans, not yet. There's at least another fifty and a hundred thousand heading for White Harbor; they're likely to be hit at about the same time we are. Both groups have a few hundred wight giants and the same in mammoths scattered through the army. Night King's staying on his wight dragon, but he could be anywhere at any time; dragons are too fast, and he's too hard for the Three-Eyed Raven to track. Night King's army came in on a wave of cold, snow, and fog; be ready for low visibility, a few hundred yards or less, at any time."
There was some worried muttering from those present as they took in the numbers they were hearing; that was an incredible number. Arya didn't give them more than a few seconds before she cut it off; it wasn't productive, not now.
"The plan's the same. Our first and most important goal is to sucker the Night King and the wight dragon in close and hit them with the ballista and scorpions using wildfire, dragonglass backed plate cutters and the Death's Head, Wolf's Head, and Heartsbane Valyrian steel plate cutters. Be careful with the green shit, watch what's along the entire path, let's not burn ourselves up! Don't use it without my command or a good shot at a wight dragon or the Night King," said Arya, laughing internally about the Hound's mutter about even more fucking fire, which had been even funnier than Daenerys's expression on hearing about the anti-dragon weapons. She kept talking; everyone new needed to know, and everyone experienced needed a reminder.
"Second most important goal is to keep some of our capabilities in reserve; Night King's a greenseer, but the Three-Eyed Raven's been trying to block him. We're going to bait them in as often as we can, take down as many wights and especially White Walkers as we can, and teach them that attacking us in a headlong rush, like they did at Hardhome, is a losing tactic; we of the North and the Vale are too tough to chew easily! The Night King and the White Walkers use tools! They carry weapons, they wear armor, they bring giant chains underwater to drag dragons out of lakes. They will use tools against us! Wights carry weapons and shields, and some have thick hides or armor! Marksmen will take on the most dangerous of what gets through massed missile fire and the fieldworks."
Arya continued easily, "We're going to continue operating on watches, just like a ship's crew, as we have been. This is going to be a long siege, the dead don't rest, and we don't know how long we'll have daylight left for. I'll be directing the battle from up here; watch out, we may end up with fog or snow, that's what happened at Hardhome. Grey Worm, Qhono, Lord Commander, you're going to be having thousands of untrained soldiers show up soon - you three above all need to pay attention to how the veterans are doing everything, and make sure your people fall in line as soon as possible. Brienne, Uncle, you'll need to listen to your seconds and your troops. Anything seems strange, ask one of the rest of us first; the infantry's still rough around the edges, but they're solid at the core."
With a nod to Meera, Arya stepped back while giving a simple instruction, "Step into the center, away from the railing, then turn your attention outwards!"
Princess Stark pointed at the railing, where small wooden plaques with brightly painted sigils were spaced along the railing irregularly, with different colored hashmarks in between, always in the same pattern starting with each sigil.
"Calls for arrows will be made based on the location of the target; imagine lines from the center of Winterfell through the center of each camp; that's what the infantry and cavalry will use out on the field as a reference based on the signs we've marked out there. That, plus the rings, will be used in our signals on the horns and gongs to call for missile support, on the drums to command the infantry, and so on. Each location with missile weapons has the sigils marked relative to that positions; our Maesters and other mathematicians have worked themselves into the ground calculating these references. On these pillars, too, there are marks to represent the rings out to imaginary ring 20, just past maximum trebuchet range; they take some getting used to, but after you do, any archer or crewman can get accustomed to a new position very quickly."
"Training on the signals are in the library for anyone who's not getting them as part of on the job training. Qhono, Grey Worm, Missandei, you're with Lord Royce and Skamund today; pick up a horn and a small drum, you need to start learning signals as well as tactics. Queen Daenerys, Jon, you two and your dragons are with me for training. Lord Mallister, the man behind you will instruct you on fieldworks and construction. Guests, please exit immediately; I recommend the library for further learning. Everyone else, continue the exercises. Go!"
With that, Arya turned and hopped atop the railing, looped an around around the dangling rope and vanishing downward with a call of, "You're late, Jon!"
************************
Tyrion tucked his head in as he crossed the covered bridge to the library tower quickly, closing the outer door behind him before opening the inner door. The cold was... bracing, since he'd foregone extra clothing for just the short dash. The wind had been an unpleasant surprise, up above the level of the walls it was quite brisk, though with the recommendation to visit the library had come a page to guide him, so he felt it wise to accept.
Entering the library proper, he was greeted immediately by a soft voice.
"Lord Hand," said Lord Reed courteously, inclining his head only slightly.
Tyrion turned to look at the older man leaning casually against the wall, a dragonglass spear resting beside him and guards behind him... a pin very similar to his own on the short crannogman's chest, and nodded himself as he replied, "Lord Hand, what a surprise. Your Queen works very quickly, naming a Hand already."
"We have a full Small Council, already, containing both the normal members and those specific to these kingdoms, as well as plans for the succession. Maester Wolkan has just been appointed Grand Maester by our own Maesters," said Lord Reed softly as he took up his spear and walked, the butt tapping on the floor as he used it like a walking staff, "Come, walk with me. You'll need to advise your Queen on what lessons she should attend, after all... unless you can tell me that she's already had the education she needs to rule those kingdoms that she might conquer wisely?"
"Our... my Queen is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne!" proclaimed Tyrion in a low but intense voice as they strode past a group listening to Gilly reading from an ancient diary of one of the early Barrow Kings describing a tale of a long winter thousands of years ago; in particular, what they ate... and how they decided who didn't eat.
"As Keyholder Tormo likes to say, the Iron Throne is currently occupied by Cersei Baratheon, and in Westeros, our stories are filled with words like usurper," said Lord Reed, watching Tyrion's second twitch in a row carefully as he uttered what he knew was a word Daenerys used often, "And madman and blood right. The Keyholder prefers stories that are more plain, less open to interpretation; as do we, here in the North and the Vale, and the Twins. What the rest of the kingdoms prefer, well, that is not a matter for me unless they choose to make it so... by their own choice, not by my Queen's conquest."
"And that is a wonderful idea, yes, but every ruler needs to inspire a bit of fear, and my sister won't surrender the throne peacefully. You mentioned a Keyholder? I heard Lord Stannis was able to secure a loan from the Iron Bank before he sailed North; was your visit to the Iron Bank as fruitful as his?" questioned Tyrion with interest as they passed a slender four-link Maester-to-be with skin the color of teak and a goldenheart greatbow leaning next to him instructed a large group of scruffy but very intent young teens on the mathematics of calculating the flight of projectiles in high winds, including a method for very quick but rough approximation Tyrion thought was quite clever.
Tyrion took a second, longer look at the acolyte; that was a young woman, not a young man! Well, if she wanted to hide herself, that was her business, he supposed... though, he supposed, he might be able to use that little bit of information to learn some more from her. She surely wouldn't want the other Maesters to somehow find out they'd given four links to a girl!
"Oh, no, my Lord Hand, we didn't send anyone to Braavos," replied the Hand of Queen Sansa easily, "They send the Keyholder to us. If you have a matter of trade you need a loan for, I can arrange an introduction if you'd like, though I don't believe your Queen is likely to be considered very likely to keep to contracts and agreements after that business in Astapor. You reinstating slavery in Astapor and Yunkai on her behalf won't help, nor will her introduction of bond slavery in Meereen with one year contracts after having banned slavery."
"Ahh. That," said Tyrion.
"Here was are. Listen, Lord Hand; you'll find this educational," whispered Lord Reed as he led them both up to a group comprised mostly of a mix of Free Folk and merchants, along with a smattering of lords and ladies.
The teacher of this group was a portly man in the front in dark blue silks over his thick woolen outfit, wearing a slender bravo's blade in his belt across from a three foot stick with a dragonglass shard affixed to the tip on the other side. He was telling a story, his arms waving in grand gestures as he did so.
"And so, during this Choosing of the Sealord, there were three great contenders, but only two were seen as likely to win. One of those thought to have his rival killed, as is normal during the Choosing, but the cutthroats he sent could not do it. His rival was no bravo to be dueled, and the very failure of those cutthroats enhanced his rival at his own cost such that it was impossible for him to win. And so he thought to hire an assassin, a Faceless Man... but he knew he would not want to pay the price. So... what was he to do?" said the Braavosi merchant teaching about the governance and politics of his city, his arms spread wide.
"Challenge him!" exclaimed a woman of the Free Folk.
"No, his rival accepted no challenges; we do not require our leaders to fight duels, though many can and some do. What else?" replied the teacher.
"Give it up as a bad deal, wait for the next opportunity," said a Pentoshi merchant in the group.
"Yes, that is good! Alas, the Sealord of Braavos is the Sealord for life, and this man was both unwilling to chance waiting that long, and determined that he would be Sealord. So... what else?"
"Since he is unscrupulous, he could try bribes," said a Northern merchant.
"He is absolutely without scruple, though he had hidden that very well before. Alas for him, no bribe can win the Choosing, and only a great fool would think to try. Come, we have two Hands of Queens with us; surely you gentleman have some ideas!" said the Braavosi merchant, gesturing to the back, just as Lord Reed had made sure the Maesters overseeing all the lessons would pass on to those teaching it was all right, and indeed encouraged, to do.
Howland looked down at Tyrion, gesturing for his visitor to go first, "Come, Lord Hand; you've been Queen Daenerys's Hand in Essos. What are your thoughts on this riddle?"
"Well, let's see. He can't win, he won't bend the knee, he can't challenge, his cutthroats don't succeed, he can't bribe, and he won't pay the price for a Faceless Man. That leaves getting someone else to pay the price for a Faceless Man."
"Just so!" exclaimed the teacher, "He forged a message to a bravo in his rival's employ to duel the only son of one of a man uninterested in the Choosing, a man famous for his thirst for vengeance, but not for his wisdom. And, it must be said, a man whose greatest friend was bribed to ensure he would believe it was the rival who genuinely ordered it. And so the challenge was offered, the son foolishly accepted, as young men often do, and was killed. The grieving father went to the House of Black and White, and offered the price for the name of the leading contender. The next week, there was a meeting between the contenders to speak together was scheduled; what do you all think happened?"
He waited for a moment, letting the group talk among themselves for a moment, then leaned forward, pantomining as he explained.
"They were all three candidates there by the Moon Pools, each with their guards around them. First the leading contender spoke, the one whose name had been given to the Faceless Men because of false information. When the unscrupulous contender who had set up the situation started to speak, though, a dart suddenly appeared in his tongue and he collapsed immediately, shivering and spasming and frothing at the mouth."
With a grim look, he continued, "None could see from whence the dart had come, nor knew quite what had happened until, from the streets around the Moon Pools, fully three hooded Faceless Men, full priests, appeared; outside their temple, they are almost always alone, or in the company of an acolyte or novice. The priests told the tale of how this man had tried to cheat the Many-Faced God of the required price; for it is never gold alone, but sacrifice the Many-Faced God demands. Death had been promised, a price was paid, but Death will not be cheated. This man had committed blasphemy by seeking to avoid the price, and that the gods, and their priests, will not abide, so his name and his life was given to Death instead. Thus is the fate of those who try to cheat Death."
A minute later, Lord Reed led Lord Lannister onwards, satisfied that what his Queen and kingdoms required the Targaryen's Hand to know was now known. It was up to Tyrion to ensure his Queen knew of both the danger of Faceless Men, and the danger of trying to cheat them. At least, once he figured out there was an entire House of Black and White in Westeros now... and one that would be available to any man or woman willing to pay the price, should Daenerys continue giving people reasons for just vengeance. Next, he had to give a reference to their strong military naval alliance with the greatest naval power in the world... as opposed, say, to the Southron alliances with the various leaders of the Ironborn.
Dragons were not the only great power available, and those who liked to play the game of thrones should be properly wary, whether they played on their own behalf, on another's, or using others as game pieces. This was not a game for two, indeed, Howland thought.
************************
All those with Stark blood were gathered in Bran's room, the sisters on either side of Jon, while Bran sat by the small fire.
"Jon, you are our brother," said Sansa, "And nothing in the past can change that."
"And I've already told you what'll happen to you if you try to change that yourself, idiot," continued Arya, making the sign for me.
"What's going on with you two? What's with you being so serious? God, Sansa, you're the Queen, and you didn't even tell me. Arya, you've got all this about Lady Winter going on, neither of you told me anything," replied Jon, though at Arya's glare he corrected himself, "All right, no, I didn't send a raven back, and I was gone. But... don't you two trust me anymore?"
"Jon, you were with a woman who wants to conquer our home, who employs the Spider," said Arya, her expression softening, "He was not only reading our ravens, but sharing them with Tyrion. You were only four hundred miles from King's Landing; she could have intercepted the ravens as well. Bran would have told us afterwards, but she'd have already known it. So it's not that we don't trust you in any ways, it's that you weren't in a trustworthy place... and you've never learned to judge who to trust and who not to, even before the Red Woman raised you from the dead. And you're you; I love you, but you've never learned when to act, when to speak, and when to neither act nor speak."
"And you have?" asked Jon, remembering his wolf-blooded little sister, and considering just what kind of woman she'd grown into. He'd heard a little of where she'd been, of what she was... but he still had a hard time coming to grips with everything having changed under him, changed around him.
"I have," came Arya's calm and utterly confident reply.
"I've been a captive before, Jon," said Sansa, "You weren't being mistreated, we knew, but how worried you were, how scared you were? That we didn't know. That's part of why we came out to meet you, why Arya offered to rescue you, even though you came in riding on a dragon. Daenerys had a lot of experience on you, and we still don't have any good way to tell if Rhaegal is your dragon, hers, or neither."
"What do you mean? Of course he's hers; she just asked him to let me ride. I'm not a Targaryen, I can't have a dragon," said Jon irritably.
"But you can, because you are," said the Three-Eyed Raven flatly, "You're the heir to the Iron Throne."
The small pillow Arya threw fell from Bran's face to his lap while Arya huffed, "Bran! Would it kill you to try to ease Jon into it? And, again, he's not the heir."
"No."
Rolling her eyes at Jon's bewildered expression, Sansa spoke, "Since Bran is incapable of keeping his mouth shut when he gets an idea into his head, let's go over this. You are our brother. Nothing changes that. You share our blood. Nothing changes that, either. You were born to a married Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen; we don't know her true feelings on the matter, and never will. Our father, your father, took you in and lied to everyone to protect your life, to honor a vow made on Lyanna's deathbed, your birthing bed, to protect you. You are, however, not the heir to the Iron Throne any more than Daenerys is; the Targaryens were deposed before you were even born. Unless you have a burning desire to take the Iron Throne?"
"Gods, no! But... father, Ned, lied? I'm not his son?"
Arya thwacked him on the back of the head, "Don't be an idiot. He's your father; the one who raised you, who taught you, whose honor you share. We're your sisters. Bran's your brother. All the rest of our family is your family, whether you like it or not, from our nephew Little Sam to Uncle Sandor. Now, are you sure you don't want the Iron Throne?"
"Of course I'm sure! I didn't even want the Northern throne."
"We can tell," said Sansa dryly, "You gave it up so quickly, and for so little reason. She was already providing the dragonglass we needed, even without your bending the knee. She'd just seen the army of the dead, lost one of her dragons, who she calls her children. You knew that! She gave you her word that she was going to destroy the Night King with you, together, before you pledged yourself to her. Before you tried, and failed, to bend the knee. You had already gotten an alliance with her! There was less to gain at that time, in that place, than at any time since you left for Dragonstone. Gods, Jon, I'm proud you refused to bend the knee so many times before that, I'm glad you secured an alliance, but that was stupid," lectured Sansa, her voice moving through harsh tones to sisterly ones, ending in utter exasperation.
"She saved me," said Jon weakly, "She was a good woman, a good queen... or I thought she was, before I heard..."
Arya grabbed his shoulder, squeezing tight, "She opened up a gap in the Night King's forces, but if the Red Woman hadn't paid for bringing you back, if you'd been a normal man, you'd have died again, Jon. You'd never have survived being immersed in freezing water. If Uncle Benjen hadn't found you, given you his horse, you'd have been killed again. No ruler can be a good person like you're thinking, not without someone like me to inspire fear in those who respond to nothing else, and to kill those who don't fear, either, like Roose Bolton was for our father. She might be good enough, she might not; we'll have to see, but she's still living in stories, like Sansa used to."
Arya released Jon's shoulder to give Sansa a playful shove, ducking away from the retaliatory swipe the taller sister gave over Jon's head as he squawked, "Hey! I'm right here."
"And?" asked both sisters simultaneously.
"And..." said Jon with a smile, which quickly faded into puzzlement, "I was alone with Dany when I woke up. How do you know what she said? How do you know all this?"
"I have visions," said Bran flatly, then with a flicker of a grin on his lips, continued, "I told you that already."
"You... had a vision of me and Dany?"
"Visions," said Bran, "Many visions."
"Which we will not be going into now, thank you very much," interrupted Sansa archly, "I've heard quite enough about you and Dany."
"What?"
"You think her neck is beautiful, do you?" asked Arya, raising her eyebrows and elbowing him as he flushed.
"I... she's my Aunt?"
"Yes, she's your Aunt," replied Sansa repressively, "Which, as long as you keep all the details to yourself, isn't that much of a problem. She's Targaryen, so even if you were her brother, that's not unexpected, though that would be a serious problem. Our own ancestors Serena and Sansa Stark married their half-uncles Edric and Jonnel. I was almost married off to our first cousin Robin Arryn. Without the Faith Militant, if Daenerys takes the Iron Throne and holds it strongly, the Faith of the Seven is unlikely to object; if she doesn't take the throne, or her rule is contested within the South, your having been bedding her will be a problem. Don't go South, and it won't matter much, not with our family's support."
"I'm... thinking about things. I didn't think she'd... I didn't think she was like that. You spied on me, Bran?"
"I can see everyone, everywhere. Everyone except the Night King; he knows how to block me."
"Don't go off against everyone's advice and expect us not to check on our brother, Jon," chided Sansa, "You have made idiotic choices, but we love you all the same, and want to see you safe. Other than making you a greater target for Cersei and anyone else trying to get rid of potential contenders for the throne, the other part of your heritage means nothing. You have no lands, no armies, no real political power, and you're only borrowing your dragon. Not everyone sees it that way, but if you stay with Daenerys, you won't be too vulnerable. You'll also always have a place here, Jon, whenever you want. You're our brother, and you're more our father's son than any of the rest of us... his good qualities and his flaws both."
"What do you mean, vulnerable? And stay with Daenerys? You know she burned Sam's family alive; she burned the food from the Reach, too! All she told me was that she had less enemies. I tried to stay out of it, but she asked me what to do, and I told her that if she melted castles and burned cities, she was just more of the same, not different."
"I've lived in Harrenhal, Jon, inside the melted castle," said Arya quietly, "Her ancestors did that, not her. They caused war after war, one after the other... just like so many kings before them. Our ancestors, too, fought wars - not just defended their people but also attacked and conquered other people, the Barrow Kings, the Marsh Kings, the Red Kings, and many others. Grandfather didn't have to, Father didn't have to, we don't have to; and we're lucky for it. Sansa has the skills and a well trusted, respected face; she's our mother's daughter, and our father's, ruling wisely and because the highborn want her to and the smallfolk know they're well cared for."
With a self-satisfied smirk, Arya continued, "I'm the one who talks to the smallfolk, and who makes sure anyone who thinks they can take the throne from Sansa knows I'll kill them if they try. I don't have to do much anymore; everyone knows I gave the gift to the Freys. Daenerys is trying to claim the throne by right of conquest, whatever she says; you knew that when you swore yourself to her, Jon. It's not like she wasn't demanding you bend the knee. Her burning food, she talked to you about that? Yes, good. She's still not sure she won't lose herself again? Good; she shouldn't be sure, yet. I'll work on her control of herself, if she shows up to her lessons. And if not, well, guests don't stay forever."
"You're going to teach someone self-control? You?" asked Jon incredulously, remembering what she'd gotten up to as a child, just as he'd done for years when he tried to recall Arya, to hope she was still alive.
Arya made a fist and thumped him on the arm hard enough he winced, "Shut up!"
"That's the self-control you'll be teaching her? How to hit people that talk to her?" asked Sansa archly, making the sign for jape, "I know you spent a long time with Uncle Sandor; perhaps you need lessons in how to behave in civilized company. Or any company, really."
"Well, not yet; she'd only get herself in trouble with it until she learns to fight properly," replied Arya somberly, "But she needs to learn the control she was never taught, and learn quickly; if she loses control and kills people unjustly here in any of Sansa's lands, I'll give her the gift, just as any other criminal who justly deserves death."
"What? If she loses control? You can't just kill her for losing control!" exclaimed Jon, sitting straight as he responded instinctively, "I won't have people killed for accidents!"
"She can and she will, Jon. I am the Queen in the North, and my duty is to protect my people first, and my allies second," said Sansa sternly, her eyes narrowing, "She is not a child. She has declared herself a Queen, and come here with an army and untrained dragons, accepting guest right. If she breaks guest right, if she kills my people in a fit of temper, or a rage, or battle blindness, or whatever the Maesters call it, then she has committed a capital crime, a trial will be held, and she will be held accountable for her actions and those of her dragons. The Justice in the North will carry out the sentence to protect our people, just as Father would have protected his people."
Arya watched Jon deflate, waited for him to take in Sansa's words, to realize that they were quite serious about this. They were not girls to be sheltered, not Sansa, not herself, and not Daenerys either. Death was always serious, and should the Dragon Queen take it upon herself, or her dragons take it upon themselves to bring death to those sworn to Sansa, then they would be judged, and sentenced. Wars had started for far less than that; a trial and execution, or an assassination would be far less destructive than a war, particularly a winter war.
"This isn't a game, Jon," said Arya quietly, her tone intense, "Just because Melisandre brought you back, don't think that others will come back. Death is, almost always, final, and is always both serious and sacred. Death comes to all in its time, be it soon or late, but it is not for her to hasten our people's deaths. She wants to be a Queen; she needs to learn that it's not like in the stories, that her actions have consequences, both for others and for her, personally."
Sansa spoke, equally intense, "She can incite wars, or rebellions, with her words, her actions, even with her expression or how she treats people. She needs to learn politics; she's less subtle than you, and just as aware of people's feelings as Bran."
Jon responded with little more than a grimace and a sigh, "She's... very proud. Gods, why is nothing like it should be? Before we all left Winterfell, I thought I'd go on to an honorable life in the Night's Watch, guarding against wildlings. Celebrate when I heard the rest of you got married, had children and grandchildren. Maybe come back to Winterfell sometimes, like Uncle Benjen did. I didn't believe White Walkers existed. But now, nothing's certain, except the Night King coming. That's what matters!"
"That's what matters most," said Bran flatly, "But it's not the only thing that matters. I had a hard time with that, too."
"Our family matters, Jon. You matter. Arya matters. Bran and Meera matter, Samwell and Kitty and all the rest matter. Our lords and ladies matter, our allies matter, our smallfolk matter. They matter now, they'll matter when we're under siege, they'll matter during the winter, and in the spring after," said Sansa quietly.
"There's never only one thing that matters, Jon. That's like thinking only the infantry advancing on your front matters, not the cavalry charging at your flanks, not the skirmishers cutting your supply lines, not the muddy water in your army's tents spreading disease, not the conditions of the fields feeding your soldiers," continued Arya.
"Not the other enemy who won't fight with you, who will attack where you are weak, when you are distracted. Who will say they're coming to help, and send troops only to turn on you at the victory feast... or the wedding," said Sansa, then squeezed his arm, "Arya and I and the rest of our family will handle the other enemies; that's what we're trained for. You concentrate on teaching Rhaegal to burn only the dead, to fight the wight dragon, and you decide what you want to do, where you want to be when the Night King is truly dead."
Arya looked up at her brother fondly, lightening the tone, "Jon, if you don't want to be King, you should renounce your claim publicly; you don't have to say anything about being trueborn one way or the other, but you might as well tell people you were born to Lyanna of Rhaegar. You're riding a dragon, so you might as well admit to having Targaryen blood in addition to Stark blood. It doesn't actually follow - your mother could easily been a purebred Lysene whore of Valyrian bloodlines, and the blood may or may not actually be truly required any more than it is to train dogs or direwolves."
With a smirk, Arya continued, "If you want to get cut in on the betting first, I can do that, too. I know a man who knows a man."
"Betting? What betting?"
With a roll of her eyes, Sansa answered impishly, "You're the son of a great and still-revered Lord of famously strict honor, thought a bastard with an unknown mother; you don't think people have been speculating on who she was to tempt our father? Then you came flying in on a dragon right in front of everyone. What did you expect people to do, ignore it entirely?"
************************
As the sun peeked over the horizon to illuminate the short day to come, Arya jogged over the sliding bridge across the inner moat onto the area reserved for the dragons, a line of seven huge puppies running along behind her in a set of traces, a small sled piled with rope and cloth behind them. She saw the Dragon Queen for the second time that morning, having finished another temper and staff training session with her earlier. There was still discomfort between them, but at least they seemed ready for dragon training.
"Halt! Sit!," she commanded the dogs, pushing one back down then giving them all a quick head-rub as they obeyed properly, giving the dragons a good example to follow, then greeted the others, "Jon, you're finally up! Daenerys, stretch some more; you'll be stiff, otherwise. Drogon, Rhaegal, are you two ready for today? Good! I've got repaired harnesses and fresh targets you can tow for the marksman later while you practice dodging in the air; the tow rope's a little longer, two hundred yards. But first, a test!"
With that, she pulled out a silver horn with a distinctive, carrying sound they'd been using only for the dragons and blew a set of notes and pointed at Jon.
"Umber, roaring giant with silver chains on flame-red," said Jon immediately, then thought for a moment, "Northeast?"
"Correct; southeast of Royce, northwest of Mormont," said Arya, blowing another quick tune on the horn before pointing at Daenerys.
"Reed... a white lion on green, southeast," said Daenerys, much less certain about the sigil than about the direction. She'd been drilling constantly on the sigils and the camps, since that was how Jon's sister had apparently decided to arrange the signals and the commands and the signs. It was easy enough for those who had grown up learning the houses of the North and the Vale, like Jon, but she'd never been taught any of that.
"Right and wrong; Reed, a black lizard-lion on gray-green, southeast. They're a few camps southwest of Mollen and several northeast of Flint." replied Arya, stopping as her head snapped around instantly just as a second long, steady horn note followed the one that had just ended... and then a third sounded. She held up her hand, listening intently to the faint beats of the outer watchtower's drums, which even she wouldn't have been able to make out inside the castle, then started speaking even as the drumbeats from the inner watchtower ring started relaying the message inwards. Somehow the Night King had gone much faster than she'd anticipated; they were out of time.
"Wargs just found the army of the dead; they must have been running under the fog since yesterday's blizzard; they're moving fast, probably hit the outer watchtower line in two hours. Get the harnesses on Drogon and Rhaegal and get in the air, close patrol; stay inside the second ring; you can't see the Night King if he's above us in the clouds, and he or White Walkers could be hidden under the snow or in the trees out there already. Listen for the signals; we'll try to repeat them from the direction you're needed. Remember, have the dragons breathe fire into the air before approaching the defenses, so they can see you're friendly! Go!"
She shoved the rope harnesses for the dragonriders off the sled, moving quickly away from the dragonriders as they started readying the dragons for combat and commanding the dogs to follow. She jogged back to the castle, shouting commands as she started over the drawbridge into the castle itself.
"Messengers! Second watch archers and engine crews, battle positions, look to the skies! Third watch archers and engine crews, reserve positions, prepare to relieve! Kitchens to send food out! Guards, close the castle up and prepare for wight dragon! Auxiliaries, sweep every hall and room, check for more surprises! Siege engine crews and archers check your targets carefully - friendly dragons are on patrol! Remember, red fire good, blue fire bad! Cavalry, run a patrol of the cleared zone, check the moats and trenches! Infantry, equipment check, then eat and sleep while you can! Go! The Night King's lost his patience with us!"
Behind her the drawbridge came up, the portcullises down, the great doors closed, four inch thick steel bars slotting deep into stone to reinforce them and bar them shut. Dozens of workers raced in to shove thin, wide bronze plates holding the giant stacks of ice blocks across the carefully maintained icy ground to fully cover inner and outer doors with thick ice, children pouring nearly-freezing water down to bind them solidly in place; if the Maesters were right and the White Walkers shattered weapons by making them too cold, like cheap iron in the lands of always winter, the ice might last longer than either doors or portcullises, and it wouldn't hurt against giants or mammoths or dragons, eithers - they'd be getting in and out by rigging and ropes, now.
The castle and camps came to purposeful life as final preparations were made; the dead were upon them, and they would hold a quarter million or more of them back, or they would die, for the army of the dead was upon them.
************************
Last edited:
- Location
- United States, CA
"Just to be clear, Dothraki, you are NOT going to attempt an open-field charge against a tightly clumped horde of fast-moving infantry in the dark."
"Yes, we understand. Why would we ever do something like that?"
"No reason, just making sure you don't do that."
"Yes, we understand. Why would we ever do something like that?"
"No reason, just making sure you don't do that."
Ahahaha, yes, very much, but with extra emphasis on 'especially where you planned to be using iron and steel, which wouldn't actually seriously impede the enemy as it grappled those few of you and your horses who somehow failed to break your horse's legs during a headlong charge in utter darkness on uneven, unfamiliar frozen ground.
Here they're only requesting Dothraki horse archers, specifically as a rapid reaction force inside the fixed defenses and secondarily as a harrying force when required.
Close combat? Leave it to fully armored men on heavily armored horses, for glancing, fast-moving attacks when the high risk is worth it!
Thank you for the reply!
Wolfman217
Oh No! Oh No! Oh No!
- Location
- England
The Final Battle of the Long Night comes!
(Or at least, I think so)
I do think that the reason the last Long Night lasted so long was because the Night King wasn't actually destroyed, so when/if they kill the NK the winter should really just become a normal winter.
A bit of post LN stuff - The North really has the most future potential out of all the other Kingdoms, if we go by it's (intended) similarities to real life geography and countries (i.e. Northern England, Scotland, Scandinavia, Russia - area that all have abundant resources of one kind or another) then North will have an absolutely massive amount of raw resources, and once agriculture technology pics up it's massive size will allow it to sustain a much higher total population then the rest of the Kingdoms.
So hopefully post LN Sansa and Co will get prospectors out there looking for them. If they can get rich of resources then get trade for massive amounts of food to get the North's population back up as quick as possible.
(Or at least, I think so)
I do think that the reason the last Long Night lasted so long was because the Night King wasn't actually destroyed, so when/if they kill the NK the winter should really just become a normal winter.
A bit of post LN stuff - The North really has the most future potential out of all the other Kingdoms, if we go by it's (intended) similarities to real life geography and countries (i.e. Northern England, Scotland, Scandinavia, Russia - area that all have abundant resources of one kind or another) then North will have an absolutely massive amount of raw resources, and once agriculture technology pics up it's massive size will allow it to sustain a much higher total population then the rest of the Kingdoms.
So hopefully post LN Sansa and Co will get prospectors out there looking for them. If they can get rich of resources then get trade for massive amounts of food to get the North's population back up as quick as possible.
Samwell might call it the Second Battle of the Second Long Night.
Or the Third Battle of the Second Long Night, if White Harbor gets hit first.
Hardhome definitely takes the slot for first, as an uncontested Night King victory.
Which comes first, the Night King or the Long Night? Is it coincidence?
Twice in a row, 8000 years apart, they're clearly correlated... but causation is unknown, and may be a third factor. There are many great magics in this world.
Maybe the Night King us being forced South when the Long Night starts... and he was never beat back at all, merely leaving as the Long Night ended.
Maybe the Long Night starts when the Night King attacks.
Maybe he just hates heat.
Maybe he's limited magically - he stayed in the Lands of Always Winter between Long Nights for some reason other than especially difficult crossword puzzle, after all.
Rest assured, this question is under the purview of the Maesters studying the Higher Mysteries, and they are working on it.
You did note the Ibbenese mining representatives, referenced a couple times in prior chapters?
Thank you for the thoughtful review!
28 Sacrifices and Charges
Varys sat across from Tyrion in a room at the top of the First Keep, looking out over the bustling activity. Teams of stableboys, maids, and servants of all types were searching through the castle and the town, the baileys and camps on Arya Stark's order, even as the castle was closed up, every gatehouse barred shut, every bailey isolated from every other except when they needed to be opened. Atop the First Keep two scorpion crews and two ballista crews were searching the skies for the wight dragon. Overhead, his Queen was circling the castle, Jon Snow and Rhaegal just above and behind Drogon, as the book Arya Stark had provided had shown. The statement that the interior of the First Keep was the Dragon Queen's to use had been rather specifically meant.
In most places an order for the servants to search the castle might have been nearly comical, the kind of command a desperate ruler gave after something of value was stolen, servants moving around pell-mell. Here, it was anything but; just a few drumbeats, and the servants had grouped up immediately with whoever was close to them, taking formation in the halls, lines of spears and staves on either side, bows and crossbows and knives between the spears, moving with purpose and attention.
Most of all, he noticed the careful attention they paid, up and down, ahead and behind and around. Piles of supplies were looked into, piles of fresh snow from last night were stabbed - carefully - with dragonglass tipped spears or pikes. Corners, closets, underneath tables and shelves; hiding places of all types were checked... even those too small for adults, those his little birds would, in other times, have used.
Someone had put a great deal of thought and effort into this; someone who wasn't so arrogant as to think that no-one else would sneak into their castle. Someone who didn't believe they were invulnerable, or that dishonorable attacks were beneath contempt. Someone who was showing that his little birds weren't going to be so little as to fly beneath notice.
Arya Stark, he thought, had done this. Arya Stark, who had, he believed, been last seen by the stableboy she killed amidst the corpses on the site of the slaughter of her household in the Red Keep, returned to Westeros with magic and skills at war and spycraft both. The first ever Master of Whisperers in the North, and his new opponent and counterpart... and one who, it seemed, didn't enjoy the game for the game's sake, not like Lord Baelish had, like Tyrion did. She took it far too seriously.
"Do you remember before the Battle of the Blackwater, when Bronn mentioned the noble ladies selling their diamonds for a sack of potatoes?" asked Tyrion, also watching the ongoing search.
"You know I remember everything," answered Lord Varys.
"Do you think Queen Sansa or Lady Winter expect to sell their diamonds for a sack of potatoes? Or any of the other ladies here?"
"No," came the certain reply from the eunuch.
"Why not, do you think? Have they been rounding up the known thieves?" asked the Hand of Queen Daenerys, "Are they so frightening men would rather starve than steal?"
"I believe they have found alternate solutions to the problem your man Bronn tried to solve by lowering thievery."
"And? Come, old friend, don't leave me hanging."
"I heard whispers that not long ago in Gulltown, some foreign sailors killed two guards and stole three cartfuls of food," replied Varys conspiratorially, leaning in and whispering.
"And how do we know they were foreign sailors?"
"Because the next morning in the town square, those same three carts, still full of stolen food - untouched, I might add, according to the whisper - were sitting around the dead corpses of the foreign sailors who had stolen it. Underneath the corpses was a single, blood-soaked boot."
"A boot," queried Tyrion, "One which fell off a sailor?"
"The sailors had their full complement of footwear, I'm afraid. It was found under the corpses, yes," said Lord Varys, emphasizing the 'under' just enough for Tyrion to notice.
"Under the.. An under foot, as it were?"
"Exactly. The whispers are that the Underfoot appears to take a dim view of those who steal food, and is rather forward about how he shows that. It's an interesting solution, you see; thieves can watch themselves better than anyone else... an elegant solution, even, if the fences are part of it. The question is, will it work when food grows short?" said Varys, "When people grow desparate?"
"I suppose we'll see, though Sansa, Queen Sansa, appears to have supplied Winterfell rather better than Joffrey supplied King's Landing," said Tyrion, then with an introspective look, continued, "Than I supplied King's Landing. I hadn't even considered what the people might do in a siege. And, based on the old histories of the North - Barrowton in particular - the North has often dealt with that very problem in winters."
"Oh? And when did you read old histories of Barrowton?"
"Lord Hand Reed escorted me through the library yesterday, and I happened to hear bits of one, as it happened."
"Fortuitous that you should hear that story at this time, my Lord," replied Varys, looking down at his friend meaningfully.
"Fortuitous indeed," replied Tyrion dryly.
"Perhaps, my friend, you should start considering the realm more, and those with the right family name less. It appears our Queen has been given rather a lot to think about of late, and soon, she'll have questions for us. Questions she'll want answers to."
************************
Ser Kegan shook Valma's hand firmly, having said goodbye to the the Free Folk driver, then grabbed the wheels on his chair and spun to face the men on the dogsled, raising his voice to address those he'd gotten to know well these past many months, since the Maesters had saved his life at the cost of his legs after his horse fell on him while training at White Harbor. He'd been sent here because this was where the watchtowers had the most urgent need of leaders - old leaders, crippled leaders, but leaders nonetheless, and he'd grown to be glad of being in charge of this tower, and this crew.
"All right, youngsters! Make sure the Maesters get our names right in the history they talked about; our grandchildren, and their grandchildren, and their grandchildren's grandchildren need to know that their ancestors, their blood faced the second Long Night together, on the front lines - and we will make them bleed! You lot can face whatever's left after we're done with them. Tell Lady Winter we're going hunting... hunting dragons!" said Ser Kegan.
"Are you sure you won't keep some food? You don't need to send all of it with us," replied a sturdy, middle-aged mountain clanswoman who'd helped pack every bit of the food onto the sled. Water had been left behind; Winterfell had plenty of that.
"We won't need food, Cruhynn, not where we're going. Only dragonglass and fire. The Red Wolf'll make sure our families are fed."
Valma rolled her eyes as she checked the dog's harness and picked up the bowls they'd been drinking from, stowing them quickly, "You kneelers changed your leaders again; Meera Reed's keeping people fed now; she went beyond the wall to the cave of the Children of the Forest, and came back with the Three-Eyed Raven. She knows the real North; she'll take care of people. Red Wolf's a Queen now. Two Queens, maybe, however you kneelers figure it. Gods, you people are strange, but you can build, and you can fight. Good hunting!"
With that, the logging crew, and the youngest and fittest of those who had been sent out to the watchtowers raced away towards Winterfell, leaving those who would stay until the end behind.
"Soon dead," said an old woman of the Free Folk, carefully turning a pot of some mixture the Southrons had dropped off days earlier, that they'd use to ignite the tar that covered the ground inside the circle, if it was kept warm and soft by the fire. Some strange magic, she thought, but if it burned the dead, and burned her body, she was glad of it. She'd had seven children, one had survived to Hardhome, and none still lived today, but there were others who still had children, husbands, brothers, and she wanted them to live, wanted them to see her people retake the North from the dead.
They had no need to conserve their wood, not anymore, so their fire rose high for the first time in many months as the men and women of the watchtower basked in the heat, spoke to each other, said their goodbyes, and took their fighting positions with mugs of warm ale and hot water, their drummers waiting patiently as they peered out, squinting across the clearing at the sun moved into the afternoon hours, not long after it had risen.
"Where'd you say Lady Winter sat?" asked the knight leading this tower of his best scorpion shot, a man who'd lost one leg to a boar while hunting, a few years ago, while their best spotters peered out; their far-eye had been sent back with the youngsters. He was quite sure they wouldn't need it to spot the dead, not now, and there was not reason for it to be wasted out here when they burned.
The one-legged man who'd been one of the first crew assigned to this tower pointed down, "Right there. Sat down in the snow and just sat there, she did; still as ice and twice as silent, for an hour. Old Bob asked 'er what she was doing; brave man, he was. She said she was prayin'. Why?"
"I'm going to pray, too," said Ser Kegan, never having met Old Bob; the man had died in his sleep after a hard day's work before he'd arrived, "To the Father, I will give thanks that the North is free again. To the Mother, I will pray my family lives through the Long Night. And to the Stranger, I will give thanks that I have the chance to die fighting, that my death, that our deaths, will really matter. And I will pray to the Stranger that we get a shot at the Night King or his dragon!"
Ser Kegan pushed his wheeled chair over to the indicated point, the wheels disturbing the tar on the ground somewhat, and prayed. When he was done, he spent a little time reminiscing about his wife and his children; he'd certainly been given an education in how to reminisce, given how old most of his crew was. Then he picked up the small selfbow and quiver, and stationed himself by the fire, where he could light a long torch easily, and waited, listening to his men and women chat until the dead came.
"Movement!" came the call from the platform above even as another tower's horn call came rolling over the snow.
"Nock!" shouted the knight, "Scorpion, watch for dragons, walkers, and giants!"
"They're coming past the treeline! Wights, lots of them, all across the line!" called a spotter, looking back and forth along the cleared paths to the next watchtowers in the outer ring.
"Hide scorpion's leaving!"
"Light the trench! What kind of wights?" Ser Kegan said over the sounds of the great tower drums starting to pass detailed messages inwards, drumbeats overlapping, but the loudest message would be clear to well trained ears on the inner watchtower ring. Their sled scorpion backup in its hide must have been in danger of being overrun; when the logging crews had been evacuated, the best team of horses had been given to their hide scorpion for just this case. Truthfully, it was their best chance at bagging a dragon while the dragon was occupied with burning the tower, and them in it. With it gone, they'd have one shot with the scorpion on the tower at best before they were all killed... but there was no reason to lose two scorpions instead of just one. The living would need it.
"People wights! Mostly wildlings," called the lookout.
"Ignite!" shouted Ser Kegan to the other two archers incapable of working the trench, suiting action to words as he held his own specially made fire arrow in the flame.
"We Free Folk, cunt!" came the reply, to harsh laughter. What had been irritating and monotonous a day ago, a week ago, over the last months wasn't anymore; these were the men and women they'd die with, fighting to the end, together.
"Loose!" shouted Ser Kegan as he did so himself, aiming for a wight in the lead, which dropped immediately as the flaming arrow sank into its chest, "Rapid shots on the closest!"
"They aren't Free Folk!"
"Trench at twenty yards, then everyone on bows!" called out the knight between shots with his bow.
The most mobile of those left upended the small barrels and pots of rum they'd been issued, and had been heating, into the trench, stirring it into the top of the mix of tar and pitch the narrow, shallow trench was filled with while the dead crossed the clearing at a run, torches landing in it when the dead were less than twenty yards away, causing them to stop their run at the edge of the fire, even as arrow after flaming arrow slammed into them, causing them to crumple one after the other.
Ser Kegan was gritting his teeth as he shot; even without legs, his arms were still strong, and he'd had a lot of practice. He didn't need to be powerful, or accurate, just fast now, and careful enough to make sure the arrows were burning well first. By the Seven, if they could use the scorpion to launch even just one barrel of rum, they could kill scores of the dead! But no, Lady Winter, who wasn't here, had commanded... his thoughts ended as a new call came.
"DRAGONFIRE EAST!" screamed a spotter as the next watchtower over was set alight in blue flame, bright orange rising after the blue was done even as their drummer frantically pounded out the pattern for wight dragon and the identity of the destroyed tower; being able to locate the wight dragon alone made their sacrifice worthwhile, and they knew it. Every other tower knew where to look right now.
"HE'S COMING FOR US! EAST NORTH-EAST, LOW, SEVEN HUNDRED YARDS!" screamed that spotter.
"SHOOT THE FUCKER! DRUMMER, LOW LOW LOW!" yelled Ser Kegan. Lady Winter was a fucking genius, ordering they load one of their two castle-forged steel plate-cutters with dragonglass on and behind the head when the army of the dead was here. The drummer hammered out the pattern for 'low'; if they missed, if the dragon killed them, he'd only have this one chance to get the message out.
"FIVE HUNDRED YARDS!"
TWANG
The dragon-killer shaft flew straight and true... right over the dragon and its rider both, even as the airborne wight swerved sharply to the left just before the shaft passed over, disappearing behind a hill to the north.
"RELOAD PLATE-CUTTER! WIND THAT WINDLASS AS FAST AS YOU CAN!"
A section of the wights who had been standing surged forward, throwing themselves atop the narrow fire trench, one after the other as during the few seconds it took each to catch fire more could race over their bodies.
"DRAGONGLASS ARROWS, QUICK DRAWS! SPILL THE RUM! DRUMMER, PEOPLE WIGHTS OVERRUN!" called out Ser Kegan; each of them had only a handful of the precious missiles, but they'd be able to fire those as fast as they could draw; there was no need to fire with much power, not at this range. Their own drums sounded that they were overrun, just as the towers on either side of them were doing. This entire section of the line was being hit at once, but they wouldn't go quietly!
"Looks like we scared that coward right off! Fucker's not coming back!" called out their best spotter.
"Fuckin' rum's not worth drinking. Let's burn it!" laughed the crewman that was knocking over the barrel of hot rum by the fire, the fire having been put on a slight rise for just this. If his laughter had an edge of hysteria as an endless swarm of wights charged into their position, well, nobody was going to say anything.
Ser Kegan fired his four dragonglass arrows, then dropped his bow and took up a long torch in each hand, igniting them in the fire as those of his crew that were on the ground came by him, dragonglass-shard tipped spears stabbing out as the dead charged, first one, then another falling and being pounced on by the wights.
"Stranger be kind to us, I'll see you all in the Seven Hells!" called out Ser Kegan roughly, hitting another wight on the head with a torch before thrusting both flaming weapons into the tar-covered, rum-soaked ground. As a wight thrust a knife into his chest, knocking him and his chair over entirely as the world went up in bright fire around him, the rum spreading the fire rapidly, the tar igniting under it, he saw the wight that had stabbed him burn and collapse, and heard the last report of his tower.
"WALKER NORTH NORTHWEST, FOUR HUNDRED YARDS!"
TWANG
"GOT THE FUCKER!" he heard over the sound of fire and screaming, some his own... and he felt a great surge of vicious joy even as he burned alive; his crew had killed a White Walker, and they'd leave nothing behind for the Night King to defile.
************************
Arya stood on the northern edge of the hoarding, looking out through the mounted far-eye as the western sky started to turn orange, great columns of smoke spreading out along the watchtower rings, starting in the northeast and expanding; the outer ring was alight from the west-northwest to the south-southeast, and the inner towers almost as much. Below, ambush scorpions were filing across the bridges below, moving to the areas around the Godswood and Winter Town which had less fixed artillery protection, supplies being brought out to them to top them up.
Behind her, Jamie Lannister and Brienne of Tarth waited, each with a page giving a quiet running translation of the signals coming in. They were too new to be able to exercise large-scale command; she had them up here with her, over their protests, to observe and to learn. The Hound was below, commanding his sections of infantry directly, her other commanders and their seconds were doing the same, while Jon was acting as second dragonrider to Dany.
No two veteran commanders were together; her tower was the only one in the entire defensive structure with more than one commander at all, and that was because if she's split them up, they'd not learn as well. The wight dragon hadn't been spotted since one of the northern watchtowers had taken a shot at it; they'd missedm but had taught the Night King that towers weren't defenseless prey for dragons. Still, the dragon could appear at any time, from any direction. They might get the first shot were the air clear, and they might not. In snow or fog, the wight dragon would certainly have the first shot, though in either case, if it was close enough for dragonfire to hit inside the second ring, they'd have dozens of siege engines in range to hit back... and the bright flash of dragonfire made for easy aiming.
She wished they'd killed it... and she wished they'd never fired at all, only because they missed, and the Night King was apparently able to learn. And dodge, for that matter. This would have been much easier if he would have come up to Winterfell directly. On the other hand, just having taught him caution might protect countless other fortresses and towns from a dragon drop atop them; Cersei Lannister was, in fact, worried about dragons, and she'd ordered Qyburn's overpowered scorpion design built all over her territory; Seagard had its defenses, and Essos and elsewhere had been starting to build scorpions and ballista as well.
Now, it seemed was their turn to weather the incoming storm; the Southrons behind her shivered as the temperature started dropping. Throughout the camps, horses whinnied and dogs barked, even as a vast wall of fog closed in from the northeast.
Arya stepped away from the far-eye to issue a steady stream of orders; the drums, horns, and gongs of the command platform immediately repeating her instructions, even as a score messengers were ready to take more detailed messages anywhere she needed.
"Marksmen spring engines load Valyrian, watch for dragon. Massed spring engines load wooden firebolts. Trebuchets load large round. Marksman archers load dragonglass flight. Massed archers load fire flight; prepare to ignite. Heavy infantry man the ramparts. Cavalry to Hornwood, Umber, Flint. Scorpion sleds to Whitehill, Manderly, Mormont."
A messenger girl raced up the rigging, climbing onto the hoarding, reporting breathlessly.
"Nothing found inside the clearing! Wargs report wight giants and mammoths running in the lead, clearing snow for the rest! Lots of animal wights; deer, elk, moose, bear, direwolves. They're guessing ten and three hundred thousand on us now."
"We'll loose a volley of stones from the trebuchets at biggest concentration of giants and mammoths that approaches ring five," commanded Arya after giving the girl a nod, turning to watch Jamie and Brienne as she lectured.
"We'll see how many of them fall apart and how many survive; that much I can give the Maesters. If they come in straight, we're going to be taking the brunt of the first attack against Winter Town; shorter walls, less tall towers, so they've got more scorpions and fewer ballista. Shorter range, lighter bolts, less powerful. More rapid reloads, a little quicker on the swivel, and the shorter range means the most difficult long-range shots can't even be taken."
Arya continued, "Lyanna'll pick which engines engage which targets, though we usually use a mix. Accuracy against flying targets is what matters most; the best marksmen are loaded for wight dragon. As long as that thing's flying, we have to expect it to attack the moment we're not ready; so we must always be ready."
"I can agree with that," said the Lord Commander, "Those things are terrifying on the attack."
"Questions?" asked Lady Winter.
Brienne thought over her concerns about sallying once again. It'd be slow enough with needing pulleys to lift those great bars, but with tons of ice on both sides of the doors, the only possible way was from other ring divisions. If the wights got into the second or first rings, there wouldn't be much to do except try to isolate them.
"What are your orders if ring two is breached, my Lady Winter?" asked the Lady Commander.
"When the wights get into the second ring, the defenders will have to kill or capture them, or they die. The ice might give us some protection against thrown spears, wight giants and mammoths, maybe even White Walkers; their weapons shatter steel instantly; they might be able to do the same to the locking bars, the portcullises, even the doors. The walls are extremely thick, and it'd be hard to attack them with the moat there. If they can shatter stone like that, we'd have lost the first Long Night. Winter Town, Winterfell, the camps; Sansa's made sure they each have an even portion of food and supplies for winter. Whoever's lost won't doom the rest."
Arya looked into their eyes, continuing coldly, "That, Lord and Lady Commander, is the strategy we must abide by. Some of us will survive the winter; if all of us die here, and at White Harbor, we still have four strongholds that will learn from our fall, just as we learned from what the watchtowers sent as they fell. If all six fall, the rest of Westeros and Essos will learn from them. If Westeros falls, Essos will learn. Valar Morghulis, Lord Commander. We're the first of the living to face them prepared, but we are not the only of the living that will face them."
Jamie and Brienne traded a look; the younger Stark sister was cold, to think that way. Jamie had always put his life on the line in battle, had never given up on his troops like that... but, he thought, it's what his father would have done. Sacrifice some to win the war. That's how Robb Stark had captured him, beaten him - sacrificed some of his men to accomplish his goal. The Starks were willing to sacrifice tens of thousands of their people, down to babes in the cradle... but they were here, too, every one of them left alive was putting their own life on the line as well.
Arya held up a hand suddenly, going still and silent, and those on the tower stilled and quieted likewise, though not with the quite the same utter lack of motion.
"They're coming. Sound wights approaching, wight giants and mammoths at the fore," said Lady Winter, "Dragons to land at main gates, ring two middle. Pull all but the scout's bridges back to ring two. Messenger, tell the dragonriders to keep their heads and their dragons low, behind the ramparts in case of thrown spears. Remind them they can't take off without flying right through siege engine fire. Go."
The wall of fog and snow howled into the clearing, inexorably dampening visibility as it closed in on them, great shadows and shapes appearing in it from time to time.
Atop the outer wall of the Godswood, Meera watched it coming, listening to the signals from the command tower with one ear while snugging her furred helmet down over the other; she'd felt this cold before, she knew it well.
"Massed archers, check your firepots, check your arrows, check your quivers," shouted out Meera in her role as the commander of archers, her steady, even tones helping to keep those of her people close enough to hear them calm; small, high-pitched drums quickly relaying her orders across the entire stronghold as she continued, "Ready radial outwards, ring seven near, fire arrows. Wights go right down when you sink a flaming arrow into their flesh!"
This part of the battle was hers and the Scorpion Bear's to fight; Arya would give overall instruction, but her new good-sister had the entire battle to pay attention to. Meera looked down into the Godswood, past the bare branches of most of the trees, checking on circle after circle of this watch's archers, each with a generally fantastically ugly clay pot in front of them with a small, hot flame coming out the spout. The Maesters and pyromancers had come up with that; it burned far less fuel than the narrow flaming trench they'd started with, and the pages had come through earlier to light each pot.
Meera looked up at the tower, checking the long banner flying in the wind, well above the castle walls, showing the wind. There was still enough light to see them; the Night King, she thought, liked his grand entrances. If he meant to scare them into mistakes, he had another thing coming. She'd seen him at the cave of the Children of the Forest, and she hadn't broken then. She and her people wouldn't break now.
"Nock!" she called out, the command repeated immediately by the leaders of each group of archers.
"Ignite!"
Princess Meera peered through the fat far-eye she'd been assigned; the Myrish glassblowers had assured her that one like it would let them see better in the dark, and she'd definitely seen that. Now, it let her judge the oncoming horde carefully; she watched them running in, accounted for flight time and that the massed archers were slower than she or Alleras or the other marksmen and experts archers were, then called out the first volley of the battle.
"Loose!" she commanded, then waited while hundreds of flaming arrows arched up over the walls and out from the camps before her, the trebuchets loosing as they saw the arrows flying out, "Ring six middle! Nock!"
"Ignite!"
"Loose!" came her command; the trebuchets would take time to reload, but that first volley of two hundred pound stones might blunt the leading edge of the incoming attack... the edge made up of giants and mammoths, probably impossible for the light fire arrows her massed archers were shooting to put down.
"Nock! Ring six near! Continue steady!" she called out, adjusting their aim inwards, the leaders under her continuing the same steady, monotonous set of commands, a few seconds of rest between each shot keeping her archers from tiring themselves too quickly. This range demanded the most of them, full power draws with light flight shafts, and these weren't the best archers... but they were determined, and they had been training all day, every day, and eaten well each night; the bitter bread wasn't rationed. They could do this for some time, especially since they weren't using bows at the limit of their capability. This was the battle she was most familiar with - long endurance, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, always pushing on.
Above her, gongs made their distinct metallic sounds, and shortly after the least skilled of the spring-powered siege engines fired their own massive flaming bolts, half their crews, those too weak or old or not steady or fit enough to use bows or spears instantly moving to wind the windlasses or cranks to reset them. Unlike her crossbowmen, the siege engines each had two full windlass crews; they tired too easily, even as determined as their hearts were.
The fog rolled across one ring after the next, horn calls coming from inside it as the scouts, expert horsemen with sharp eyes and well-trained mounts relayed that the army of the dead was splitting into separate advances even as they continued to surround the fieldworks, each advance piling headlong into the fifth ring's moat.
The drums from the command tower called for the part of the plan that assumed the Night King or his White Walkers were, in fact, both intelligent commanders and able to see in that mess. The Night King was a greenseer, more powerful than Jojen had been, so if he was getting past Bran somehow, this might be important. Or it might be a waste of time and arrows... but not many. Arya'd gone over the plan before, taken her input and that of the others into account, changed it; this was going to be close, but they had to stop the Night King from overrunning them, and quickly, one way or another.
"Marksmen archers, light up ring five outer!" she called out, checking the wind banner, drawing her own bow and taking a flaming arrow a page handed her, drawing, and launching it as best she could towards where she knew ring five's outermost fire trench was... where, she knew, it would do nothing but warm up the cold contents, assuming it didn't land in a wight or miss. She was pretty sure she didn't miss, but she took another four rapid shots to put on a good show.
Horn calls sounded; the wights were closing in past the outermost moat.
"Massed archers, ring four middle! Ring one and two crossbows, ready goats-foot flaming warshafts, windlass dragonglass warshafts!" called out Meera as she heard the reports of the dead closing remorselessly over the sound of flaming arrows flying overhead, the wall of fog and snow coming over the castle walls now in a wave of even more intense cold, making it impossible to see anything past the center of ring three at all, and the near side of ring three was visible only sometimes, when the wind blew the fog around.
Then new horn calls sounded from the scouts even as shapes dashed through the middle of ring three towards ring two; using her far-eye, Meera Stark, Lady of Winterfell, saw it was the big, fast animal wights. The drums from the command tower sounded to make sure any of the infantry who weren't already aware were warned.
"Massed archers, rapid shots! Marksmen archers, ring three flight shafts! By camp division!" called out Meera, not adjusting the aim. Volleys fired blind were only useful against massed targets, and there fast horses, elk, and other animals who had jumped all or part of the moats ahead of the less capable wights weren't packed tightly enough to be more than a waste of shafts. Each set of archers would shoot outwards ahead of the camp they were assigned; those had been chosen to make sure there was missile support for every camp, every radial division.
The marksmen on the walls, however, could take shots as they saw them in their own sections, and they did, firing straight out at quickly closing animals; not difficult shots, even with the arrows taking a few seconds to reach the target... and those were dragonglass-tipped, lancing into rotted animals easily, and penetrating some of the lighter beasts regardless; from the walls, there was only time for one shot each as the animals raced towards the moat between ring two and three, and the ramparts and infantry behind... or, in a few unlucky wight's case, towards the ramparts before the main gates and the dragons behind.
The Hound watched the wights come in; just like that damned snow bear he'd fought, the came in fast and hard, and some of them were even on fucking fire! Fire in front of him, fire behind him, fire flying over his head. Fire fucking everywhere!
"Pikes and spears out! Shields up! Any of you fuckers die with a clean weapon, I'll rape your fucking corpse!" shouted Sandor. Some of the four-legged wights closing in dropped on the way in, taken down by the archers, many shattering as they dropped. Behind him the bowmen and crossbowmen - and women - started firing, flaming bolts racing right over his fucking head. That was worse than the volleys from the walls; he was a tall fucker, and they were standing and kneeling on the second line of ramparts, behind the spear and pike wall; he could feel the heat from the fucking things passing.
At least they were so fucking close they weren't going to miss easily... and if they did, at this range, he wouldn't be alive to be pissed off at them.
More of the wights came, on fire or not, racing across the fire trench on the other side of the moat, those that weren't dropped by the archers leaping across the moat... or trying to, since quite a few didn't make it, slamming into the near side of the moat and falling three times the height of a man down into it. The rest raced through the unlit inner fire trench, throwing themselves up the ramparts onto the ranks of pikes and spears even as his page translated the fucking horn calls from the wargs filling in for the scouts who had all retreated. Or died.
He'd fought beside Beric and his fucking flaming sword on the wight hunt; hell, he'd fought Beric and his fucking flaming sword! And killed him! He wasn't going to stop now, fire or not.
"I'm too ugly for you to fuck!" came the call from a bulky, scarred wildling woman, one of the more experienced leaders he'd been given. If that didn't beat all; a fucking wildling in charge. No wonder they needed him... and, he supposed, that Lannister cunt and the woman knight.
Ah shit, thought Sandor as the fog parted.
"I'm uglier than you! Brace the shield-wall, here come the dead cunts! Get ready to set the fucking trench on fucking fire! More arrows - you goat's foot fuckers yank that lever like you were fucking yourself! Rapid draw!" he shouted, looking back at the formation behind him and extending out to both sides as far as he could see, all the way around the castle, he knew.
Tall, thick tower shields were planted in grooves pounded into the rampart, braced by those behind, and those behind them who had their own line of shields; spears held one-handed pointing out from the front ranks reinforced by long pikes from the rear ranks held two-handed. Just his luck one of the attacks was coming right at him.
At least this was familiar; the wolf bitch'd gone and stolen Lannister formations, Lannister commands, and Lannister training. The dead would be here in force soon, and it was Lannister discipline that would hold them off.
"Tighten up and pucker your arseholes! Push your crotch against the rank in front's arse!" he said, hefting his axe over his own shield; at least he was tall enough this'd work for him. He wasn't supposed to fight much, he was supposed to lead, but he figured there wouldn't be much choice in a minute, when the moat filled up. The fog and snow ahead turned orange as a giant shape appeared, charging towards the lines.
On fucking fire.
"Mammoth! Tower cunts, shoot the fucker!" he called out, his page translating curses to signals to the scorpion towers in the ring one camps, across another moat to his rear. Those siege engines had been tasked specifically to support the shield-wall, and were at his command and that of the other infantry leaders.
TWANG
Arya scanned the lines; the dead hadn't attacked every part of the line, but more and more thrusts were coming in, just like when the army of the dead had attacked Jon and his captive wight; she didn't know if there were just a few wights that were faster and the others followed them, or if it was deliberate, but they'd crossed the moats with the simple expedient of filling a small section full of bodies and running across them; she'd heard the giants and mammoths falling into the outer moats with enormous thuds; some were on fire, now, the crackling as distinct as the faint orange hue the fog had in select places where the fourth and fifth moat was, but the huge wights had taken time to light up, and more and more wights were throwing themselves atop them so others could race across.
"Messenger! Tell Sam and Gilly they're coming in multiple independent thrusts, filling the moats, wight giants and mammoths leading; they barely slow down. New wights keep throwing themselves over it or into it. Goat's foot crossbows with dragonglass or fire down even wight elk and moose at close range; mammoths that aren't rotten need scorpions or bigger to put them down in one shot, even with flaming bolts. A few dragonglass warshafts from windlass crossbows or heavy warbows work too, or one through the eye. Fire arrows mostly just set the intact ones on fire. Animal wights race ahead and can leap twenty foot wide moats; increase width to thirty feet where possible. A wall of cold, fog and snow precedes them at a running pace, visibility seventy and two hundred yards maximum. Send a raven to Gulltown for immediate relay. Go!" dictated Arya.
"Jamie, Brienne; more than anything else, our duty is to make sure everyone else knows what they're going to face. We're going to do our best to stop them, to tell Death not today, but there's only one guarantee in life. All must die," said Arya somberly, glaring out to the north where the Night King probably was as the two messengers raced off to slide down the ropes and dart in opposite directions to the primary and secondary ravenries that Sam and Gilly were commanding, continuing sternly, "That especially applies to blasphemers like the Night King!"
"Yes, Lady Winter," replied Brienne. She had expected to be on the front lines, to be using her Valyrian steel sword to fight the dead with; instead, Arya had her up here with Jamie... and with Arya herself. Two of the best fighters in the army, up atop a tower far from the fighting... directing and organizing, and delegating. The younger of the two girls she'd sworn herself to was doing a great deal to ensure that others knew what she'd planned, knew why she'd planned it, knew the thoughts that had gone into it.
Brienne looked down at the short girl suspiciously; she'd spent quite a lot of time making herself replaceable. That, in and of itself, spoke volumes. Lady Arya was either keenly aware of her own mortality, or she wasn't planning on staying in Winterfell forever. That, however, was a problem for another time; today, it was her duty to learn what Lady Arya needed her to learn.
"Is it time to light the trenches yet?" asked Jamie.
"Not quite, but good timing, Jamie," replied Arya casually, then raised her voice, "Trebuchets, loose cold spirits fifth ring to third ring, then ready hot fire! Massed ballista, ready hot fire! Master archers, prepare fire arrows, fifth ring inwards!"
She watched the response to her commands, even as the second ring moat filled rapidly with the dead in a dozen places. None of the outer watchtowers were left, and only a few of the inner on the southwest were still passing messages in. She could have lit the trenches now, could have lit them even before the dead arrived, but the obvious answer to that was for the Night King to wait out the fire; he'd shown how patient he still was waiting out her idiot brothers and uncle. They had tens of thousands of barrels of pitch and tar, never mind the other flammables, but that wouldn't last forever, especially with the enormous size of the defenses.
Their only chance was to teach the Night King that even when the trenches weren't on fire, they were still too tough a nut to crack easily, that they had other defenses... that he couldn't simply overwhelm them in a single charge, or two charges, or ten, or a hundred. There would be other problems later... if this worked, but one problem at a time.
The Hound glared back at the double rank of crossbowmen; two ranks of kneeling ones, the shorter archers in front of the taller. Behind them, a rank of archers with warbows standing on a lower section of the rampart behind the short one the infantry used, which gave the missile troops enough elevation to shoot over the ranks of troops making up the shield-wall safely while letting the siege engine towers behind shoot over them.
"Shoot faster, damnit! You, get me more fucking fire arrows from inside the walls, right in fucking front of us!" growled Sandor at his drummer. The dead were coming too thick and fast; they needed to be thinned out more if they were going to hold for long.
"Yes, My Lord, ring three near!" said the page, drumming rapidly to call for more massed volley support.
"Not a... fuckit!" he growled, gauging the front rank of the shield-wall and the front rank of pikemen, behind the spearmen; they'd been under assault for nearly six minutes already, and while the pile of the wight cunts was still five feet below the top of the moat, the animals jumping over were big ones, and coming in fast; not easy to spear, and when you did, you got smashed against those behind you, or lost your grip on your weapon, and that he couldn't have.
"INFANTRY, SHIELDS UP! SECOND RANK, STRIKE! FRONT RANK, SWITCH! PIKES, SWITCH!" shouted the Hound, one command after the other in careful sequence, holding his fingers up to his mouth and letting loose a piercing whistle at each command to switch, a sound that carried better than his voice over the sounds of battle. This at least, his fucking troops did rapidly and skillfully; their set-piece work was well drilled, the front ranks turning their shields and themselves sideface and sidestepping back through the lines to become the new rear rank as the second rank stepped up and set their shields into the grooves, becoming the new front rank.
Those who slipped caught themselves on their fellows, or were caught by their fellows - he saw the woman who claimed to be too ugly yank a spearman up with one hand and shove him backwards without taking her eyes off the enemy; seven hells, she was strong. Hefting his axe, he struck down at the dead hand reaching for his ankles.
"Here they come; tighten up ranks, watch your strikes! You break your fucking spears and I'll break your fucking face!" roared the Hound.
After that, there was no more time to think; the dead were racing over each other even as flames started flickering brighter at the side of the pile deep in the moat before him; just his luck the fuckers were made of kindling and he was up here right in front of them. He smashed a flaming wight back with his shield, his axehead smashing into the head of another even as he checked on the battle line.
Arya watched the shield-wall switch ranks smoothly, radial division after radial division across the entire line, and nodded to herself; they'd lost a few soldiers already, and would lose more before the night was out, but not many, and the confidence actually holding the wights off would give the infantry was critical. Keeping those in front from getting too exhausted was key to holding the wights off - the dead didn't tire, but her troops did.
Those troops had to believe, really believe, they could win, or they wouldn't. She also needed to know that they could hold off the wights, or they wouldn't be able to clear the rings after. If they couldn't clear the rings with the infantry, they couldn't repair the moats and they'd be using siege engines to refill the fire trenches, which was fantastically wasteful compared to carefully pouring even layers of whatever the pyromancers came up with in, in the correct sequence.
Her head turned as she heard a faint but increasing thumping sound, and she called out new orders.
"All siege engines, watch for friendly dragons! Dragons to Hornwood ring two. Godswood marksmen scorpions at Hornwood command; all hornwood warbows and windlass wound to nock dragonglass; they've got wight mammoths coming, at least twenty, with giants!" called out Lady Winter.
Jamie looked out at the swirling snow that was all he could see to the northwest, past the Hornwood camp, then at Brienne, who shrugged, shaking her head. Neither one of them could tell how Arya had done it.
"Hear with your ears," said Arya without looking at them, "Mammoths are loud fuckers."
Alleras loosed another warshaft into a giant's eye; a difficult crossing shot two divisions over, and looked for her next target, the page next to her doing the same, selfbow over his small shoulder.
"WIGHTS INSIDE!" came the scream from behind and below her; Alleras spun, nocking a dragonglass tipped arrow as she watched ice breaking and wights charging up out of the pool below the heart tree; she started loosing as rapidly as she could even as commands were shouted evenly from the other side of the Godswood.
"Auxillary shield-wall to the heart tree! Archers near the heart tree, form triple line at twenty yards; dragonglass; leave the firepots! Quickdraw; forget power, shoot fast fast fast! Archery command to Lady Winter!" commanded Meera as she grabbed a shield and the spear Arya had loaned her, sliding down a rope into the Godswood and running towards the heart tree and the wights coming out of the water.
Gods, how could they have been so stupid? Their ancestors had practiced human sacrifice at the heart tree!
Princess Stark arrived at the front rank of archers around the heart tree before the auxiliaries did, yanking one of her troops back out of the way as she forced her way through to the front, her shield up and Valyrian tipped spear jabbing forwards with rapid, easy strikes as fast as she could while arrows swept past her on both sides, many of the wights on this side charging her specifically, as the closest target; she was glad to have her good-sister's weapon; with the Valyrian steel, she had no fear of the spearhead breaking on the bones of the wights, and like Arya, she didn't need anything big.
"Every other archer on the heart tree, two steps back! Let the auxillaries through!" she commanded.
Up above, Arya unslung her double-curve bow; as much as she longed to be in the fight below herself, that wasn't her job, not now, and tactical command of the archers had been passed to her besides. Meera would handle the wights in the Godswood.
"Check room by room! Messengers! Especially crypts, cellars, tunnels, and lower levels. Groups of twenty or more!" commanded Lady Winter, then turned back to the greater battle outside; there'd be pockets of the dead - no castle survived eight thousand years without secrets, but the lichyards had been exhumed and burned, and were now staging grounds for archers, the tombs in the crypts, she and Sansa had taken care of personally. There'd be lost or hidden corpses, but not many - whatever the Night King had intended, this was no more than a small distraction, and an expected one in general.
With that, Arya strode up to the edge of the platform, nocking and igniting a fire arrow and peering out at the lines; the wights had filled the divisions they'd crossed, and were charging straight in, not trying to spread out between the divisions except by happenstance. The wights were bridging the second moat fully, now, slamming into the defenders in an unceasing wave; the last watchtower on the inner ring had stopped sending messages minutes ago, and the dead were crossing the moats even on the southwest now. It was time to shut the gates on them, and slaughter every wight the Night King had sent in; he'd have to get used to losing wights instead of gaining them!
Atop the wall outside the Godswood, Alleras turned away from the skirmish before the heart tree as the drumbeats from the command tower rattled out the order to ignite the fifth ring trench. She looked up, not able to see the banners easily now that the sun had set, calling out "BANNERS!"; she needed to know the wind to make the shot.
Up in the tower above, a ship's lantern was opened to illuminate the wind banner for just a second, then closed again. The Sphinx turned back to face outwards, set her feet exactly as she'd practiced, raised her greatbow, taking exactly the stance, in exactly the place, that she'd drilled over and over, with exactly the same weight and balance of arrow she'd used. She raised her arms to exactly the right angle, then drew, adjusted for the wind, and loosed, the flaming arrow streaking out into the darkness.
Beside her, a page translated the signals while above the massed ballista, and the entire set of trebuchets launched the largest barrels of flammable mixes they could, flaming cloth trailing behind in the wind, shattering on impact and spraying fire over large swathes of the incoming wights, not just igniting them but rendering that ground temporarily impassible by wights, "Warg says you hit the rum, Sphinx! Fifth ring's igniting! One shot; you're amazing!"
She turned back to the heart tree, firing more arrows until the wights stopped coming. While she did that, another archer ignited the fourth ring. From the command tower another arrow ignited the third ring in an inferno that turned the horizon yellow, the barrels of rum and other rotgut the trebuchets had launched igniting instantly, the 'kindling' mixture in a thin layer atop the mix of pitch and tar igniting, if not as rapidly as alcohol, rapidly enough, and the flammables in the trenches and the wight corpses in the moats and on the ground started to burn quickly.
Overhead, large barrels of pitch and tar and other chemicals of the pyromancers, well warmed in the 'ovens' the ready ammunition was kept in, were loosed; large ones from the trebuchets and smaller ones from the torsion spring engines, fire trailing in the air until they splashed across land and wights both, fire spreading inside the rings.
"INFANTRY, SHIELDS UP! SECOND RANK, STRIKE! FRONT RANK, SWITCH! PIKES, SWITCH!" shouted the Hound roughly, what had been the original third rank becoming the first rank for the second time; the troops were tired, and there was more stumbling, more grabs, one near-fall, and two injuries from wights wielding pole-axes, even through the heavy armor those on the shield-wall wore.
"Water those men! And light the fucking trench!" commanded the Hound. They and the other fuckers on the front lines taking the brunt of the dead cunts well enough, but they'd need to have completely fresh troops up here to keep going much longer. Unlike fighting living fuckers, there wasn't any rest at all; the other side never faltered, never pulled back, never once so much as paused, the dead cunts. When the fire roared up in front of him, heat blasting his face even across twenty feet of moat and behind the suddenly shining wall rampart of ice he was behind, he waited out the last of the dead that could climb up and attack en mass, then stepped back to inspect his troops and see who'd broken their fucking weapons and not noticed like they should have when sent to the rear.
The heat from the fires thinned the fog even as smoke rose from them and a wave of warmth washed over the wall, the entire scene visible now, even as the call for massed archers to stand down came amidst the troops gagging and making exclamations of disgust at the atrocious stench that also washed over the wall.
Meera set the butt of her spear down, checking on her troops and the freshly arrived auxillary infantry in the unnatural yellow glow they were bathed in, "You two, get to the Maesters. You too! The rest of you, set a triple shield-wall around the pool, just in case, and check your weapons; anyone with a broken spearhead, switch out and get another from the stacks - pile your old ones up neatly; make it easy on whoever has to take them back for repair! Massed archers, back to your firepots! No rest for the archer! Pages, bread and water; my people are hungry and thirsty!"
With that, the Lady of Winterfell ran back to the wall, scrambling up the rigging until she had a good view again. The battlefield was lit up like it was still daylight, not nighttime, and growing brighter as the mounds of wights in the moats blazed up unnaturally. Far on her left, two great streams of dragonfire lanced out a few times, then stopped, then started again, a little closer; she could hear the distinct dragon horns ordering them clockwise around the fieldworks, clearing out the third ring one section at a time.
As the flames died down on the second ring, drums sounded infantry to advance to the third ring for the sections the dragons had finished with, archers and scorpion sleds behind them, followed by workmen and Maesters. Outside the fifth ring, just past where the large round stones of the trebuchets had landed at the start of the attack, the army of the dead waited in the swiftly dissipating fog with inhuman patience, while inside the screeching of burning wights tapered off and the scent of rotten, burning flesh grew more intense.
Meera jogged along the wall towards the nearest drawbridge across the moat adjacent to the walls; she needed to join the infantry archers while they cleared the fieldworks so the work crews could start rebuilding the defenses damaged or destroyed in the attack.
She'd faced the Night King and his army once, with Bran and Hodor and Summer and the Children of the Forest beside her; they'd lost, and in the end she and Bran had only escaped alive with his... their Uncle Benjen's help. This time, the army of the dead had attacked in force, and been stopped cold with the loss of tens of thousands of wights.
Atop the command tower, Arya watched the infantry pressing forward into the fourth ring, burning or capturing every wight not already destroyed, as Willem, one of the messengers assigned to Bran, climb over the railing, "Three-Eyed Raven says White Harbor's lit their trenches. Some dead inside the castle and the town from wights bein' raised. Ships kept the sides clear by the harbor."
Another messenger scrambled up the rigging to report hurriedly to Lady Winter, "Wargs report a big bunch of wight giants pullin' up trees in the forest, forty and two hundred or more, with at least ten and a hundred White Walkers, twenty and two hundred wight mammoths, and over two thousand bears and direwolves."
"Change of watch! Weapons check! Pages, get a hot meal to anyone staying through watch change," commanded Lady Winter; she, like many of the other leaders who hadn't fought personally, didn't need to rest yet. Her good-sister had fought, but only briefly - and Meera had proved to be the toughest bitch in the family, so she'd be fine.
The Night King wasn't turning in for the night, and they were going to need fresh troops very soon, she expected.
************************
In most places an order for the servants to search the castle might have been nearly comical, the kind of command a desperate ruler gave after something of value was stolen, servants moving around pell-mell. Here, it was anything but; just a few drumbeats, and the servants had grouped up immediately with whoever was close to them, taking formation in the halls, lines of spears and staves on either side, bows and crossbows and knives between the spears, moving with purpose and attention.
Most of all, he noticed the careful attention they paid, up and down, ahead and behind and around. Piles of supplies were looked into, piles of fresh snow from last night were stabbed - carefully - with dragonglass tipped spears or pikes. Corners, closets, underneath tables and shelves; hiding places of all types were checked... even those too small for adults, those his little birds would, in other times, have used.
Someone had put a great deal of thought and effort into this; someone who wasn't so arrogant as to think that no-one else would sneak into their castle. Someone who didn't believe they were invulnerable, or that dishonorable attacks were beneath contempt. Someone who was showing that his little birds weren't going to be so little as to fly beneath notice.
Arya Stark, he thought, had done this. Arya Stark, who had, he believed, been last seen by the stableboy she killed amidst the corpses on the site of the slaughter of her household in the Red Keep, returned to Westeros with magic and skills at war and spycraft both. The first ever Master of Whisperers in the North, and his new opponent and counterpart... and one who, it seemed, didn't enjoy the game for the game's sake, not like Lord Baelish had, like Tyrion did. She took it far too seriously.
"Do you remember before the Battle of the Blackwater, when Bronn mentioned the noble ladies selling their diamonds for a sack of potatoes?" asked Tyrion, also watching the ongoing search.
"You know I remember everything," answered Lord Varys.
"Do you think Queen Sansa or Lady Winter expect to sell their diamonds for a sack of potatoes? Or any of the other ladies here?"
"No," came the certain reply from the eunuch.
"Why not, do you think? Have they been rounding up the known thieves?" asked the Hand of Queen Daenerys, "Are they so frightening men would rather starve than steal?"
"I believe they have found alternate solutions to the problem your man Bronn tried to solve by lowering thievery."
"And? Come, old friend, don't leave me hanging."
"I heard whispers that not long ago in Gulltown, some foreign sailors killed two guards and stole three cartfuls of food," replied Varys conspiratorially, leaning in and whispering.
"And how do we know they were foreign sailors?"
"Because the next morning in the town square, those same three carts, still full of stolen food - untouched, I might add, according to the whisper - were sitting around the dead corpses of the foreign sailors who had stolen it. Underneath the corpses was a single, blood-soaked boot."
"A boot," queried Tyrion, "One which fell off a sailor?"
"The sailors had their full complement of footwear, I'm afraid. It was found under the corpses, yes," said Lord Varys, emphasizing the 'under' just enough for Tyrion to notice.
"Under the.. An under foot, as it were?"
"Exactly. The whispers are that the Underfoot appears to take a dim view of those who steal food, and is rather forward about how he shows that. It's an interesting solution, you see; thieves can watch themselves better than anyone else... an elegant solution, even, if the fences are part of it. The question is, will it work when food grows short?" said Varys, "When people grow desparate?"
"I suppose we'll see, though Sansa, Queen Sansa, appears to have supplied Winterfell rather better than Joffrey supplied King's Landing," said Tyrion, then with an introspective look, continued, "Than I supplied King's Landing. I hadn't even considered what the people might do in a siege. And, based on the old histories of the North - Barrowton in particular - the North has often dealt with that very problem in winters."
"Oh? And when did you read old histories of Barrowton?"
"Lord Hand Reed escorted me through the library yesterday, and I happened to hear bits of one, as it happened."
"Fortuitous that you should hear that story at this time, my Lord," replied Varys, looking down at his friend meaningfully.
"Fortuitous indeed," replied Tyrion dryly.
"Perhaps, my friend, you should start considering the realm more, and those with the right family name less. It appears our Queen has been given rather a lot to think about of late, and soon, she'll have questions for us. Questions she'll want answers to."
************************
Ser Kegan shook Valma's hand firmly, having said goodbye to the the Free Folk driver, then grabbed the wheels on his chair and spun to face the men on the dogsled, raising his voice to address those he'd gotten to know well these past many months, since the Maesters had saved his life at the cost of his legs after his horse fell on him while training at White Harbor. He'd been sent here because this was where the watchtowers had the most urgent need of leaders - old leaders, crippled leaders, but leaders nonetheless, and he'd grown to be glad of being in charge of this tower, and this crew.
"All right, youngsters! Make sure the Maesters get our names right in the history they talked about; our grandchildren, and their grandchildren, and their grandchildren's grandchildren need to know that their ancestors, their blood faced the second Long Night together, on the front lines - and we will make them bleed! You lot can face whatever's left after we're done with them. Tell Lady Winter we're going hunting... hunting dragons!" said Ser Kegan.
"Are you sure you won't keep some food? You don't need to send all of it with us," replied a sturdy, middle-aged mountain clanswoman who'd helped pack every bit of the food onto the sled. Water had been left behind; Winterfell had plenty of that.
"We won't need food, Cruhynn, not where we're going. Only dragonglass and fire. The Red Wolf'll make sure our families are fed."
Valma rolled her eyes as she checked the dog's harness and picked up the bowls they'd been drinking from, stowing them quickly, "You kneelers changed your leaders again; Meera Reed's keeping people fed now; she went beyond the wall to the cave of the Children of the Forest, and came back with the Three-Eyed Raven. She knows the real North; she'll take care of people. Red Wolf's a Queen now. Two Queens, maybe, however you kneelers figure it. Gods, you people are strange, but you can build, and you can fight. Good hunting!"
With that, the logging crew, and the youngest and fittest of those who had been sent out to the watchtowers raced away towards Winterfell, leaving those who would stay until the end behind.
"Soon dead," said an old woman of the Free Folk, carefully turning a pot of some mixture the Southrons had dropped off days earlier, that they'd use to ignite the tar that covered the ground inside the circle, if it was kept warm and soft by the fire. Some strange magic, she thought, but if it burned the dead, and burned her body, she was glad of it. She'd had seven children, one had survived to Hardhome, and none still lived today, but there were others who still had children, husbands, brothers, and she wanted them to live, wanted them to see her people retake the North from the dead.
They had no need to conserve their wood, not anymore, so their fire rose high for the first time in many months as the men and women of the watchtower basked in the heat, spoke to each other, said their goodbyes, and took their fighting positions with mugs of warm ale and hot water, their drummers waiting patiently as they peered out, squinting across the clearing at the sun moved into the afternoon hours, not long after it had risen.
"Where'd you say Lady Winter sat?" asked the knight leading this tower of his best scorpion shot, a man who'd lost one leg to a boar while hunting, a few years ago, while their best spotters peered out; their far-eye had been sent back with the youngsters. He was quite sure they wouldn't need it to spot the dead, not now, and there was not reason for it to be wasted out here when they burned.
The one-legged man who'd been one of the first crew assigned to this tower pointed down, "Right there. Sat down in the snow and just sat there, she did; still as ice and twice as silent, for an hour. Old Bob asked 'er what she was doing; brave man, he was. She said she was prayin'. Why?"
"I'm going to pray, too," said Ser Kegan, never having met Old Bob; the man had died in his sleep after a hard day's work before he'd arrived, "To the Father, I will give thanks that the North is free again. To the Mother, I will pray my family lives through the Long Night. And to the Stranger, I will give thanks that I have the chance to die fighting, that my death, that our deaths, will really matter. And I will pray to the Stranger that we get a shot at the Night King or his dragon!"
Ser Kegan pushed his wheeled chair over to the indicated point, the wheels disturbing the tar on the ground somewhat, and prayed. When he was done, he spent a little time reminiscing about his wife and his children; he'd certainly been given an education in how to reminisce, given how old most of his crew was. Then he picked up the small selfbow and quiver, and stationed himself by the fire, where he could light a long torch easily, and waited, listening to his men and women chat until the dead came.
"Movement!" came the call from the platform above even as another tower's horn call came rolling over the snow.
"Nock!" shouted the knight, "Scorpion, watch for dragons, walkers, and giants!"
"They're coming past the treeline! Wights, lots of them, all across the line!" called a spotter, looking back and forth along the cleared paths to the next watchtowers in the outer ring.
"Hide scorpion's leaving!"
"Light the trench! What kind of wights?" Ser Kegan said over the sounds of the great tower drums starting to pass detailed messages inwards, drumbeats overlapping, but the loudest message would be clear to well trained ears on the inner watchtower ring. Their sled scorpion backup in its hide must have been in danger of being overrun; when the logging crews had been evacuated, the best team of horses had been given to their hide scorpion for just this case. Truthfully, it was their best chance at bagging a dragon while the dragon was occupied with burning the tower, and them in it. With it gone, they'd have one shot with the scorpion on the tower at best before they were all killed... but there was no reason to lose two scorpions instead of just one. The living would need it.
"People wights! Mostly wildlings," called the lookout.
"Ignite!" shouted Ser Kegan to the other two archers incapable of working the trench, suiting action to words as he held his own specially made fire arrow in the flame.
"We Free Folk, cunt!" came the reply, to harsh laughter. What had been irritating and monotonous a day ago, a week ago, over the last months wasn't anymore; these were the men and women they'd die with, fighting to the end, together.
"Loose!" shouted Ser Kegan as he did so himself, aiming for a wight in the lead, which dropped immediately as the flaming arrow sank into its chest, "Rapid shots on the closest!"
"They aren't Free Folk!"
"Trench at twenty yards, then everyone on bows!" called out the knight between shots with his bow.
The most mobile of those left upended the small barrels and pots of rum they'd been issued, and had been heating, into the trench, stirring it into the top of the mix of tar and pitch the narrow, shallow trench was filled with while the dead crossed the clearing at a run, torches landing in it when the dead were less than twenty yards away, causing them to stop their run at the edge of the fire, even as arrow after flaming arrow slammed into them, causing them to crumple one after the other.
Ser Kegan was gritting his teeth as he shot; even without legs, his arms were still strong, and he'd had a lot of practice. He didn't need to be powerful, or accurate, just fast now, and careful enough to make sure the arrows were burning well first. By the Seven, if they could use the scorpion to launch even just one barrel of rum, they could kill scores of the dead! But no, Lady Winter, who wasn't here, had commanded... his thoughts ended as a new call came.
"DRAGONFIRE EAST!" screamed a spotter as the next watchtower over was set alight in blue flame, bright orange rising after the blue was done even as their drummer frantically pounded out the pattern for wight dragon and the identity of the destroyed tower; being able to locate the wight dragon alone made their sacrifice worthwhile, and they knew it. Every other tower knew where to look right now.
"HE'S COMING FOR US! EAST NORTH-EAST, LOW, SEVEN HUNDRED YARDS!" screamed that spotter.
"SHOOT THE FUCKER! DRUMMER, LOW LOW LOW!" yelled Ser Kegan. Lady Winter was a fucking genius, ordering they load one of their two castle-forged steel plate-cutters with dragonglass on and behind the head when the army of the dead was here. The drummer hammered out the pattern for 'low'; if they missed, if the dragon killed them, he'd only have this one chance to get the message out.
"FIVE HUNDRED YARDS!"
TWANG
The dragon-killer shaft flew straight and true... right over the dragon and its rider both, even as the airborne wight swerved sharply to the left just before the shaft passed over, disappearing behind a hill to the north.
"RELOAD PLATE-CUTTER! WIND THAT WINDLASS AS FAST AS YOU CAN!"
A section of the wights who had been standing surged forward, throwing themselves atop the narrow fire trench, one after the other as during the few seconds it took each to catch fire more could race over their bodies.
"DRAGONGLASS ARROWS, QUICK DRAWS! SPILL THE RUM! DRUMMER, PEOPLE WIGHTS OVERRUN!" called out Ser Kegan; each of them had only a handful of the precious missiles, but they'd be able to fire those as fast as they could draw; there was no need to fire with much power, not at this range. Their own drums sounded that they were overrun, just as the towers on either side of them were doing. This entire section of the line was being hit at once, but they wouldn't go quietly!
"Looks like we scared that coward right off! Fucker's not coming back!" called out their best spotter.
"Fuckin' rum's not worth drinking. Let's burn it!" laughed the crewman that was knocking over the barrel of hot rum by the fire, the fire having been put on a slight rise for just this. If his laughter had an edge of hysteria as an endless swarm of wights charged into their position, well, nobody was going to say anything.
Ser Kegan fired his four dragonglass arrows, then dropped his bow and took up a long torch in each hand, igniting them in the fire as those of his crew that were on the ground came by him, dragonglass-shard tipped spears stabbing out as the dead charged, first one, then another falling and being pounced on by the wights.
"Stranger be kind to us, I'll see you all in the Seven Hells!" called out Ser Kegan roughly, hitting another wight on the head with a torch before thrusting both flaming weapons into the tar-covered, rum-soaked ground. As a wight thrust a knife into his chest, knocking him and his chair over entirely as the world went up in bright fire around him, the rum spreading the fire rapidly, the tar igniting under it, he saw the wight that had stabbed him burn and collapse, and heard the last report of his tower.
"WALKER NORTH NORTHWEST, FOUR HUNDRED YARDS!"
TWANG
"GOT THE FUCKER!" he heard over the sound of fire and screaming, some his own... and he felt a great surge of vicious joy even as he burned alive; his crew had killed a White Walker, and they'd leave nothing behind for the Night King to defile.
************************
Arya stood on the northern edge of the hoarding, looking out through the mounted far-eye as the western sky started to turn orange, great columns of smoke spreading out along the watchtower rings, starting in the northeast and expanding; the outer ring was alight from the west-northwest to the south-southeast, and the inner towers almost as much. Below, ambush scorpions were filing across the bridges below, moving to the areas around the Godswood and Winter Town which had less fixed artillery protection, supplies being brought out to them to top them up.
Behind her, Jamie Lannister and Brienne of Tarth waited, each with a page giving a quiet running translation of the signals coming in. They were too new to be able to exercise large-scale command; she had them up here with her, over their protests, to observe and to learn. The Hound was below, commanding his sections of infantry directly, her other commanders and their seconds were doing the same, while Jon was acting as second dragonrider to Dany.
No two veteran commanders were together; her tower was the only one in the entire defensive structure with more than one commander at all, and that was because if she's split them up, they'd not learn as well. The wight dragon hadn't been spotted since one of the northern watchtowers had taken a shot at it; they'd missedm but had taught the Night King that towers weren't defenseless prey for dragons. Still, the dragon could appear at any time, from any direction. They might get the first shot were the air clear, and they might not. In snow or fog, the wight dragon would certainly have the first shot, though in either case, if it was close enough for dragonfire to hit inside the second ring, they'd have dozens of siege engines in range to hit back... and the bright flash of dragonfire made for easy aiming.
She wished they'd killed it... and she wished they'd never fired at all, only because they missed, and the Night King was apparently able to learn. And dodge, for that matter. This would have been much easier if he would have come up to Winterfell directly. On the other hand, just having taught him caution might protect countless other fortresses and towns from a dragon drop atop them; Cersei Lannister was, in fact, worried about dragons, and she'd ordered Qyburn's overpowered scorpion design built all over her territory; Seagard had its defenses, and Essos and elsewhere had been starting to build scorpions and ballista as well.
Now, it seemed was their turn to weather the incoming storm; the Southrons behind her shivered as the temperature started dropping. Throughout the camps, horses whinnied and dogs barked, even as a vast wall of fog closed in from the northeast.
Arya stepped away from the far-eye to issue a steady stream of orders; the drums, horns, and gongs of the command platform immediately repeating her instructions, even as a score messengers were ready to take more detailed messages anywhere she needed.
"Marksmen spring engines load Valyrian, watch for dragon. Massed spring engines load wooden firebolts. Trebuchets load large round. Marksman archers load dragonglass flight. Massed archers load fire flight; prepare to ignite. Heavy infantry man the ramparts. Cavalry to Hornwood, Umber, Flint. Scorpion sleds to Whitehill, Manderly, Mormont."
A messenger girl raced up the rigging, climbing onto the hoarding, reporting breathlessly.
"Nothing found inside the clearing! Wargs report wight giants and mammoths running in the lead, clearing snow for the rest! Lots of animal wights; deer, elk, moose, bear, direwolves. They're guessing ten and three hundred thousand on us now."
"We'll loose a volley of stones from the trebuchets at biggest concentration of giants and mammoths that approaches ring five," commanded Arya after giving the girl a nod, turning to watch Jamie and Brienne as she lectured.
"We'll see how many of them fall apart and how many survive; that much I can give the Maesters. If they come in straight, we're going to be taking the brunt of the first attack against Winter Town; shorter walls, less tall towers, so they've got more scorpions and fewer ballista. Shorter range, lighter bolts, less powerful. More rapid reloads, a little quicker on the swivel, and the shorter range means the most difficult long-range shots can't even be taken."
Arya continued, "Lyanna'll pick which engines engage which targets, though we usually use a mix. Accuracy against flying targets is what matters most; the best marksmen are loaded for wight dragon. As long as that thing's flying, we have to expect it to attack the moment we're not ready; so we must always be ready."
"I can agree with that," said the Lord Commander, "Those things are terrifying on the attack."
"Questions?" asked Lady Winter.
Brienne thought over her concerns about sallying once again. It'd be slow enough with needing pulleys to lift those great bars, but with tons of ice on both sides of the doors, the only possible way was from other ring divisions. If the wights got into the second or first rings, there wouldn't be much to do except try to isolate them.
"What are your orders if ring two is breached, my Lady Winter?" asked the Lady Commander.
"When the wights get into the second ring, the defenders will have to kill or capture them, or they die. The ice might give us some protection against thrown spears, wight giants and mammoths, maybe even White Walkers; their weapons shatter steel instantly; they might be able to do the same to the locking bars, the portcullises, even the doors. The walls are extremely thick, and it'd be hard to attack them with the moat there. If they can shatter stone like that, we'd have lost the first Long Night. Winter Town, Winterfell, the camps; Sansa's made sure they each have an even portion of food and supplies for winter. Whoever's lost won't doom the rest."
Arya looked into their eyes, continuing coldly, "That, Lord and Lady Commander, is the strategy we must abide by. Some of us will survive the winter; if all of us die here, and at White Harbor, we still have four strongholds that will learn from our fall, just as we learned from what the watchtowers sent as they fell. If all six fall, the rest of Westeros and Essos will learn from them. If Westeros falls, Essos will learn. Valar Morghulis, Lord Commander. We're the first of the living to face them prepared, but we are not the only of the living that will face them."
Jamie and Brienne traded a look; the younger Stark sister was cold, to think that way. Jamie had always put his life on the line in battle, had never given up on his troops like that... but, he thought, it's what his father would have done. Sacrifice some to win the war. That's how Robb Stark had captured him, beaten him - sacrificed some of his men to accomplish his goal. The Starks were willing to sacrifice tens of thousands of their people, down to babes in the cradle... but they were here, too, every one of them left alive was putting their own life on the line as well.
Arya held up a hand suddenly, going still and silent, and those on the tower stilled and quieted likewise, though not with the quite the same utter lack of motion.
"They're coming. Sound wights approaching, wight giants and mammoths at the fore," said Lady Winter, "Dragons to land at main gates, ring two middle. Pull all but the scout's bridges back to ring two. Messenger, tell the dragonriders to keep their heads and their dragons low, behind the ramparts in case of thrown spears. Remind them they can't take off without flying right through siege engine fire. Go."
The wall of fog and snow howled into the clearing, inexorably dampening visibility as it closed in on them, great shadows and shapes appearing in it from time to time.
Atop the outer wall of the Godswood, Meera watched it coming, listening to the signals from the command tower with one ear while snugging her furred helmet down over the other; she'd felt this cold before, she knew it well.
"Massed archers, check your firepots, check your arrows, check your quivers," shouted out Meera in her role as the commander of archers, her steady, even tones helping to keep those of her people close enough to hear them calm; small, high-pitched drums quickly relaying her orders across the entire stronghold as she continued, "Ready radial outwards, ring seven near, fire arrows. Wights go right down when you sink a flaming arrow into their flesh!"
This part of the battle was hers and the Scorpion Bear's to fight; Arya would give overall instruction, but her new good-sister had the entire battle to pay attention to. Meera looked down into the Godswood, past the bare branches of most of the trees, checking on circle after circle of this watch's archers, each with a generally fantastically ugly clay pot in front of them with a small, hot flame coming out the spout. The Maesters and pyromancers had come up with that; it burned far less fuel than the narrow flaming trench they'd started with, and the pages had come through earlier to light each pot.
Meera looked up at the tower, checking the long banner flying in the wind, well above the castle walls, showing the wind. There was still enough light to see them; the Night King, she thought, liked his grand entrances. If he meant to scare them into mistakes, he had another thing coming. She'd seen him at the cave of the Children of the Forest, and she hadn't broken then. She and her people wouldn't break now.
"Nock!" she called out, the command repeated immediately by the leaders of each group of archers.
"Ignite!"
Princess Meera peered through the fat far-eye she'd been assigned; the Myrish glassblowers had assured her that one like it would let them see better in the dark, and she'd definitely seen that. Now, it let her judge the oncoming horde carefully; she watched them running in, accounted for flight time and that the massed archers were slower than she or Alleras or the other marksmen and experts archers were, then called out the first volley of the battle.
"Loose!" she commanded, then waited while hundreds of flaming arrows arched up over the walls and out from the camps before her, the trebuchets loosing as they saw the arrows flying out, "Ring six middle! Nock!"
"Ignite!"
"Loose!" came her command; the trebuchets would take time to reload, but that first volley of two hundred pound stones might blunt the leading edge of the incoming attack... the edge made up of giants and mammoths, probably impossible for the light fire arrows her massed archers were shooting to put down.
"Nock! Ring six near! Continue steady!" she called out, adjusting their aim inwards, the leaders under her continuing the same steady, monotonous set of commands, a few seconds of rest between each shot keeping her archers from tiring themselves too quickly. This range demanded the most of them, full power draws with light flight shafts, and these weren't the best archers... but they were determined, and they had been training all day, every day, and eaten well each night; the bitter bread wasn't rationed. They could do this for some time, especially since they weren't using bows at the limit of their capability. This was the battle she was most familiar with - long endurance, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, always pushing on.
Above her, gongs made their distinct metallic sounds, and shortly after the least skilled of the spring-powered siege engines fired their own massive flaming bolts, half their crews, those too weak or old or not steady or fit enough to use bows or spears instantly moving to wind the windlasses or cranks to reset them. Unlike her crossbowmen, the siege engines each had two full windlass crews; they tired too easily, even as determined as their hearts were.
The fog rolled across one ring after the next, horn calls coming from inside it as the scouts, expert horsemen with sharp eyes and well-trained mounts relayed that the army of the dead was splitting into separate advances even as they continued to surround the fieldworks, each advance piling headlong into the fifth ring's moat.
The drums from the command tower called for the part of the plan that assumed the Night King or his White Walkers were, in fact, both intelligent commanders and able to see in that mess. The Night King was a greenseer, more powerful than Jojen had been, so if he was getting past Bran somehow, this might be important. Or it might be a waste of time and arrows... but not many. Arya'd gone over the plan before, taken her input and that of the others into account, changed it; this was going to be close, but they had to stop the Night King from overrunning them, and quickly, one way or another.
"Marksmen archers, light up ring five outer!" she called out, checking the wind banner, drawing her own bow and taking a flaming arrow a page handed her, drawing, and launching it as best she could towards where she knew ring five's outermost fire trench was... where, she knew, it would do nothing but warm up the cold contents, assuming it didn't land in a wight or miss. She was pretty sure she didn't miss, but she took another four rapid shots to put on a good show.
Horn calls sounded; the wights were closing in past the outermost moat.
"Massed archers, ring four middle! Ring one and two crossbows, ready goats-foot flaming warshafts, windlass dragonglass warshafts!" called out Meera as she heard the reports of the dead closing remorselessly over the sound of flaming arrows flying overhead, the wall of fog and snow coming over the castle walls now in a wave of even more intense cold, making it impossible to see anything past the center of ring three at all, and the near side of ring three was visible only sometimes, when the wind blew the fog around.
Then new horn calls sounded from the scouts even as shapes dashed through the middle of ring three towards ring two; using her far-eye, Meera Stark, Lady of Winterfell, saw it was the big, fast animal wights. The drums from the command tower sounded to make sure any of the infantry who weren't already aware were warned.
"Massed archers, rapid shots! Marksmen archers, ring three flight shafts! By camp division!" called out Meera, not adjusting the aim. Volleys fired blind were only useful against massed targets, and there fast horses, elk, and other animals who had jumped all or part of the moats ahead of the less capable wights weren't packed tightly enough to be more than a waste of shafts. Each set of archers would shoot outwards ahead of the camp they were assigned; those had been chosen to make sure there was missile support for every camp, every radial division.
The marksmen on the walls, however, could take shots as they saw them in their own sections, and they did, firing straight out at quickly closing animals; not difficult shots, even with the arrows taking a few seconds to reach the target... and those were dragonglass-tipped, lancing into rotted animals easily, and penetrating some of the lighter beasts regardless; from the walls, there was only time for one shot each as the animals raced towards the moat between ring two and three, and the ramparts and infantry behind... or, in a few unlucky wight's case, towards the ramparts before the main gates and the dragons behind.
The Hound watched the wights come in; just like that damned snow bear he'd fought, the came in fast and hard, and some of them were even on fucking fire! Fire in front of him, fire behind him, fire flying over his head. Fire fucking everywhere!
"Pikes and spears out! Shields up! Any of you fuckers die with a clean weapon, I'll rape your fucking corpse!" shouted Sandor. Some of the four-legged wights closing in dropped on the way in, taken down by the archers, many shattering as they dropped. Behind him the bowmen and crossbowmen - and women - started firing, flaming bolts racing right over his fucking head. That was worse than the volleys from the walls; he was a tall fucker, and they were standing and kneeling on the second line of ramparts, behind the spear and pike wall; he could feel the heat from the fucking things passing.
At least they were so fucking close they weren't going to miss easily... and if they did, at this range, he wouldn't be alive to be pissed off at them.
More of the wights came, on fire or not, racing across the fire trench on the other side of the moat, those that weren't dropped by the archers leaping across the moat... or trying to, since quite a few didn't make it, slamming into the near side of the moat and falling three times the height of a man down into it. The rest raced through the unlit inner fire trench, throwing themselves up the ramparts onto the ranks of pikes and spears even as his page translated the fucking horn calls from the wargs filling in for the scouts who had all retreated. Or died.
He'd fought beside Beric and his fucking flaming sword on the wight hunt; hell, he'd fought Beric and his fucking flaming sword! And killed him! He wasn't going to stop now, fire or not.
"I'm too ugly for you to fuck!" came the call from a bulky, scarred wildling woman, one of the more experienced leaders he'd been given. If that didn't beat all; a fucking wildling in charge. No wonder they needed him... and, he supposed, that Lannister cunt and the woman knight.
Ah shit, thought Sandor as the fog parted.
"I'm uglier than you! Brace the shield-wall, here come the dead cunts! Get ready to set the fucking trench on fucking fire! More arrows - you goat's foot fuckers yank that lever like you were fucking yourself! Rapid draw!" he shouted, looking back at the formation behind him and extending out to both sides as far as he could see, all the way around the castle, he knew.
Tall, thick tower shields were planted in grooves pounded into the rampart, braced by those behind, and those behind them who had their own line of shields; spears held one-handed pointing out from the front ranks reinforced by long pikes from the rear ranks held two-handed. Just his luck one of the attacks was coming right at him.
At least this was familiar; the wolf bitch'd gone and stolen Lannister formations, Lannister commands, and Lannister training. The dead would be here in force soon, and it was Lannister discipline that would hold them off.
"Tighten up and pucker your arseholes! Push your crotch against the rank in front's arse!" he said, hefting his axe over his own shield; at least he was tall enough this'd work for him. He wasn't supposed to fight much, he was supposed to lead, but he figured there wouldn't be much choice in a minute, when the moat filled up. The fog and snow ahead turned orange as a giant shape appeared, charging towards the lines.
On fucking fire.
"Mammoth! Tower cunts, shoot the fucker!" he called out, his page translating curses to signals to the scorpion towers in the ring one camps, across another moat to his rear. Those siege engines had been tasked specifically to support the shield-wall, and were at his command and that of the other infantry leaders.
TWANG
Arya scanned the lines; the dead hadn't attacked every part of the line, but more and more thrusts were coming in, just like when the army of the dead had attacked Jon and his captive wight; she didn't know if there were just a few wights that were faster and the others followed them, or if it was deliberate, but they'd crossed the moats with the simple expedient of filling a small section full of bodies and running across them; she'd heard the giants and mammoths falling into the outer moats with enormous thuds; some were on fire, now, the crackling as distinct as the faint orange hue the fog had in select places where the fourth and fifth moat was, but the huge wights had taken time to light up, and more and more wights were throwing themselves atop them so others could race across.
"Messenger! Tell Sam and Gilly they're coming in multiple independent thrusts, filling the moats, wight giants and mammoths leading; they barely slow down. New wights keep throwing themselves over it or into it. Goat's foot crossbows with dragonglass or fire down even wight elk and moose at close range; mammoths that aren't rotten need scorpions or bigger to put them down in one shot, even with flaming bolts. A few dragonglass warshafts from windlass crossbows or heavy warbows work too, or one through the eye. Fire arrows mostly just set the intact ones on fire. Animal wights race ahead and can leap twenty foot wide moats; increase width to thirty feet where possible. A wall of cold, fog and snow precedes them at a running pace, visibility seventy and two hundred yards maximum. Send a raven to Gulltown for immediate relay. Go!" dictated Arya.
"Jamie, Brienne; more than anything else, our duty is to make sure everyone else knows what they're going to face. We're going to do our best to stop them, to tell Death not today, but there's only one guarantee in life. All must die," said Arya somberly, glaring out to the north where the Night King probably was as the two messengers raced off to slide down the ropes and dart in opposite directions to the primary and secondary ravenries that Sam and Gilly were commanding, continuing sternly, "That especially applies to blasphemers like the Night King!"
"Yes, Lady Winter," replied Brienne. She had expected to be on the front lines, to be using her Valyrian steel sword to fight the dead with; instead, Arya had her up here with Jamie... and with Arya herself. Two of the best fighters in the army, up atop a tower far from the fighting... directing and organizing, and delegating. The younger of the two girls she'd sworn herself to was doing a great deal to ensure that others knew what she'd planned, knew why she'd planned it, knew the thoughts that had gone into it.
Brienne looked down at the short girl suspiciously; she'd spent quite a lot of time making herself replaceable. That, in and of itself, spoke volumes. Lady Arya was either keenly aware of her own mortality, or she wasn't planning on staying in Winterfell forever. That, however, was a problem for another time; today, it was her duty to learn what Lady Arya needed her to learn.
"Is it time to light the trenches yet?" asked Jamie.
"Not quite, but good timing, Jamie," replied Arya casually, then raised her voice, "Trebuchets, loose cold spirits fifth ring to third ring, then ready hot fire! Massed ballista, ready hot fire! Master archers, prepare fire arrows, fifth ring inwards!"
She watched the response to her commands, even as the second ring moat filled rapidly with the dead in a dozen places. None of the outer watchtowers were left, and only a few of the inner on the southwest were still passing messages in. She could have lit the trenches now, could have lit them even before the dead arrived, but the obvious answer to that was for the Night King to wait out the fire; he'd shown how patient he still was waiting out her idiot brothers and uncle. They had tens of thousands of barrels of pitch and tar, never mind the other flammables, but that wouldn't last forever, especially with the enormous size of the defenses.
Their only chance was to teach the Night King that even when the trenches weren't on fire, they were still too tough a nut to crack easily, that they had other defenses... that he couldn't simply overwhelm them in a single charge, or two charges, or ten, or a hundred. There would be other problems later... if this worked, but one problem at a time.
The Hound glared back at the double rank of crossbowmen; two ranks of kneeling ones, the shorter archers in front of the taller. Behind them, a rank of archers with warbows standing on a lower section of the rampart behind the short one the infantry used, which gave the missile troops enough elevation to shoot over the ranks of troops making up the shield-wall safely while letting the siege engine towers behind shoot over them.
"Shoot faster, damnit! You, get me more fucking fire arrows from inside the walls, right in fucking front of us!" growled Sandor at his drummer. The dead were coming too thick and fast; they needed to be thinned out more if they were going to hold for long.
"Yes, My Lord, ring three near!" said the page, drumming rapidly to call for more massed volley support.
"Not a... fuckit!" he growled, gauging the front rank of the shield-wall and the front rank of pikemen, behind the spearmen; they'd been under assault for nearly six minutes already, and while the pile of the wight cunts was still five feet below the top of the moat, the animals jumping over were big ones, and coming in fast; not easy to spear, and when you did, you got smashed against those behind you, or lost your grip on your weapon, and that he couldn't have.
"INFANTRY, SHIELDS UP! SECOND RANK, STRIKE! FRONT RANK, SWITCH! PIKES, SWITCH!" shouted the Hound, one command after the other in careful sequence, holding his fingers up to his mouth and letting loose a piercing whistle at each command to switch, a sound that carried better than his voice over the sounds of battle. This at least, his fucking troops did rapidly and skillfully; their set-piece work was well drilled, the front ranks turning their shields and themselves sideface and sidestepping back through the lines to become the new rear rank as the second rank stepped up and set their shields into the grooves, becoming the new front rank.
Those who slipped caught themselves on their fellows, or were caught by their fellows - he saw the woman who claimed to be too ugly yank a spearman up with one hand and shove him backwards without taking her eyes off the enemy; seven hells, she was strong. Hefting his axe, he struck down at the dead hand reaching for his ankles.
"Here they come; tighten up ranks, watch your strikes! You break your fucking spears and I'll break your fucking face!" roared the Hound.
After that, there was no more time to think; the dead were racing over each other even as flames started flickering brighter at the side of the pile deep in the moat before him; just his luck the fuckers were made of kindling and he was up here right in front of them. He smashed a flaming wight back with his shield, his axehead smashing into the head of another even as he checked on the battle line.
Arya watched the shield-wall switch ranks smoothly, radial division after radial division across the entire line, and nodded to herself; they'd lost a few soldiers already, and would lose more before the night was out, but not many, and the confidence actually holding the wights off would give the infantry was critical. Keeping those in front from getting too exhausted was key to holding the wights off - the dead didn't tire, but her troops did.
Those troops had to believe, really believe, they could win, or they wouldn't. She also needed to know that they could hold off the wights, or they wouldn't be able to clear the rings after. If they couldn't clear the rings with the infantry, they couldn't repair the moats and they'd be using siege engines to refill the fire trenches, which was fantastically wasteful compared to carefully pouring even layers of whatever the pyromancers came up with in, in the correct sequence.
Her head turned as she heard a faint but increasing thumping sound, and she called out new orders.
"All siege engines, watch for friendly dragons! Dragons to Hornwood ring two. Godswood marksmen scorpions at Hornwood command; all hornwood warbows and windlass wound to nock dragonglass; they've got wight mammoths coming, at least twenty, with giants!" called out Lady Winter.
Jamie looked out at the swirling snow that was all he could see to the northwest, past the Hornwood camp, then at Brienne, who shrugged, shaking her head. Neither one of them could tell how Arya had done it.
"Hear with your ears," said Arya without looking at them, "Mammoths are loud fuckers."
Alleras loosed another warshaft into a giant's eye; a difficult crossing shot two divisions over, and looked for her next target, the page next to her doing the same, selfbow over his small shoulder.
"WIGHTS INSIDE!" came the scream from behind and below her; Alleras spun, nocking a dragonglass tipped arrow as she watched ice breaking and wights charging up out of the pool below the heart tree; she started loosing as rapidly as she could even as commands were shouted evenly from the other side of the Godswood.
"Auxillary shield-wall to the heart tree! Archers near the heart tree, form triple line at twenty yards; dragonglass; leave the firepots! Quickdraw; forget power, shoot fast fast fast! Archery command to Lady Winter!" commanded Meera as she grabbed a shield and the spear Arya had loaned her, sliding down a rope into the Godswood and running towards the heart tree and the wights coming out of the water.
Gods, how could they have been so stupid? Their ancestors had practiced human sacrifice at the heart tree!
Princess Stark arrived at the front rank of archers around the heart tree before the auxiliaries did, yanking one of her troops back out of the way as she forced her way through to the front, her shield up and Valyrian tipped spear jabbing forwards with rapid, easy strikes as fast as she could while arrows swept past her on both sides, many of the wights on this side charging her specifically, as the closest target; she was glad to have her good-sister's weapon; with the Valyrian steel, she had no fear of the spearhead breaking on the bones of the wights, and like Arya, she didn't need anything big.
"Every other archer on the heart tree, two steps back! Let the auxillaries through!" she commanded.
Up above, Arya unslung her double-curve bow; as much as she longed to be in the fight below herself, that wasn't her job, not now, and tactical command of the archers had been passed to her besides. Meera would handle the wights in the Godswood.
"Check room by room! Messengers! Especially crypts, cellars, tunnels, and lower levels. Groups of twenty or more!" commanded Lady Winter, then turned back to the greater battle outside; there'd be pockets of the dead - no castle survived eight thousand years without secrets, but the lichyards had been exhumed and burned, and were now staging grounds for archers, the tombs in the crypts, she and Sansa had taken care of personally. There'd be lost or hidden corpses, but not many - whatever the Night King had intended, this was no more than a small distraction, and an expected one in general.
With that, Arya strode up to the edge of the platform, nocking and igniting a fire arrow and peering out at the lines; the wights had filled the divisions they'd crossed, and were charging straight in, not trying to spread out between the divisions except by happenstance. The wights were bridging the second moat fully, now, slamming into the defenders in an unceasing wave; the last watchtower on the inner ring had stopped sending messages minutes ago, and the dead were crossing the moats even on the southwest now. It was time to shut the gates on them, and slaughter every wight the Night King had sent in; he'd have to get used to losing wights instead of gaining them!
Atop the wall outside the Godswood, Alleras turned away from the skirmish before the heart tree as the drumbeats from the command tower rattled out the order to ignite the fifth ring trench. She looked up, not able to see the banners easily now that the sun had set, calling out "BANNERS!"; she needed to know the wind to make the shot.
Up in the tower above, a ship's lantern was opened to illuminate the wind banner for just a second, then closed again. The Sphinx turned back to face outwards, set her feet exactly as she'd practiced, raised her greatbow, taking exactly the stance, in exactly the place, that she'd drilled over and over, with exactly the same weight and balance of arrow she'd used. She raised her arms to exactly the right angle, then drew, adjusted for the wind, and loosed, the flaming arrow streaking out into the darkness.
Beside her, a page translated the signals while above the massed ballista, and the entire set of trebuchets launched the largest barrels of flammable mixes they could, flaming cloth trailing behind in the wind, shattering on impact and spraying fire over large swathes of the incoming wights, not just igniting them but rendering that ground temporarily impassible by wights, "Warg says you hit the rum, Sphinx! Fifth ring's igniting! One shot; you're amazing!"
She turned back to the heart tree, firing more arrows until the wights stopped coming. While she did that, another archer ignited the fourth ring. From the command tower another arrow ignited the third ring in an inferno that turned the horizon yellow, the barrels of rum and other rotgut the trebuchets had launched igniting instantly, the 'kindling' mixture in a thin layer atop the mix of pitch and tar igniting, if not as rapidly as alcohol, rapidly enough, and the flammables in the trenches and the wight corpses in the moats and on the ground started to burn quickly.
Overhead, large barrels of pitch and tar and other chemicals of the pyromancers, well warmed in the 'ovens' the ready ammunition was kept in, were loosed; large ones from the trebuchets and smaller ones from the torsion spring engines, fire trailing in the air until they splashed across land and wights both, fire spreading inside the rings.
"INFANTRY, SHIELDS UP! SECOND RANK, STRIKE! FRONT RANK, SWITCH! PIKES, SWITCH!" shouted the Hound roughly, what had been the original third rank becoming the first rank for the second time; the troops were tired, and there was more stumbling, more grabs, one near-fall, and two injuries from wights wielding pole-axes, even through the heavy armor those on the shield-wall wore.
"Water those men! And light the fucking trench!" commanded the Hound. They and the other fuckers on the front lines taking the brunt of the dead cunts well enough, but they'd need to have completely fresh troops up here to keep going much longer. Unlike fighting living fuckers, there wasn't any rest at all; the other side never faltered, never pulled back, never once so much as paused, the dead cunts. When the fire roared up in front of him, heat blasting his face even across twenty feet of moat and behind the suddenly shining wall rampart of ice he was behind, he waited out the last of the dead that could climb up and attack en mass, then stepped back to inspect his troops and see who'd broken their fucking weapons and not noticed like they should have when sent to the rear.
The heat from the fires thinned the fog even as smoke rose from them and a wave of warmth washed over the wall, the entire scene visible now, even as the call for massed archers to stand down came amidst the troops gagging and making exclamations of disgust at the atrocious stench that also washed over the wall.
Meera set the butt of her spear down, checking on her troops and the freshly arrived auxillary infantry in the unnatural yellow glow they were bathed in, "You two, get to the Maesters. You too! The rest of you, set a triple shield-wall around the pool, just in case, and check your weapons; anyone with a broken spearhead, switch out and get another from the stacks - pile your old ones up neatly; make it easy on whoever has to take them back for repair! Massed archers, back to your firepots! No rest for the archer! Pages, bread and water; my people are hungry and thirsty!"
With that, the Lady of Winterfell ran back to the wall, scrambling up the rigging until she had a good view again. The battlefield was lit up like it was still daylight, not nighttime, and growing brighter as the mounds of wights in the moats blazed up unnaturally. Far on her left, two great streams of dragonfire lanced out a few times, then stopped, then started again, a little closer; she could hear the distinct dragon horns ordering them clockwise around the fieldworks, clearing out the third ring one section at a time.
As the flames died down on the second ring, drums sounded infantry to advance to the third ring for the sections the dragons had finished with, archers and scorpion sleds behind them, followed by workmen and Maesters. Outside the fifth ring, just past where the large round stones of the trebuchets had landed at the start of the attack, the army of the dead waited in the swiftly dissipating fog with inhuman patience, while inside the screeching of burning wights tapered off and the scent of rotten, burning flesh grew more intense.
Meera jogged along the wall towards the nearest drawbridge across the moat adjacent to the walls; she needed to join the infantry archers while they cleared the fieldworks so the work crews could start rebuilding the defenses damaged or destroyed in the attack.
She'd faced the Night King and his army once, with Bran and Hodor and Summer and the Children of the Forest beside her; they'd lost, and in the end she and Bran had only escaped alive with his... their Uncle Benjen's help. This time, the army of the dead had attacked in force, and been stopped cold with the loss of tens of thousands of wights.
Atop the command tower, Arya watched the infantry pressing forward into the fourth ring, burning or capturing every wight not already destroyed, as Willem, one of the messengers assigned to Bran, climb over the railing, "Three-Eyed Raven says White Harbor's lit their trenches. Some dead inside the castle and the town from wights bein' raised. Ships kept the sides clear by the harbor."
Another messenger scrambled up the rigging to report hurriedly to Lady Winter, "Wargs report a big bunch of wight giants pullin' up trees in the forest, forty and two hundred or more, with at least ten and a hundred White Walkers, twenty and two hundred wight mammoths, and over two thousand bears and direwolves."
"Change of watch! Weapons check! Pages, get a hot meal to anyone staying through watch change," commanded Lady Winter; she, like many of the other leaders who hadn't fought personally, didn't need to rest yet. Her good-sister had fought, but only briefly - and Meera had proved to be the toughest bitch in the family, so she'd be fine.
The Night King wasn't turning in for the night, and they were going to need fresh troops very soon, she expected.
************************
Last edited:
- Location
- Probably Not Behind You
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Very very fun. Am I understanding correctly that the wights from the pool are ancient sacrifices that got dumped in there? It also isn't always super clear when the point of view changes, but for the most part everything flows. Clearly the Night King is adjusting rapidly to someone having a carefully planned defense against him. Can't wait for the next installment to see just what those trees will be used for!
- Location
- United States, CA
See this, this makes sense. Forgetting the crypts is completely ridiculous, but forgetting about something your ancestors haven't done in thousands of years? Understandable.
Can't wait to see what the Night King does next.
Can't wait to see what the Night King does next.
- Location
- Madness realms
Given the way this is going it's going to be great afterwards when Danny is flying back to her home base and doesn't forget about a fleet of ships in open water she could see with ease.
Thank you for the reply! If there's any particular parts you'd like to mention, I'll make sure to edit them for clarity - when I do my editing pass, I'll try to improve on that in general, too!
Correct - the First Men sacrificed people to the Old Gods, to the heart trees. Some of their corpses were still there and intact enough to be raised.
Hah! Same wight time, same wight channel, new and improved! Now with uprooted trees!
Yes, that'll feature next chapter.
Thank you - that's pretty much what I was going with, though I suspect the human sacrifice stopped more in the several hundred to couple thousand years ago range, rather than thousands. Definitely long before those Aegon-come-lately Targs showed up, though.
And which she could have gotten intelligence reports on from the Three-Eyed Raven, who will have plenty of free time once he's not playing now you see me, now you don't with the Night King.
Thank you all for taking the time to reply!
Glossary
GLOSSARY:
Ballista: A large scorpion. (See: Scorpion)
Bow: A device for propelling shafts/arrows/bolts with a long wooden stick with one or more curves (See: Double-curve bow) and a string, where an arrow is nocked (See: Nock) to the bowstring, then pulled back by the archer (using their back muscles as well as their arms) and loosed. In this fic, many good ones are made of Dornish yew. Goldenheart is a Summer Isles wood that makes the best bows... except for dragonbone bows, which can be better than even Goldenheart bows.
Counterweight trebuchet: A large siege engine using gravity to pull down a heavy weight on a short arm, which them much more rapidly moves the end of a longer arm to throw an object
Cranequin crossbow: a rotating gear spanned crossbow, mechanical advantage perhaps 182:1 or better. Maximum draw weight perhaps 2000 pounds and more.
Crossbow: A bow mechanically capable of keeping itself in the drawn position, and releasing with the push of a lever or pull of a trigger (which is, in fact, a lever). Multiple ways to span (See: Span), including hand-spanning, goat's foot levers, windlasses/winches, cranequins, and so on. (See: Goat's foot crossbow, Windlass wound crossbow, Cranequin crossbow). Requires far less strength and training than traditional bows that can get similar penetration.
Death's Head: A Valyrian plate-cutter shaft (See: Valyrian plate-cutter shaft) where the Valyrian steel came from Valyrian steel slave collars from old Valyria by way of the House of Black and White in Braavos, and is on loan, to be used ONLY against the army of the dead.
Double-curve bow: Westerosi/Essosi term for a recurve bow; more efficient at imparting velocity to an arrow than a normal bow.
Dragon: A large, flying, fire-breathing target for Valyrian plate-cutter shafts (See: Valyrian plate-cutter shaft) and other high penetration or excessively dangerous ranged weaponry. Seen breathing fire in roughly 3 to 8 second bursts, with a range of at least 80 yards from the dragon's mouth.
Dragonglass: Called obsidian by Maesters; volcanic glass, sometimes called frozen fire in this fic's universe. Kills wights and White Walkers both.
Dragonglass shard dagger: In this fic, a wooden dagger with shards of dragonglass fastened to it, typically inset into grooves in the wood and glued in with pitch or another sticky substance.
Draw weight: the number of pounds to draw/span a bow to maximum. Note that crossbows are much higher than warbows, however, crossbows have only a few inches (5-7ish) to impart velocity to the bolt, while warbows have a couple feet to do the same, so longbows achieve higher velocity with lower poundage/draw weight.
Fieldworks: Fortifications, including but not limited to walls, ramparts (See: Ramparts), ditches, trenches (big ditches), moats (big trenches), and varied other constructions built to hold off, repel, or slow the enemy, or to disrupt their formations.
Flight shaft: A light shaft, designed to fly long distances.
Goat's foot crossbow: A crossbow spanned by a removable lever with variable mechanical advantage, averaging perhaps 5:1, maximum, at the very end, perhaps 12:1 or better. Much faster to span than a windlass wound crossbow; perhaps 550 pounds max draw weight. Examples: 470lb crossbow, 5.5 inch travel, fired a 2 ounce (57 gram) broadhead bolt at 140fps (42.6 mps), and a 1.76 ounce (50 gram) blunt bolt at 143.9fps (43.8 mps) (see Youtube video "470lbs Medieval German hunting crossbow - shooting barbed heads" by "Tod's workshop"). A 450 pound crossbow fired a 2.1 ounce (60 gram) bolt at 139 fps (42.4 mps).
Goldenheart: A wood from the Summer Isles, which makes the best bows... except for dragonbone, which can make better bows. It is forbidden to export Goldenheart from the Summer Isles, though Ser Loras had a lance made from it.
Heart's Bane: Death's Head: A Valyrian plate-cutter shaft (See: Valyrian plate-cutter shaft) where the Valyrian steel came from Heartsbane, the ancestral Tarly sword, provided by Samwell Tarly. These are owned by Samwell Tarly.
Hoarding: A temporary wooden structure put on the outside of, and able to look straight down upon, a wall or tower to provide a platform for archers, crossbow users, and people dropping stones, tar, pitch, hot water, hot sand, and so on down the sides.
Loose: The command to release an arrow or bolt or other shaft. In this fic, that also includes drawing bows, because holding a warbow at full draw for more than a few seconds is impossible.
Longbow: A long bow with a simple curve. A 95lb yew longbow fired a 1.5oz (42.5 gram) arrow at 139fps (42.4 mps) (see Youtube video "Medieval vs Modern Crossbows/bows Ballistic Gel Tests" by "Tod's Workshop").
Machicolations: A permanent stone structure put on the outside of, and able to look straight down upon, a wall or tower to provide a platform for archers, crossbow users, and people dropping stones, tar, pitch, hot water, hot sand, and so on down the sides.
Marksmen: Archers, crossbow users, or siege engine crews of sufficient accuracy to be used on precision single targets; they shoot from hoardings, machicolations, walls, towers, and ramparts.
Massed <archers or engines>: Those archers/crossbow users, or siege engine crews not accurate enough to be termed Marksmen (See: Marksmen); they use formations and loose in massed volleys at area targets.
Nock: to place an arrow on a bowstring
Plate-cutter head: Short, heavy head for a bolt or arrow designed with cutting edges (typically 4 - the head often has a square cross-section) for penetrating plate; in this fic, they're either case hardened or fully castle forged steel, in order to reduce deformation upon impact and increase penetration. Also known as a "short bodkin" - the bolt was fairly thick and the edge angles large (i.e. quickly becoming fat, like a chisel, not thin like a razor) to reduce deformation. Must be mounted to a thick, heavy shaft - in this fic, ideally ironwood or, for siege engine bolts, iron or steel - if the energy of the shot is spent on shattering the shaft, it's not spent on penetrating the target.
Plate-cutter head with dragonglass backing: In this fic, a common variant on plate cutters - often with a tiny chip of dragonglass on the tip, and additional chips or flakes glues just behind the plate cutter head, so that if it his leather or old bronze armor, the plate-cutter head can penetrate the armor, while the dragonglass flakes kill the wight or White Walker who would otherwise have nearly ignored the hit.
Poundage (of a bow/crossbow): See Draw weight
Rampart: a defensive bank, wall or fortification of earth or stone. Or, in this fic, snow and ice reinforced with small branches.
Scorpion: A small ballista; a variant of a large crossbow used as artillery in ancient times. Can be quite accurate, historically. In this fic, while Qyburn invented a design that was especially powerful for its size, scorpions as a whole are old, old weapons, with some mounted on the Wall.
Selfbow: a bow made of one piece of wood (typically carefully milled/cut to have both heartwood and softer wood, rather than laminating different materials together)
Siege engine: generic term for artillery, in this fic, that's primarily trebuchets, scorpions, and ballista.
Shaft: Another way to refer to the long, typically wooden part of a crossbow bolt or an arrow, or the wooden or metal shaft of a scorpion or ballista bolt. Note that these were in medieval times not uniform - they might be bulged in the middle, or the front, or the back, and that affected how they flew and how they acted when they impacted the target (how likely to break or bend, etc.). (See: Flight shaft) (See: War shaft)
Sound <command>: Instruct the appropriate drums, gongs, horns, and so on to pass on a particular command or message.
Span: to draw a crossbow
Spear: A stick with a pointy end. Stick them with the pointy end!
Spring engine: See torsion spring siege engine.
Torsion spring siege engine: a general term for scorpions and ballista.
Trebuchet: a large siege engine using a long lever arm to throw things. In this fic, that means counterweight trebuchets. See: Counterweight trebuchet.
Valyrian plate-cutter shaft: In this fic, a scorpion or ballista bolt with an iron or steel shaft, or a war shaft (See: War Shaft) for a crossbow or warbow, and a plate-cutter head (See: Plate-cutter head) whose leading part is made of Valyrian steel with a tang like a knife's, mated to a castle-forged rear half, designed with the assistance of Maesters running tests against iron plate specifically to penetrate their best estimates of dragonscale at maximum range. Known by the aliases of where the Valyrian steel came from. (See: Death's Head, Heart's Bane, and Wolf's Head).
Warbow: a heavy bow, be it double-curve (See: Double-curve bow) or normal. Per the Mary Rose research, the bows found on the sunken Mary Rose from historical England ran from draw weights of 100 to 180 pounds, with the largest groups in the 150 to 160 pound range.
War shaft: a heavy shaft, designed for penetration. Penetration is a highly complex topic, though angle of impact is a huge influence. For the arrow or bolt shaft, if it shatters or breaks, that means a significant portion of the energy it carried was spent on shattering or breaking the shaft... and the head was likely knocked farther off-angle. If the shaft bends, again, very likely less penetration. Thus, warshafts are often thicker overall, and may have a bulge near where it meets the head (medieval shafts aren't perfect cylinders), and are, in this fic, often made of the strongest possible materials. Note that shattering shafts can be a significant danger to those around the impact... unless they're wights, who don't care about wooden shrapnel in their hands, elbows, legs, throats, or eyeballs.
Winch wound crossbow: see Windlass wound crossbow
Windlass wound crossbow: A crossbow spanned by a removable rope and pulley system with a mechanical advantage of easily 150:1; maximum draw weight perhaps 1500 pounds and more. In the context of this fic, these are built much more powerful than the most powerful goat's foot crossbows deliberately. Much slower to span than a goat's foot; also, one has to be careful not to get the rope between the pulleys tangled when attaching, detaching, and carrying the windlass! A 976 pound windlass crossbow fired a 3.38oz (96 gram) bolt at 157 fps (47.9mps) (see Youtube video "1000lbs medieval crossbow - shot on a chronograph" by "Tod's Workshop"). An 860lb windlass crossbow fired a 3.08oz (87.5 gram) bolt at 155.7fps (48.2 mps) (see Youtube video "Medieval vs Modern Crossbows/bows Ballistic Gel Tests" by "Tod's Workshop")
Wolf's Head: A Valyrian plate-cutter shaft (See: Valyrian plate-cutter shaft) where the Valyrian steel came from the Starks - from the Bolton's skinning knife/flaying knife, the Catspaw dagger, or their other Valyrian steel.
Ballista: A large scorpion. (See: Scorpion)
Bow: A device for propelling shafts/arrows/bolts with a long wooden stick with one or more curves (See: Double-curve bow) and a string, where an arrow is nocked (See: Nock) to the bowstring, then pulled back by the archer (using their back muscles as well as their arms) and loosed. In this fic, many good ones are made of Dornish yew. Goldenheart is a Summer Isles wood that makes the best bows... except for dragonbone bows, which can be better than even Goldenheart bows.
Counterweight trebuchet: A large siege engine using gravity to pull down a heavy weight on a short arm, which them much more rapidly moves the end of a longer arm to throw an object
Cranequin crossbow: a rotating gear spanned crossbow, mechanical advantage perhaps 182:1 or better. Maximum draw weight perhaps 2000 pounds and more.
Crossbow: A bow mechanically capable of keeping itself in the drawn position, and releasing with the push of a lever or pull of a trigger (which is, in fact, a lever). Multiple ways to span (See: Span), including hand-spanning, goat's foot levers, windlasses/winches, cranequins, and so on. (See: Goat's foot crossbow, Windlass wound crossbow, Cranequin crossbow). Requires far less strength and training than traditional bows that can get similar penetration.
Death's Head: A Valyrian plate-cutter shaft (See: Valyrian plate-cutter shaft) where the Valyrian steel came from Valyrian steel slave collars from old Valyria by way of the House of Black and White in Braavos, and is on loan, to be used ONLY against the army of the dead.
Double-curve bow: Westerosi/Essosi term for a recurve bow; more efficient at imparting velocity to an arrow than a normal bow.
Dragon: A large, flying, fire-breathing target for Valyrian plate-cutter shafts (See: Valyrian plate-cutter shaft) and other high penetration or excessively dangerous ranged weaponry. Seen breathing fire in roughly 3 to 8 second bursts, with a range of at least 80 yards from the dragon's mouth.
Dragonglass: Called obsidian by Maesters; volcanic glass, sometimes called frozen fire in this fic's universe. Kills wights and White Walkers both.
Dragonglass shard dagger: In this fic, a wooden dagger with shards of dragonglass fastened to it, typically inset into grooves in the wood and glued in with pitch or another sticky substance.
Draw weight: the number of pounds to draw/span a bow to maximum. Note that crossbows are much higher than warbows, however, crossbows have only a few inches (5-7ish) to impart velocity to the bolt, while warbows have a couple feet to do the same, so longbows achieve higher velocity with lower poundage/draw weight.
Fieldworks: Fortifications, including but not limited to walls, ramparts (See: Ramparts), ditches, trenches (big ditches), moats (big trenches), and varied other constructions built to hold off, repel, or slow the enemy, or to disrupt their formations.
Flight shaft: A light shaft, designed to fly long distances.
Goat's foot crossbow: A crossbow spanned by a removable lever with variable mechanical advantage, averaging perhaps 5:1, maximum, at the very end, perhaps 12:1 or better. Much faster to span than a windlass wound crossbow; perhaps 550 pounds max draw weight. Examples: 470lb crossbow, 5.5 inch travel, fired a 2 ounce (57 gram) broadhead bolt at 140fps (42.6 mps), and a 1.76 ounce (50 gram) blunt bolt at 143.9fps (43.8 mps) (see Youtube video "470lbs Medieval German hunting crossbow - shooting barbed heads" by "Tod's workshop"). A 450 pound crossbow fired a 2.1 ounce (60 gram) bolt at 139 fps (42.4 mps).
Goldenheart: A wood from the Summer Isles, which makes the best bows... except for dragonbone, which can make better bows. It is forbidden to export Goldenheart from the Summer Isles, though Ser Loras had a lance made from it.
Heart's Bane: Death's Head: A Valyrian plate-cutter shaft (See: Valyrian plate-cutter shaft) where the Valyrian steel came from Heartsbane, the ancestral Tarly sword, provided by Samwell Tarly. These are owned by Samwell Tarly.
Hoarding: A temporary wooden structure put on the outside of, and able to look straight down upon, a wall or tower to provide a platform for archers, crossbow users, and people dropping stones, tar, pitch, hot water, hot sand, and so on down the sides.
Loose: The command to release an arrow or bolt or other shaft. In this fic, that also includes drawing bows, because holding a warbow at full draw for more than a few seconds is impossible.
Longbow: A long bow with a simple curve. A 95lb yew longbow fired a 1.5oz (42.5 gram) arrow at 139fps (42.4 mps) (see Youtube video "Medieval vs Modern Crossbows/bows Ballistic Gel Tests" by "Tod's Workshop").
Machicolations: A permanent stone structure put on the outside of, and able to look straight down upon, a wall or tower to provide a platform for archers, crossbow users, and people dropping stones, tar, pitch, hot water, hot sand, and so on down the sides.
Marksmen: Archers, crossbow users, or siege engine crews of sufficient accuracy to be used on precision single targets; they shoot from hoardings, machicolations, walls, towers, and ramparts.
Massed <archers or engines>: Those archers/crossbow users, or siege engine crews not accurate enough to be termed Marksmen (See: Marksmen); they use formations and loose in massed volleys at area targets.
Nock: to place an arrow on a bowstring
Plate-cutter head: Short, heavy head for a bolt or arrow designed with cutting edges (typically 4 - the head often has a square cross-section) for penetrating plate; in this fic, they're either case hardened or fully castle forged steel, in order to reduce deformation upon impact and increase penetration. Also known as a "short bodkin" - the bolt was fairly thick and the edge angles large (i.e. quickly becoming fat, like a chisel, not thin like a razor) to reduce deformation. Must be mounted to a thick, heavy shaft - in this fic, ideally ironwood or, for siege engine bolts, iron or steel - if the energy of the shot is spent on shattering the shaft, it's not spent on penetrating the target.
Plate-cutter head with dragonglass backing: In this fic, a common variant on plate cutters - often with a tiny chip of dragonglass on the tip, and additional chips or flakes glues just behind the plate cutter head, so that if it his leather or old bronze armor, the plate-cutter head can penetrate the armor, while the dragonglass flakes kill the wight or White Walker who would otherwise have nearly ignored the hit.
Poundage (of a bow/crossbow): See Draw weight
Rampart: a defensive bank, wall or fortification of earth or stone. Or, in this fic, snow and ice reinforced with small branches.
Scorpion: A small ballista; a variant of a large crossbow used as artillery in ancient times. Can be quite accurate, historically. In this fic, while Qyburn invented a design that was especially powerful for its size, scorpions as a whole are old, old weapons, with some mounted on the Wall.
Selfbow: a bow made of one piece of wood (typically carefully milled/cut to have both heartwood and softer wood, rather than laminating different materials together)
Siege engine: generic term for artillery, in this fic, that's primarily trebuchets, scorpions, and ballista.
Shaft: Another way to refer to the long, typically wooden part of a crossbow bolt or an arrow, or the wooden or metal shaft of a scorpion or ballista bolt. Note that these were in medieval times not uniform - they might be bulged in the middle, or the front, or the back, and that affected how they flew and how they acted when they impacted the target (how likely to break or bend, etc.). (See: Flight shaft) (See: War shaft)
Sound <command>: Instruct the appropriate drums, gongs, horns, and so on to pass on a particular command or message.
Span: to draw a crossbow
Spear: A stick with a pointy end. Stick them with the pointy end!
Spring engine: See torsion spring siege engine.
Torsion spring siege engine: a general term for scorpions and ballista.
Trebuchet: a large siege engine using a long lever arm to throw things. In this fic, that means counterweight trebuchets. See: Counterweight trebuchet.
Valyrian plate-cutter shaft: In this fic, a scorpion or ballista bolt with an iron or steel shaft, or a war shaft (See: War Shaft) for a crossbow or warbow, and a plate-cutter head (See: Plate-cutter head) whose leading part is made of Valyrian steel with a tang like a knife's, mated to a castle-forged rear half, designed with the assistance of Maesters running tests against iron plate specifically to penetrate their best estimates of dragonscale at maximum range. Known by the aliases of where the Valyrian steel came from. (See: Death's Head, Heart's Bane, and Wolf's Head).
Warbow: a heavy bow, be it double-curve (See: Double-curve bow) or normal. Per the Mary Rose research, the bows found on the sunken Mary Rose from historical England ran from draw weights of 100 to 180 pounds, with the largest groups in the 150 to 160 pound range.
War shaft: a heavy shaft, designed for penetration. Penetration is a highly complex topic, though angle of impact is a huge influence. For the arrow or bolt shaft, if it shatters or breaks, that means a significant portion of the energy it carried was spent on shattering or breaking the shaft... and the head was likely knocked farther off-angle. If the shaft bends, again, very likely less penetration. Thus, warshafts are often thicker overall, and may have a bulge near where it meets the head (medieval shafts aren't perfect cylinders), and are, in this fic, often made of the strongest possible materials. Note that shattering shafts can be a significant danger to those around the impact... unless they're wights, who don't care about wooden shrapnel in their hands, elbows, legs, throats, or eyeballs.
Winch wound crossbow: see Windlass wound crossbow
Windlass wound crossbow: A crossbow spanned by a removable rope and pulley system with a mechanical advantage of easily 150:1; maximum draw weight perhaps 1500 pounds and more. In the context of this fic, these are built much more powerful than the most powerful goat's foot crossbows deliberately. Much slower to span than a goat's foot; also, one has to be careful not to get the rope between the pulleys tangled when attaching, detaching, and carrying the windlass! A 976 pound windlass crossbow fired a 3.38oz (96 gram) bolt at 157 fps (47.9mps) (see Youtube video "1000lbs medieval crossbow - shot on a chronograph" by "Tod's Workshop"). An 860lb windlass crossbow fired a 3.08oz (87.5 gram) bolt at 155.7fps (48.2 mps) (see Youtube video "Medieval vs Modern Crossbows/bows Ballistic Gel Tests" by "Tod's Workshop")
Wolf's Head: A Valyrian plate-cutter shaft (See: Valyrian plate-cutter shaft) where the Valyrian steel came from the Starks - from the Bolton's skinning knife/flaying knife, the Catspaw dagger, or their other Valyrian steel.
29 Ice and Fire
In the moonlight, Sansa strode through Winter Town after cleaning her spearhead before she left the brothel, her guards behind her. She'd gone there with Kitty to show those in Winter Town they were cared for, and to be far enough from Lord Royce, Meera and Arya that a single attack wouldn't get more than one of those leading her kingdoms. She hadn't expected to need her fighting skills, to take up a spear and shield, to stab wights with dragonglass and shatter their thin arms with her shield... but she had, standing in the second rank at the rear door of the brothel. She'd fought, now, as her sister had fought, as her brothers had fought, as her father had fought - even as her mother had fought against the cutthroat that had been sent for Bran.
She should have expected the wights, given what she knew of Littlefinger and his lack of scruples. The dead had risen from the ground inside the brothel's carriage house, already inside the outer walls of the brothel, and had swarmed in through the back door and the windows both. Some of them had been small, too small to have been full grown when they died in the brothel, yet more victims of Baelish's practices and those of his customers.
She'd forbidden those kinds of horrific practices, and they were still tracking down who had... partaken... of those offerings. However, that business had been going on for longer than she'd been alive, and investigation took time. No few of those who paid for such things had been travelers, dead or out of reach, and of those in her reach, most had already been executed or sent to the Night's Watch for serving Littlefinger... but there were others yet to be found, and such things would not be tolerated in her kingdoms.
One way or another, her sister would handle the rest of those they found - either as the Justice in the North and the Vale in trials, or as the Master of Whisperers, once they were sure they had the right person. Baelish had used their practices against them, she knew very well, and Cersei would have as well, but for all she learned from them, that was not a choice she had any desire to make.
Another messenger ran up to the Queen with the final summary of supply use from the archers outside the walls, giving their report over the sounds of construction, cleaning, and repair. The signals had been clear - another attack was coming, and it was her responsibility to ensure the supplies kept flowing smoothly. While she was no longer the Lady of Winterfell, the new Lady wouldn't be able to manage that and her own leadership duties, nor Arya with her own other duties. Sansa had learned enough military lessons now that she could handle the distribution of military supplies well enough.
That job wasn't nearly as simple as it had sounded to her when the Free Folk and the Knights of the Vale had retaken Winterfell. Water was simplicity in itself in Winterfell; food was easy enough for the inhabitants and the working parties - even medicines weren't difficult, with only a few requiring special storage, and the amounts required were small enough that only a small amount of storage sufficed for many Maesters to be healing in the same place at the same time.
Military supplies, however, came in drastically varied types and sizes, were used in large quantities, and many were utterly specific and incredibly delicate, particularly the wildfire. Should the servants pull up a gross barrels of beans instead of wheat, the kitchens could still feed a digging party of seven and ten thousand hard workers for a day on that, even if they'd need to rearrange the menu for the rest of the week to compensate.
Sansa knew that should the servants bring bolts to the archers, scorpions shafts to the trebuchets, cold barrels of tar and pitch instead of warmed, or the wrong size stones to the siege engines, they would have to be shoved to the side - in the way, in this crowded castle - and the correct supplies brought immediately so as not to run out during a battle, then the incorrect ones brought back to storage or to the correct places. The first exercise after Arya had left on her little trip, just that had happened, and it had been a mess that had taken hours to untangle.
Now, better labeling of the barrels, constant training, and making sure at least one member of each supply party could read at least the labels had corrected that problem, and the archers and engines had been supplied continuously throughout this battle, with each set of supplies being checked at each hand-off from one party to another, by those who had learned the right lessons to know what needed to go where.
"Sandie, please tell my sister we've used fifteen barrels of dragonglass war shafts, seven of fire war shafts, thirty of dragonglass flight shafts, and seventy and a hundred of fire flight shafts, split as expected between arrows and bolts, as well as replacing eight hundred and three thousand spears with broken dragonglass heads, and nine hundred staffs for dragonglass damage," said Sansa to one of the messengers following her. More than seventy and a hundred thousand arrows and bolts used in less than an hour of combat; twenty two and two hundred barrels of arrows and bolts. With that many barrels of food, she could feed five and fifty thousand people normal winter rations for a full day, or seven and twenty thousand their current war rations. All that effort from the knappers and fletchers and other craftsmen, spent in less than an hour, not counting scorpion and ballista bolts, trebuchet projectiles, the fieldworks and obstacles outside the camps, and hundreds of barrels of pitch and tar that had been flung at the enemy, or that were being used to refill the fire trenches.
She paused to smile as she greeted a crew of very motivated new volunteers working on one of the newest building sites, fresh volunteers who had been digging or logging now being guided by carpenters and others who had been assigned to building these past months. Tall, thick wooden logs, each made from a single old tree, were being supported upright by ropes and braces as crews worked on the slotting the structure around them together and pinning the joins solidly in place, even while others were swarming over the ground, still sorting and carrying away the debris from the destruction of the old two story granary that had been there before; it had been too short to hold enough, too weak to add floors to, and in a spot where they could put up a tower scorpion and another set of archers much higher up while working on a more permanent building below.
She spoke briefly with the crews and volunteers as well as the Maester with both iron and steel links advising them, asking the names of the crew leaders she didn't already know, then continued on towards the newest glass garden that had been built by the Myrish glassblowers they had; like everything else she'd seen, work was moving more briskly than she'd ever seen before - the army of the dead was literally outside their gates, and that had a pronounced effect on her people's motivation. She could see their fear, but also their courage, and their determination.
"Nickolas, tell the kitchens to prepare an extra half meal's worth of bread and soup and send hot food out to everyone who's still working instead of coming in to eat. Dedicated men and women deserve to be cared for properly," said Sansa, pitching her voice to carry without being obvious about it.
"Theys gonna wanna eat with this smell?" asked the boy, his nose wrinkling at the stench of burning corpses which still filled the air.
"Yes, even with this smell; when you work hard, as everyone is doing, you need to eat, whatever it smells like. Don't worry, you'll manage to eat something, too. Run along, quickly now," replied Queen Sansa, turning to head to the new glass gardens. In the next of the brand new glass gardens constructed by the Myrish glassblowers and their local helpers, they were planting the very first seeds that the Maesters had determined were the best mix for growing with the cold and dark of their steadily shortening days.
She would be there to see it, and to be seen seeing it; that would be reported to the other strongholds in time, to remind them again how important planting was. Even for those strongholds that weren't built on hot springs, the glass gardens would trap the heat the sun gave, for however long that might be each day; that would be enough to be useful, as long as there was any day left.
Neither snow nor fog nor wights nor White Walkers nor even the Night King himself outside the gates would keep her kingdoms from preparing for the Long Night. The warriors in her family had their wars to fight, with spear and shaft in the open, and with knives in the dark. She had her own to fight, with politics and with preparation. They had to win against the Long Night and the Night King both to survive, and they had to win or tie against all the other powers to stay free.
************************
Queen Yara watched the ship rapidly approaching her small fleet; it was flying the purple flag of Braavos, not the Kraken of her Uncle's forces as she'd feared. Her brother'd finally come through for her; his crew had torched Euron's flagship the Silence and several other of his ships on their way out using wildfire he'd been given by someone working for 'No One'. A Faceless Man - she'd been around the world, heard the stories. Why would an assassin meddle like that?
"ANY OTHER SHIPS?" she called up to the lookout.
"NO!"
She peered out at the approaching vessel; a single small unarmed ship wasn't going to be a threat, not to more than three dozen Ironborn ships. Unless, she thought darkly, it was carrying wildfire, one of Cersei's or Uncle Euron's tricks. Or maybe the Purps thought this was the right time to try that sort of trick themselves, under their own colors. She called out her orders as she had since she was just a girl with her first command; the men hadn't respected her, but humored her for fear of her father's wrath... until her first victory, and then those who had sailed with her followed because she won.
"Steady as she goes! Archers up! Prepare for battle, but only on my signal! Fleet to disperse; two hundred yards between ships! Keep a careful watch out; this might be a distraction! Do not loose except on my command!" commanded Queen Greyjoy, then continued quietly, "Theon, have the steadiest lookouts keep a sharp eye out for archers, crossbows, fire, wildfire, or other treachery."
"Aye, my Queen," replied her brother, going off to pass the message, then returning to her side. They'd been taken by surprise once, and didn't intend for that to happen again.
Once the small ship was in range of the fleet, Yara shouted out to it herself.
"KEEP YOUR DISTANCE! WHY ARE YOU HERE?"
"WHICH SHIP HAS QUEEN YARA AND LORD THEON? WE HAVE MESSAGES FROM QUEEN DAENERYS, QUEEN SANSA, AND LADY WINTER!" shouted the other ship, the voice having a pronounced Braavosi accent - from the rich areas of the Bastard Daughter of Valyria, too, if she was any judge... and she was. This was either real... or an expensive trick.
"YOU'RE SPEAKING TO HER! THEON'S ON DECK WITH ME! WHY WOULD THE DRAGON QUEEN BE SENDING MESSAGES WITH YOU?"
"BECAUSE WE'RE ALL ALLIES IN THE FIGHT AGAINST THE DEAD - I'VE SEEN THEM WITH MY OWN EYES, TENS OF THOUSANDS OF THEM MARCHING SOUTH!"
Yara exchanged shrugs with Theon, then replied.
"ALL RIGHT! WHAT'RE YOUR MESSAGES?"
"MESSAGE READS QUEEN YARA, PLEASE PROCEED ACROSS THE NARROW SEA TO PENTOS, THEN HEAD SOUTH TO TYROSH AND CONTINUE TO SLAVER'S BAY VIA LYS, PENTOS AND VOLANTIS! YOU WILL GUARD ADDITIONAL SHIPS FROM EACH CITY CARRYING PASSENGERS AND SUPPLIES FROM EACH CITY TO HELP FIGHT THE WAR AGAINST THE ARMY OF THE DEAD AND TO PREPARE FOR THE LONG NIGHT! TWO DOZEN SCORPIONS AND DRAGONGLASS BACKED BOLTS FROM THE ARSENAL AWAIT YOU AT PENTOS AS WELL AS A DOZEN WARSHIPS OF BRAAVOS AND ADDITIONAL SUPPLIES! QUEEN DAENERYS SENDS!"
"MESSAGE HEARD, BUT WHY THE FUCK SHOULD I BELIEVE IT!" shouted Yara to the Braavosi ship, looking at Theon and muttering, "We could really use something to kill a wight dragon with, though. Euron talked to me about dragon killing scorpions."
"QUEEN DAENERYS SAYS SHE REMEMBERS YOU NEVER DEMAND, BUT YOU'RE UP FOR ANYTHING, REALLY!" came the answer. Yara exchanged a glance with her brother, who smirked at her. She gave him a smirk back, licking her lips just to watch the expression on his face change - he'd come back for her, and was finally starting to show a little bit of what he'd once been. She hadn't known him long, but she wanted her brother back.
"ALL RIGHT, MESSAGE HEARD! WHAT ELSE YOU GOT!" called out Yara.
"QUEEN YARA, THANK YOU FOR YOUR AID AGAINST THE ARMY OF THE DEAD! WE WELCOME TRADE BY YOU AND YOUR PEOPLE IN THE NORTH AND THE VALE! THE LONG NIGHT IS HERE; THERE IS NO FOOD TO PROVIDE, PLEASE PROVISION YOUR FLEETS ACCORDINGLY! THE DAYS ARE SHORTER THE FARTHER NORTH YOU GO! FULL INFORMATION AWAITS YOU AT PENTOS! QUEEN SANSA SENDS!"
"MESSAGE HEARD!" replied Yara, turning to Theon with a raised eyebrow, only to see him shrug and smile at her.
"THEON, CONGRATULATIONS ON RESCUING YOUR SISTER AND SAVAGING EURON'S FLEET! PLEASE MAKE SURE THE IRONBORN UNDERSTAND IT'S ALREADY COLDER THAN IT'S EVER BEEN IN THE NORTH! QUEEN SANSA SENDS!"
"MESSAGE HEARD!"
"YARA, THE THREE-EYED RAVEN REPORTS EURON'S FLEET IS SPLIT. IN ADDITION TO THE FORCES YOU'VE JUST SEEN, HE HAS ONE FLEET BETWEEN DRAGONSTONE AND THE WHISPERS, AND ANOTHER BETWEEN MASSEY'S HOOK AND TARTH! THE ARMY OF THE DEAD WILL BE UPON WINTERFELL AND WHITE HARBOR BOTH IN A FEW DAYS! YOU AND YOURS ARE WELCOME IN THE NORTH AND THE VALE IF YOU LEAVE RAIDING, SLAVING, AND SALT-WIFERY IN THE PAST! IF THE IRONBORN CAN BUILD SHIPS AS WELL AS THE ARSENAL, SEND PRICES TO LORD GRAFTON, MASTER OF SHIPS! LADY WINTER SENDS!"
"MESSAGE HEARD!"
"THEON, HELPING A SISTER ESCAPE FOR HELPING A SISTER ESCAPE; BRAN'S AND MY DEBTS ARE CLEAR! LADY WINTER SENDS!"
"END MESSAGES!"
With that, the small purple-sailed ship heeled about and began tacking northeast.
Yara narrowed her eyes at her brother, "What's that about helping a sister escape... brother?"
************************
"WIGHT DRAGON SPOTTED! ROYCE OVER TWO! ONE MILE OUT, TWO HUNDRED YARDS UP! STATIONARY!" called a lookout on one of the big mounted far-eyes.
Daenerys looked out to her right, straining to see in the now-clear darkness until a brilliant blue light bloomed upwards a moment later, the light of wight dragonfire in the distance showing clearly where her enemy was even as the silver horn's clear notes from the command tower commanded them to stay where they were.
Right out there, she could see her poor Viserion. The Night King was out there, taunting her; showing her the ruined body of her child; he wasn't. She could feel Drogon rising up beneath her, ready to fly out right now and face what was once his brother; she glanced back, Jon and Rhaegal both felt the same. They could go and attack him right now; see how the Night King liked being bathed in dragonfire, liked being bitten in two and devoured! He was her enemy, he'd killed her child, and she could kill him now!
Dany put a hand over her leather armor, above her ribs and squeezed hard, letting the pain from her bruise, the bruise Arya had given her, chase the fury away. She thought back to the conversations she'd been having the past few days with Qhono and with Grey Worm about how their forces fought. The Dothraki fought with speed and overwhelming charges atop their mounts, the Dothraki way was for her and Jon to take her two dragons and attack the enemy right now, ignoring everything else. Win, die, or live defeated and cut her hair, those were her options as a Khaleesi.
The Dothraki didn't consider her three cities, her seven... her kingdoms, her Unsullied, her people, or the freed slaves that depended on her. Nor did they consider thrown spears that punch right through dragonscale hundreds of yards away as anything but fodder for a more glorious victory... for the survivors.
The Unsullied way was to follow orders exactly. They would form ranks and defend each other and those behind them... but even had she all the Unsullied who still lived, that wouldn't be enough... and, without other support, they would have been overwhelmed on the first charges, all but those Drogon or Rhaegal could protect.
The Lannister way was to use a line of archers and try to skewer the dragonrider... or, as she'd realized, perhaps the plan had been simply to make her either turn back again and again while their shields and spears tried to hold off her Dothraki. She was not going to be able to use that against the Night King out there... and without her Dothraki horse archers she couldn't even do so here.
The Stark way was to set a trap, hidden from the victim until escape was impossible. That was what Sansa Stark had done to her, and what Arya Stark had set for the Night King. Valyrian steel ballista bolts, by the gods, just waiting for what had once been Viserion to get close enough. Or, as Missandei had carefully informed her, Drogon or Rhaegal, should they give the order. Now she knew what Razdal mo Eraz had felt like when he'd come up to her and she'd told him her dragons hadn't granted safe passage. She was alive because they chose not to kill her. She wasn't nervous that they'd order her to her death, if only because they had no need of such subtlety... and because Jon was still with her.
That was something she'd need to keep in mind when she sat on the Iron Throne; how those approaching her felt. But now wasn't the time for ruling, or politics. Now was time for war.
Her own way... she didn't know yet what her way in war would be, but she knew it wouldn't be giving in to being a berserker; she would rule her rage, her 'bear face' as Arya put it, and she would make it serve her. For her, in this war, right now, the best way was the Unsullied way. The Starks and their commanders had been preparing for the Night King for a long time. She, and Jon, and Drogon, and Rhaegal were parts of the trap Arya was laying, and she would follow the commands sent to her, just as her Dothraki and Unsullied followed her, because she believed that those would be in the best interest of the war against the Night King. There were risks in war, and against Tyrion's advice, she would share in them, just as everyone else fighting on the front lines shared in them; as she'd shared the risks when she defended Meereen, when she led the fight against the Lannisters after the Reach had been sacked.
She did have more sympathy now for how Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah had felt when she was negotiating with Kraznys mo Nakloz for the Unsullied, and hadn't told them her plan beyond that she was going to buy the Unsullied. She didn't know the details of the plan now, she wasn't flying high, able to see everything, because right now Arya apparently felt giving a clear path for the arrows and bolts was more important. And, perhaps, Arya wanted her where she could be seen, and where she could hear.
What she did know was that the overall plan was to keep her children well inside the range of the scorpions and ballista, kept protected and used as bait at the same time. Neither she nor Jon could throw spears that would be a danger to Viserion, while the Night King had already killed poor Viserion... and she knew many Dothraki who were very dangerous with thrown weapons while mounted. The details, she didn't know, but Johnna had translated the battle signals earlier that night, and it had been changing all the time, as different forces were put into play based on what the enemy did. The details weren't set in stone - battle here was an ever-changing thing, like the flowing movements of a horde, shifting as the great grass sea shifted under their hooves.
"Umbagon kesir!" called out Daenerys to her dragons, then turned to Jon, who she could see was ready to go flying out to kill the Night King right now. All the time she'd known him, he'd been so focused on protecting his people, on protecting the North - on protecting everyone in the North, including the Free Folk. He'd talked about the rest of Westeros... but it was his people here that were always on his mind. Right now, it was their turn to wait for the best time to attack, based on the signals from Jon's sister, just as every other force in this battle would wait for the command signals.
"Jon, give him a good rub; calm Rhaegal down. He can sense you want to attack, and that makes him want to as well. We might be here for awhile, and you need to keep him alert but steady," said Dany, even as behind her a page came running out over the bridge from the first ring behind them bearing a tray of rapidly cooling food.
Up atop the command tower, Arya watched through a far-eye as best she could; she could spot a little movement in the starlight, coming out of the forest, going both to the north and the south. The wargs had reported only the two main forces finally moving out, each with hundreds of wight giants and mammoths, and thousands of the toughest of the animal wights. The giants were each holding entire sets of pine trees against their chests, the mammoths had had trees lashed to their backs as well, all with the branches more or less intact, barring being crushed.
Worse yet, many of the wight giants were wearing what was essentially armor - layers of thick hides, very few of which were rotted, whatever the state of the wights inside. The enemy was learning - the dead did not tire, and extra weight didn't bother them. It did, however, slow them down just a little.
Behind her stood Lyanna and Meera in addition to the others; with the Night King's dragon clearly visible, the risk was worth the quick, clear discussion - should the wight dragon approach, those two would be down the ropes and running to their posts before the dragon was in range, even if it survived to dragonfire range.
"Lyanna?" asked Arya, "If we begin loosing at maximum scorpion range, or maximum ballista range?"
"Ballista bolt'll punch through the trees with a steel plate-cutter head, no problem," said the Scorpion Bear, continuing, "Needle head, maybe, maybe not. Plate-cutter's a bad choice for going through hides and leather, though, the needle bodkin heads are better for that. Case-hardened iron shaft'll definitely work, ironwood shafts... maybe. The bigger scorpions will have a tough time, and those branches might have more effect, so... some of the time, and only with the case-hardened shafts. The small sled scorpions, not at all through the trees without Valyrian bolts, but the hides by themselves aren't a problem even with wooden shafted engine bolts. I want some Maesters, some hides, and some of the felled trees we got in just before the gates for experiments - then it won't just be what I and my commanders think. Maester Russal, how many can we expect before ring two is hit, best speed?"
The Bear Island Maester did some rapid math in his head, then replied, "If we open at five hundred yards, ring nine, the masters and the best of the marksmen will have ten bowshots, four scorpion shots, three ballista shots, and two trebuchet shots. At seven hundred yards, ring thirteen, add two scorpion and one ballista shot; the trebuchets would be too close to the ring 2 ramparts."
"You can have as much firewood trees as you want," said Arya, "it'll still be useful as kindling after you turn them to splinters. Sansa or Meera need to approve the hides and the solid trees - hides keep us warm and building wood is not something we'll get more of until the Night King's army is a lot smaller. We'll see what we learn in this attack; there's probably no time for an experiment before they hit us, and the extra two hundred yards is better held in reserve. Engines to loose at five hundred yards. Messenger, Maesters and scouts to the wall, ramparts, and to siege engine command for observations. Go! Meera?"
"It's a waste of shafts for archers shooting into branches from the front. Deflection shots, maybe, and hitting them in the face, feet, hands, or whatever other flesh is exposed. For hides that thick we'll need needle bodkins on warshafts loosed by the windlass crossbows or the more powerful warbows; nothing less will have a chance. Messenger, ask my husband how vulnerable the feet on those wight giants are," replied Meera Stark, rolling her eyes, "It's not like he need to look for the Night King right this minute. They could start throwing those trees, too - we know the Night King knows how to throw."
"Good point. Messengers, warn the lines to take cover when entire trees come flying through the air at their heads, then find Sansa - she can find someone to design better protection against thrown trees and get the crews started building it. Go! Jamie?"
"They can lose just a few mammoths to cross the moats, and if they charge, they'll crush the lines without slowing down. We can't let them get close."
"Possible. Brienne?" asked Arya.
"With respect, I think the Night King will flood the moats with whatever he thinks his weakest wights are - the giants and mammoths are being used like cavalry; you don't waste cavalry when you have other, less valuable ways," replied the Lady Commander.
"Just so. Messenger, pass that on to the Maesters and scouts observing, and the close-in wargs - they should watch for what kind wights are used to fill the moats, as opposed to what kind of wights attack and defend and work and so on. Go! There's something more going on; we just used pitch and tar to burn them up, so either they're going to come in so fast they don't burn up first, or they've got some other trick."
Lyanna gave a nod to the page standing by the gong, who immediately tapped out the correct signals while Arya continued to give instruction over the ringing sounds of the messages being relayed.
"Non-commanders are to send critical signals only; the Night King's trying something new, and he's just waiting for us to leave an opening he can fly a dragon through without getting turned into one of Sansa's pincushions, so we need to be able to give orders without delay or confusion. Massed archers and engines inside and beneath walls or more than two camps away from being able to see the enemy can rest and eat at battle positions; the other massed archers wait until Ring 3, and loose at specific targets only; they're to shoot like marksmen now."
Arya took a moment to receive a round of nods, then continued, "Marskmen archers and half the marksmen spring engines to take good deflection shots; don't shoot just to shoot, but when they've got a shot against unarmored or weak areas - hands, feet, eyes, noses, and so on - they should take it, remaining half of the marksman engines to watch the wight dragon. Master archers and two thirds the master archer spring engines to take the same kind of shots. Nobody looses past ring seven, and conserve shafts; the remainder of those engines to wait for wight dragon," commanded Arya, "We cannot afford to be vulnerable; just a few seconds of dragonfire is very dangerous."
"Rapid shots are going to tire my crews out fast," said Lyanna immediately, then turned to Jamie and Brienne as she she added some detail, detail she'd needed to have explained to her when she was first assigned the position, "The Maesters and carpenters have finished tuning the windlasses on the scorpions and ballista to match their crews. The massed engine crews are composed of the weak and the frail, they tire easily no matter what. While the marksmen crews are fitter, and the master crews are the best in Westeros, their windlasses, pulleys, and so on are made with a higher... mechanical advantage... as Maester Russal calls it, so they use all their strength and get it reset much faster than the massed engines can. Meera's windlass wound crossbows are similar, all the ones we use have about the same power behind the bolt, it's just a matter of how hard and how long they are to reset - some are easy to wind and take many many turns, and some are very hard and take fewer turns."
Arya nodded, "We haven't had a chance to do more than clear the dead from the rings, dump some hedgehogs off and pick up whatever dragonglass and unbroken shafts that can be found. When the dead have good footing, they take only a few seconds to run fifty yards to the next trench; if they charge in, we're going to need the quickest kills we can get... as long as we don't waste shafts excessively. If the Night King finds a way to get us to use up our arrows too much faster than we're killing his wights, he'll keep pressing us until we're out, and we can't stop them without missile support. Lyanna, rotate crews shooting and crews watching at your discretion."
The small bear gave a short nod.
"I'm going to call up the rest of my master archers and crossbowmen," said Meera, "And bring up the next watch's worth of marksmen as well; we're going to need them to deal with this many if they concentrate, and there's plenty of room on the ramparts and walls. What do you think, have them stand by north, south, east, and west until the wargs give us more information on how the dead are splitting up?"
"Agreed; have them gather at Manderly, Flint, Mollen, and Whitehill. If the Night King splits his force up into more than a few thrusts, we'll be able to handle it unless he's got some really good tricks," replied Arya, considering briefly; the normal front ranks were wearing heavy armor, but heavy by Northern, not Vale, standards, "Anything else? No?"
Arya waited a moment, hearing no dissent, she commanded, "Trebuchets, hot fire for all shots. Scorpions and ballista, dragonglass backed plate cutters until the ring three moat, then the Green. Lyanna, make sure your leaders have targets assigned relative to the center of the enemy's formations; we need to hit the center for sure, and spread some out over the rest without waste. Meera, take whatever shots are most likely to be kills on White Walkers, giants, and mammoths - bears and direwolves aren't nearly as much threat to a shield-wall, so we need the biggest threats slaughtered quickly. Signal Royce to split the cavalry to the same places; the best dragoons to dismount and form the first rank once we get an idea where the dead are hitting; we'll need full plate on the front lines. Signal Skamund split the sled scorpions likewise. Go!"
Meera wrapped a leg and an arm around a rope and slid downwards alongside Lyanna, they each gave orders to their own messengers to carry to their troops, then the two parted ways with respectful nods, the Scorpion Bear jogging to her own post as Meera ran to the entrance to the Godswood, slowing to a brisk jog as she headed to the northeast corner and made sure her less skilled archers were sitting or kneeling by their firepots to rest, had bread and water to eat, and were keeping their bows and quivers ready if they were needed. Around the Heart Tree a working party was placing a set of dragonglass hedgehogs in case more wights came up, to give them time.
"Alleras! Over here!" exclaimed Meera, taking the master archer by the arm with a grateful squeeze when she and her page arrived, guiding her to sit side by side on some barrels of arrows and handing her some bread she'd picked up, "Thank you for your great shooting; you kept the wights off me until the auxiliaries could set up a proper shield-wall. You got two the eye right with arrows right over my head and they blocked the ones behind while those other three were going for my ankles; I'd have had to fall back with five of them."
Alleras nodded, replying with a friendly smile, "I couldn't let a Princess retreat from simple wights! I've been training in archery my whole life; here's where I can make a difference. Here I can use all my skills to the benefit of all of not even just all of Westeros, but all the world."
"We'll need your skill with a bow again; ignoring over two thousand bears and direwolves that are coming; the Night King's sending hundreds of White Walkers as well as giants and mammoths carrying trees, so it's going to be precise shots. The White Walkers are probably going to be hiding behind the giants or mammoths; Arya thinks the Night King's got some tricks planned - maybe a fast charge to try and get past the fire barrels, maybe something else. This one's going to be ours and Lady Mormont's to fight. Massed volleys would just be a waste of arrows against those hides, but giants and mammoths hitting the lines would open them right up."
"No rest for the wicked Princesses of the North," said Alleras playfully, "As a good host, would you mind opening up the White Walkers for me?".
"For you, Alleras? Of course. You're not like the Princess of Dorne, who is doubtless lounging in her luxurious vacation quarters, eating only the finest of delicacies and napping all day while she sends poor Alleras to represent the might of Dorne? I'm just a working Princess, after all... not like poor Princess Arya, trapped up in her tall tower," replied Meera with a grin; having seen Princess Sarella during the coronation after having worked with Alleras, it had been very easy to make the connection between the two.
Alleras laughed, "Precisely! You should come to Dorne and enjoy a similar vacation. Fighting women aren't new to us, after all."
"Alas, my work is here, as I'm sure the Hand of the Queen would remind me, and I've still a great deal to learn. I'd expected to rule a castle, not the entire North, and that cunt," said Meera, jerking her chin out at where the Night King was hovering, occasionally sending up another tongue of blue flame, "isn't exactly giving me a respite from my military duties. My good-sister might enjoy the trip, though, once she has some time. She likes seeing new places and fighting new people!"
"Hands are like that, I'm afraid, as Princess Sarella may end up learning soon enough; the politics in Dorne aren't nearly as simple as here or in the Vale. I'm sure she would welcome Arya's company for... quite a few reasons; politically, that would throw a snake into whatever plans are being concocted in Sarella's absence," said Alleras with a smile as groups of skilled archers started assembling on the walls and towers, "I don't think they'd be ready for her."
"She doesn't exactly like plans that threaten her friends and family, no, and she's... very direct about it, in a way that's very hard to be ready for. For now, here's our warg. Can't let her report us for lazing around!" replied Meera as she stood and greeted the elderly Free Folk woman and her guards who were approaching to serve as the eyes of the commander of the archers.
Out on the ice ramparts separating ring two from ring three, Bronze Yohn Royce dismounted and strode to the imposing figure commanding this section of the defenses.
"Lord Clegane! You and all the infantry are to be congratulated on an excellent defense! Lady Winter has commanded that the Knights of the Vale have the glory of facing the next attack in the front rank. Would you do me the honor of instructing me on what it's like to face the dead?" said Lord Royce loudly, ensuring that the infantry - and his own cavalry - heard his respect for the infantry, and for the duty of the infantry. Lady Winter had brooked no hubris on the part of either nobility or cavalry; everyone had a role to play, and some of his younger knights still had notions of battle more suited to song than what they faced now.
Yohn Royce waited for the Hound to approach, listening to the profane but professional lessons the man had learned, and then lowered his voice and spoke quietly, "You've shown your courage, Lord Clegane. This attack will be met with wildfire right in front of the ramparts. I ask that you take charge of and prepare the next watch to relieve us if we win, and to defend the camps if we fall."
"Wolf bitch told you?" asked the Hound.
"I know fear when I see it... and I know the bravery needed to overcome that fear isn't easy, Lord Clegane," replied the old knight somberly.
The Hound nodded, then turned and headed inwards without another word.
Up in the command tower, Arya peered through a large far-eye, watching hints of movement revealed in the light of the rising moon, while beside her the bird warg sitting on the chair behind her with his own guards beside him had his eyes return to normal. When it was apparent that the Night King very obviously was trying something new, Arya had called for one of the younger bird wargs to climb the rigging to be right here, rather than reporting through messengers.
"Split two; north, south. Run fast. Same numbers," reported the warg before his eyes turned white once more as he warged back into his bird.
"Signal to prepare for battle as expected, two equal groups, heading north and south for now," commanded Arya as she stood up and turned slowly to scan the horizon herself, seeing with eyes and hearing with her ears. Once the enemy started in, based on how fast they'd started crossing the moat before, there might be barely a minute between the first bolts being loosed at the farthest reach of the scorpions and when the army of the dead hit the ramparts on the outside of the second ring.
The northern force of wights and White Walkers reached a point due north of Winterfell first, so the warg again returned to them for long enough to report in, "South at southwest, moving. North stop; shape circle-line; line north-south. White Walker picture-shape; White Walkers hide behind giants. Cowards."
Arya laughed at the insult, stepping back to let Mariya again take the big far-eye. Her bannerwoman was keenly perceptive, and was one of the best spotters in the entire force; she'd have to reward the girl and thank Sansa and Kitty again. Arya made sure to use a confident, slightly aggressive tone for her reply, "Signal spring engines double North, Scorpion Bear to designate target sectors; gongs siege engine command only. Signal watch for friendly dragons; dragons to Flint ring two. Signal cavalry to reinforce Manderly, Flint. Signal sled scorpions reinforce Manderly double, Flint half. Messengers, repeat that to them. Go."
Arya listened for a moment, not able to hear the motion of the enemy amidst the signals going out of her own tower, and then the continuous set of signals coming from Lyanna's command tower as the small bear gave directions to her crews.
"MOVEMENT!" called Maryia, "A bunch of smaller wights are charging in on both sides of that symbol; they're coming in now, one big mass. Passing ring nineteen!"
"We'll fight as planned. We've made him think; now it's time to see what tricks he has beyond a simple overrun," said Arya calmly, looking down at the northern wall, seeing the ready shapes of the best of the archers lining the wall; Meera had even called for the best of the massed archers to fill in the rest of the space available on the vast fortifications.
"Why just North and South?" asked Lord Commander Jamie, with Brienne looking equally interested, "What if they attack from other directions, or more than two?"
"The more they split up, the more of our forces and siege engines we can bring to bear - the Night King saw that at the beginning of this night, when he attacked from every direction at once. Were he an idiot, our ancestors would have killed him the first Long Night. Also, the formation - one circle, one line though it, north to south. In some forms of magic, there is meaning to the motions, to the symbols, and that's a symbol we've been told about by the Free Folk and the Night's Watch both. I suspect there is some power to it."
"Passing ring sixteen!" called out Mariya, the gongs continuing to allocate towers to targets. Arya looked to the southernmost camp; Drogon and Rhaegal were settling down, tucking in behind the ramparts and lowering their profiles.
"Less than a minute until they're in scorpion range," said Grand Maester Wolkan, who had stayed behind while his friend Maester Russal had gone to an outer tower to observe more closely. He was a little pale, and his breaths were a little short, but he'd glued himself to the outer edge of the rail, watching the motion in the moonlight as best he could.
"Are you sure we should give that little support to the south, Lady Winter?" asked Lady Brienne.
"South has the best fixed defenses; it has the main gatehouses, a good slope up for the attackers, and more towers, few of which have any view to the North, along with Jon and Daenerys and the dragons; we cannot under any circumstances split the dragons up as long as there's a dragon on the enemy's side; he'll always be able to get the first attack when he calls in fog and snow, and an unseen first attack is all any real killer needs. Then he'd have two dragons and we'd have one. Since we have to concentrate them, we'll take advantage of that anyway. Signal dragons that they're clear to engage in melee only if the enemy threatens the ramparts."
"Ring twelve!" called out Mariya.
"Enemy to the south making formation, Flint ring twenty!" called out another spotter, the tower falling silent as the enemy approached, Lyanna's gongs stilling as well, as they
"SIGNAL LOOSE AT RING NINE! RING NINE!" shouted Arya, making sure Fjornal above them and the other crews close by could hear, the gongs in her tower relaying the message immediately.
"Twenty seconds!" called Maester Wolkan, swiveling his far-eye north and then south, watching the vast forces approaching Winterfell for the Night King's second attack.
TWANG went the ballista on the platform above their heads, Fjornal having found a good target, a multitude of other ballista and scorpions following nearly immediately, along with the first shot of the trebuchets. Above them, the creaking of the windlass on the big ballista had already started along with the Free Folk subcommander's stern command, "Reload steel needle! Pull pull pull! We shoot four, you get my ale all month!"
The warg's eyes returned to normal again while he spoke, "They run same. Big big arrow hit, kill. Small big arrow, some kill, some not. Two giants face arrow. Giants wave trees now; branch stop small arrows. Big arrows hit. Other arrows some stop, some hit. White Walker move different giant, mammoth when kill."
Arya listened to the shouts and creaks from the reloading scorpions and ballista as the small, high-pitched drums signals from Meera's position finished allocating targets and preparing for emergency massed volleys should they be needed; otherwise, all archers were to wait for good shots. They'd be tiring the wargs out using more than a watch's worth at once, but if there was ever a time to do so, this was it; she could feel it, somehow - there was something larger at play, something that wasn't present during the first attack; what, she did not know, but something.
The flames from the barrels arced up high, far over the flat flights of the scorpion and ballista bolts, coming down gracefully before vanishing suddenly just before she heard the barrels smash apart; the sounds had been different, and it was still dark, no gouts of flame spreading over the enemy. Grand Maester Wolkan, Maester Russal, and the other Maesters who thought swords were shattering because they were cold were going to be crowing about their new evidence, she thought. The White Walkers were pulling out their magic, now - this strange formation was probably because of the magic, and it was definitely one of the symbols the Night's Watch and the Free Folk had reported the White Walkers using.
"Tails stopped burning while they were still in the air!" called Mariya, seeing the fire trailing the small barrels vanished suddenly as they fell towards the enemy formation, "No fire!"
The warg returned to them, confirming what Arya had suspected, "Barrel fire cold; barrel frost."
That was the Night King's gambit, then, Arya thought. They knew the White Walkers and the Night King himself put fires out by being near them; they had a way of putting fires out in an entire area, too. She didn't know if they'd had that during the first Long Night and Bran the Builder had managed some other magic to counter that, but right now, the only pure magic available was that of the Faceless Men, and that wasn't going to be enough to stop the dead. During the Second Long Night, however, they had new weapons to fight the dead, wildfire - fire given form, and dragons - fire made flesh, both of which were about to be tested against the ice magic of the Night King.
TWANG went the scorpions and a handful of ballista with the quickest crews, including the one atop Arya's command tower, loosing their second shot, followed by immediate calls for scorpions to reload with plate-cutters and ballista to reload with the green, all except for Fjornal's who called for another steel needle. Arya knew that Fjornal knew her crew well; they could keep up with the scorpions for four, maybe five shots... but that was all they needed to do, and it meant one more dead giant or mammoth, or White Walker if they were lucky.
"Crossing ring five moat! They're moving slower as they cross," reported Mariya, her eye still staring through the far-eye atop the dark hoarding, her hood held over her head and the eyepiece to block the moonlight, "Spreading out slowly; keeping that weird formation of a circle with a longer line through it; that's costing them speed as they cross. Wait! They're filling the moat in two more places to cross over, right at the outside of the circle."
"South ring thirteen!" called the southern spotter, reporting on the incoming second part of the attack.
TWANG went the ballista above them, amidst the third shot of the scorpions, all reloading with the precious glass wildfire balls even as the very fastest of the trebuchet crews finished reloading their own siege engines with the largest of the barrels of warmed mixes of tar and pitch and the creations of the pyromancers and the Maesters, each waiting for the central command to ignite and loose after preparing the weapon.
"Move faster after cross! Run again," reported the bird warg as the best of the archers on the northern side started loosing dragonglass tipped flight arrows into the dark sky, one after the other, seeking out the most difficult of targets behind or around the bushy pine trees protecting the enemy.
"Starting to cross ring four now, and not slowing down much; they're getting better!" called out Mariya.
"South ring eleven!" called another sharp-eyed spotter, "The whole other force! Same circle-line formation! Going fast!"
"Signal north siege engines wait for south to loose, south spring engines reload with the Green," commanded Arya. The Southron force wasn't going to be in deep and trapped by the time they needed to hit the northern force; they'd have only one shot at surprising them with wildfire, and if the southern force turned and fled, dragonglass backed bolts would get barely any kills; wildfire, if it worked, could deplete the Night King's forces much more, and make this a much more costly experiment. If it didn't work, they would be wasting quite a lot of it... but if it didn't work, they might be dead anyway, and quickly - that force of giants and mammoths would consider the walls of Winterfell no more than a slight delay, and two thousand wight direwolves and wight bears would be devastating once inside.
"Messengers, have Sam and Gilly prepare ravens for all strongholds stating that the circle-line formation puts out hot fire in the air, and that the Green was unsuccessful as well; have White Harbor recall the horse caravan by warg and consider us lost if they hear nothing more. They are to put maximum effort into harrying the foe, priority on giants, mammoths, and White Walkers; retreat from groups of fifty or more White Walkers. Do not send those ravens unless the Green fails. Go!" commanded Arya.
"SIGNAL COVER! TREES!" shouted Mariya, the signal for take cover going out immediately - it had very deliberately been set as one of the shortest, quickest signals, along with the signal to loose. Even as she spoke, the crossbowmen around the edge of the command tower began shooting the big windlass crossbows mounted on the universal joints on the hoarding around them, adding to the noise.
"You don't think we're lost, Lady Winter?" asked Brienne, looking out over the wave of wights charging in, her hand on her sword Oathkeeper's hilt by habit.
"Not yet, but if we are, we'll need the word to go out immediately," replied Arya.
"Reaching ring three!" called Mariya, seeing the wights filling the last completely undefended moat; as the dead crossed that one, there was a mere fifty yards before they reached the ring two moat and the ramparts behind.
"South ring nine!" called the South-facing spotter.
Some of the southern-facing engines were still reloading; but there was no more time.
"South ring eight!"
Gongs rang from Lyanna Mormont's tower, followed by every engine with a clear line of sight loosing their payloads; fire again sailing through the air, but this time the leisurely trails of red fire in high arches was joined by quick darts of green fire on shallow paths, nearly a third aimed at the center of each formation, the rest spread around the edges where the White Walkers were hiding behind enormous wights protected by makeshift wooden armor even on the run.
"YES!" shouted Mariya over the sounds of the engines again reloading as fast as they could as green fire bloomed out over both enemy formations, direwolf and bear wights going up like kindling, fur, hides, branches and pine needles immediately adding an orange tinge to the flames... and then the barrels slammed down, their own payloads igniting immediately, set ablaze more by the wildfire than their still-flaming cloth tails.
Meera's drums sounded at the same time as Lyanna's gongs, the different sounds each commanding rapid shots by all archers who can see a target even as the siege engines were creaking as they reloaded a little slower than they had a minute ago; the crews were already sweating, which if this went on much longer would start putting them at risk of frostbite.
On the wall, Alleras finally ignored the quiver on her right, a little less than half full of flight shafts, and pulled her first arrow out of her left-hand quiver, full of war shafts with needle heads and dragonglass, perfect for going through leather or hide armor; her page immediately swapped the right-hand quiver with a full one and started refilling the used one from a nearby barrel, raising her bow and watching a flaming giant she'd seen a wight ride behind when Meera had taken out the mammoth he'd been hiding behind before. As the giant started falling, she loosed, just a little to the right of center, pulling another warshaft even as a White Walker froze and then shattered as her shot took it in the hip; he had indeed been running for the next closest cover... as she'd anticipated!
Beside her, Meera loosed her own arrow and said, her voice even, not even breathing hard, "Four to the right, giant."
Alleras nocked her greatbow, finding the giant Meera had shot at, noted the next nearest cover, and drew her own bowstring back as the giant collapsed, sending an arrow to kill the White Walker that the Princess of the North had uncovered before he could scurry behind some other protection.
"Three to the left, mammoth," said Meera over the near-constant twanging of bowstrings, crossbows, scorpions, and ballista as everyone loosed as quickly as they could aim.
Atop the tower, Mariya called out, "North some retreating! Now all retreating!"
Arya looked to the north, past the Manderly camp at the rapidly falling wights; every time a White Walker was killed, an entire set of wights fell with them. Even as she watched, the enemy to the north turned back away, their formation ignored completely as they ran away.
"South crossing ring five! Coming fast!"
"Signal Mollen, Whitehill and nearby spring engines to reinforce south," commanded Arya. As the easternmost and westernmost engines swiveled around and started loosing at the southern enemy, Mariya called out again.
"North charging again!"
"Signal spring engines return to prior target!" ordered Arya immediately, continuing in a quieter tone, "Messengers, tell Sam and Gilly the Night King or his White Walkers can react nearly immediately to us. Immediate relay to Gulltown. Go!"
The torsion spring engines that had swiveled turned again, loosing more bolts at the northern enemy even as the dead crossed the ramparts and hit the shield-wall with bears and wolves; the giants had thrown much of what protected them at the defenders, leaving them vulnerable to bows and crossbows, while the mammoths were too difficult to protect against scorpions once they were in close, so they were going down quickly.
"The Night King's given up on the northern attack, I think," said Arya, "He turned them around as soon as we started hitting the southern attack harder; we can't afford to ignore them yet, but they're not a serious threat, not anymore..."
"South ring four!" interrupted the spotter.
The warg blinked his eyes open again, "Big attack south! Many many running!"
"Signal dragon flying attack Flint ring three and four, highest dragonfire height, best speed! Signal massed archers prepare for battle!" commanded Arya, murmuring afterwards, "Burn them all, Jon, Daenerys. Burn them all."
Jamie looked at the small Stark oddly, then turned his head from the glistening ice of the northern ramparts fighting the burning dead to the quickly approaching burning dead to the south, joined a moment later by brilliant columns of orange fire blazing down onto the fourth ring, sweeping rapidly across the ground, blooming out as dragonfire impacted the ground, the big black dragon first, and the green dragon farther back and closer to the castle. Burn them all, the Mad King had said, meaning his own people. Burn them all, the Stark commander had said, meaning the dead that came for all the living.
The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch looked over at Brienne and thought that, just perhaps, he was finally in a place where he could serve honorably, with honorable companions. Here he could defend the innocent and protect the weak; those vows, at least, he could uphold now just as he had tried to when he was young.
From the Scorpion Bear's tower came the command for the marksmen spring engines to exchange roles, letting the crews rest, and the master archer engines rotate which were shooting; with that, the tired crews reloaded with dragon-killer bolts while the incessant twanging of scorpions and ballista sped up again as new crews loaded dragonglass-backed bolts and loosed at their fastest rate, eager to be part of the fight.
"Night King?" asked Arya.
"Still hovering there," replied Mariya, "Thinks he's too pretty to get shot full of holes!"
"South wave ring eighteen! South ring three!"
Dragonfire again rained down, this time on ring three as the dead approached the last moat separating them from the defenders.
"North retreating!"
"South retreating! South wave ring seventeen and retreating!"
"They're bunching up; can't see the White Walkers at all anymore!" called out Mariya.
Arya listened as her army continued to kill the Night King's forces as quickly as they could, even as he tried to get his White Walkers out from under the deadly rain before he lost more of his army.
"Signal dragons to Flint ring two. Messenger, the less skilled archers are to switch to fire flight shafts and put careful shots into any wight corpse that isn't already on fire. Go."
Wight mammoths and giants fell as they retreated, storming over the already filled sections of the moat and back to their lines, staying between the missiles from the castle and the White Walkers as long as they could.
"North ring nine and heading out!" called Mariya.
"South ring nine, retreating!" called the Southron spotter.
"Night King flying north, out of sight."
"Signal stop shooting, return to watch for wight dragon," commanded Arya, "Messengers, remind all units to ensure our dead have dragonglass stabbed in them and guards on them until they can be properly cared for. Have the crews and archers who fought brought inside to dry off. Go. Signal change of watch. Signal dragons to begin clearing the rings and work parties to resume work refilling the fire trenches and resetting the defenses."
The second battle of this night was over, and they had survived. They had triumphed, even; casualties, especially those from the Northern line which had been hit hard, were still being carried into ring one areas where the Maesters and their students were healing those they could, but the Night King had lost scores of difficult to replace White Walkers, and hundreds of impossible to replace giant and mammoth corpses.
What would he do next, thought Arya to herself, as the moon rose higher into the sky.
************************
Quiet hours without any further movement from the Night King later, when east brightened as dawn finally approached, the morning chill and clear, Sansa climbed the stairs to the command tower, joining Arya and the other commanders and notables while Queen Daenerys and her group followed. Once atop the tower, she was finally able to look out and see what had surrounded them, spring engines and spotters all watching for the wight dragon.
For a mile around, Sansa could see that the dead were, quite literally, everywhere. Winterfell was completely surrounded by a motionless sea of the dead, starting about eight hundred yards from the wall and spread out like deadly flowers in a field, dozens of carelessly placed ranks deep with more of the dead revealed every minute as the sky lightened.
Closer, within the rings, the cleanup had moved from north and south to east and west, a shield-wall protecting the near side of ring five across one entire radial division on each side of the castle, with scores of barrels being poured into the fire trenches even as the hedgehogs and other fieldworks were being reassembled both in the moats and on the ground; wheelbarrows with recovered dragonglass and scorpion shafts as well as others with well-guarded wight survivors, mostly from the first attack, being brought back towards the castle.
"All right, I hope everyone got some food and a nap," said Arya with a grin, "We taught that cunt what happens when you wait eight thousand years to try again! Unfortunately, he seems to have decided to wait out the next eight thousand years just outside our gates. Wargs and the Three-Eyed Raven say the Night King and the wight dragon are still together, just to our North, in easy striking range, so make sure everyone knows we need to stay sharp. White
Harbor faced one attack like our first one; the second attack was just for us. Good work, all of you - you all fought just like we trained, and the Night King learned that the realms of men are still dangerous! Queen Sansa, would you like to say anything?"
Sansa strode forward confidently, still holding the dragonglass spear she'd fought with, and spoke to the proud but tired men and women around her; her subjects and her allies, who had protected the realms of men and stopped the Night King cold.
"As Lady Winter has said, congratulations to all of you - all of the tireless training, digging, building, and preparing those of the North and the Vale and the Free Folk did was not only necessary, it was enough! To all our allies, we thank you - we would not have been able to fill the fire trenches without the aid of the Braavosi navy and merchants, we would not have had enough dragonglass without Queen Daenerys and still more merchants from around the world, and we would not have the food stockpiles we do without even more merchants; the Iron Bank is an invaluable ally."
Sansa smiled, gesturing to Queen Daenerys, "We can also thank Queen Daenerys, Jon, Drogon, and Rhaegal for their unique and special help tonight. The Maesters healing the wounded, the Faceless Men caring for the dead, and all those who clean up after the fighting and prepare for the next also deserve thanks."
Sansa changed to a sober expression, lowering her voice as well, "I also thank all those on the watchtowers and the ramparts, in the streets and everywhere else, who gave their lives or their limbs so that the rest of us may live hale and whole. Their sacrifice will not be forgotten; their blood flows in our veins still, and will flow in the veins of our children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and we will remember them."
A few murmurs of 'the North remembers' followed that statements, as well as Lord Royce's quiet 'We remember', echoed immediately by Lady Mormont.
Sansa exchanged spears with Connas, who has been carrying her Valyrian steel, as she stepped back. She thought back to when she and Arya had spoken briefly an hour ago; while she was indeed grateful to the Dragon Queen for her aid, and for her willingness to ride her dragons into battle in defense of not just Winterfell but all of Westeros - including the portions she claimed. That was more than any other ruler of Westeros had done, or even of Essos. That said, she was also well aware that while they may well have needed the dragons during the second battle of the night, if Daenerys hadn't flown north and the Night King killed and raised the wight dragon, they would have been able to hold off the attack by using all the siege engines.
If Jon hadn't gone off on his idiotic quest to capture a wight nearly by himself and without asking anyone for help and advice... well, that was the past. He was safe in Winterfell, now, with all the rest of her family, and they were holding fast, nonetheless.
"By the gods!" came a startled exclamation from one of the spotters, still peering out through the far-eyes on the edge of the hoarding, prompting the group to turn and look, "It's covered with the dead!"
In the distance, two miles to the northwest, a large hill was not barren like the rest, but the top was dark with corpses instead of white with snow, a perfectly straight, even line separating the two colors.
Arya's expression faded into nothing, and she spoke flatly, "The House of Black and White is dedicated to the one true god, dead. That ground has been consecrated as a temple to the Many-Faced God, and the dead will always find peace on the temple's grounds."
************************
She should have expected the wights, given what she knew of Littlefinger and his lack of scruples. The dead had risen from the ground inside the brothel's carriage house, already inside the outer walls of the brothel, and had swarmed in through the back door and the windows both. Some of them had been small, too small to have been full grown when they died in the brothel, yet more victims of Baelish's practices and those of his customers.
She'd forbidden those kinds of horrific practices, and they were still tracking down who had... partaken... of those offerings. However, that business had been going on for longer than she'd been alive, and investigation took time. No few of those who paid for such things had been travelers, dead or out of reach, and of those in her reach, most had already been executed or sent to the Night's Watch for serving Littlefinger... but there were others yet to be found, and such things would not be tolerated in her kingdoms.
One way or another, her sister would handle the rest of those they found - either as the Justice in the North and the Vale in trials, or as the Master of Whisperers, once they were sure they had the right person. Baelish had used their practices against them, she knew very well, and Cersei would have as well, but for all she learned from them, that was not a choice she had any desire to make.
Another messenger ran up to the Queen with the final summary of supply use from the archers outside the walls, giving their report over the sounds of construction, cleaning, and repair. The signals had been clear - another attack was coming, and it was her responsibility to ensure the supplies kept flowing smoothly. While she was no longer the Lady of Winterfell, the new Lady wouldn't be able to manage that and her own leadership duties, nor Arya with her own other duties. Sansa had learned enough military lessons now that she could handle the distribution of military supplies well enough.
That job wasn't nearly as simple as it had sounded to her when the Free Folk and the Knights of the Vale had retaken Winterfell. Water was simplicity in itself in Winterfell; food was easy enough for the inhabitants and the working parties - even medicines weren't difficult, with only a few requiring special storage, and the amounts required were small enough that only a small amount of storage sufficed for many Maesters to be healing in the same place at the same time.
Military supplies, however, came in drastically varied types and sizes, were used in large quantities, and many were utterly specific and incredibly delicate, particularly the wildfire. Should the servants pull up a gross barrels of beans instead of wheat, the kitchens could still feed a digging party of seven and ten thousand hard workers for a day on that, even if they'd need to rearrange the menu for the rest of the week to compensate.
Sansa knew that should the servants bring bolts to the archers, scorpions shafts to the trebuchets, cold barrels of tar and pitch instead of warmed, or the wrong size stones to the siege engines, they would have to be shoved to the side - in the way, in this crowded castle - and the correct supplies brought immediately so as not to run out during a battle, then the incorrect ones brought back to storage or to the correct places. The first exercise after Arya had left on her little trip, just that had happened, and it had been a mess that had taken hours to untangle.
Now, better labeling of the barrels, constant training, and making sure at least one member of each supply party could read at least the labels had corrected that problem, and the archers and engines had been supplied continuously throughout this battle, with each set of supplies being checked at each hand-off from one party to another, by those who had learned the right lessons to know what needed to go where.
"Sandie, please tell my sister we've used fifteen barrels of dragonglass war shafts, seven of fire war shafts, thirty of dragonglass flight shafts, and seventy and a hundred of fire flight shafts, split as expected between arrows and bolts, as well as replacing eight hundred and three thousand spears with broken dragonglass heads, and nine hundred staffs for dragonglass damage," said Sansa to one of the messengers following her. More than seventy and a hundred thousand arrows and bolts used in less than an hour of combat; twenty two and two hundred barrels of arrows and bolts. With that many barrels of food, she could feed five and fifty thousand people normal winter rations for a full day, or seven and twenty thousand their current war rations. All that effort from the knappers and fletchers and other craftsmen, spent in less than an hour, not counting scorpion and ballista bolts, trebuchet projectiles, the fieldworks and obstacles outside the camps, and hundreds of barrels of pitch and tar that had been flung at the enemy, or that were being used to refill the fire trenches.
She paused to smile as she greeted a crew of very motivated new volunteers working on one of the newest building sites, fresh volunteers who had been digging or logging now being guided by carpenters and others who had been assigned to building these past months. Tall, thick wooden logs, each made from a single old tree, were being supported upright by ropes and braces as crews worked on the slotting the structure around them together and pinning the joins solidly in place, even while others were swarming over the ground, still sorting and carrying away the debris from the destruction of the old two story granary that had been there before; it had been too short to hold enough, too weak to add floors to, and in a spot where they could put up a tower scorpion and another set of archers much higher up while working on a more permanent building below.
She spoke briefly with the crews and volunteers as well as the Maester with both iron and steel links advising them, asking the names of the crew leaders she didn't already know, then continued on towards the newest glass garden that had been built by the Myrish glassblowers they had; like everything else she'd seen, work was moving more briskly than she'd ever seen before - the army of the dead was literally outside their gates, and that had a pronounced effect on her people's motivation. She could see their fear, but also their courage, and their determination.
"Nickolas, tell the kitchens to prepare an extra half meal's worth of bread and soup and send hot food out to everyone who's still working instead of coming in to eat. Dedicated men and women deserve to be cared for properly," said Sansa, pitching her voice to carry without being obvious about it.
"Theys gonna wanna eat with this smell?" asked the boy, his nose wrinkling at the stench of burning corpses which still filled the air.
"Yes, even with this smell; when you work hard, as everyone is doing, you need to eat, whatever it smells like. Don't worry, you'll manage to eat something, too. Run along, quickly now," replied Queen Sansa, turning to head to the new glass gardens. In the next of the brand new glass gardens constructed by the Myrish glassblowers and their local helpers, they were planting the very first seeds that the Maesters had determined were the best mix for growing with the cold and dark of their steadily shortening days.
She would be there to see it, and to be seen seeing it; that would be reported to the other strongholds in time, to remind them again how important planting was. Even for those strongholds that weren't built on hot springs, the glass gardens would trap the heat the sun gave, for however long that might be each day; that would be enough to be useful, as long as there was any day left.
Neither snow nor fog nor wights nor White Walkers nor even the Night King himself outside the gates would keep her kingdoms from preparing for the Long Night. The warriors in her family had their wars to fight, with spear and shaft in the open, and with knives in the dark. She had her own to fight, with politics and with preparation. They had to win against the Long Night and the Night King both to survive, and they had to win or tie against all the other powers to stay free.
************************
Queen Yara watched the ship rapidly approaching her small fleet; it was flying the purple flag of Braavos, not the Kraken of her Uncle's forces as she'd feared. Her brother'd finally come through for her; his crew had torched Euron's flagship the Silence and several other of his ships on their way out using wildfire he'd been given by someone working for 'No One'. A Faceless Man - she'd been around the world, heard the stories. Why would an assassin meddle like that?
"ANY OTHER SHIPS?" she called up to the lookout.
"NO!"
She peered out at the approaching vessel; a single small unarmed ship wasn't going to be a threat, not to more than three dozen Ironborn ships. Unless, she thought darkly, it was carrying wildfire, one of Cersei's or Uncle Euron's tricks. Or maybe the Purps thought this was the right time to try that sort of trick themselves, under their own colors. She called out her orders as she had since she was just a girl with her first command; the men hadn't respected her, but humored her for fear of her father's wrath... until her first victory, and then those who had sailed with her followed because she won.
"Steady as she goes! Archers up! Prepare for battle, but only on my signal! Fleet to disperse; two hundred yards between ships! Keep a careful watch out; this might be a distraction! Do not loose except on my command!" commanded Queen Greyjoy, then continued quietly, "Theon, have the steadiest lookouts keep a sharp eye out for archers, crossbows, fire, wildfire, or other treachery."
"Aye, my Queen," replied her brother, going off to pass the message, then returning to her side. They'd been taken by surprise once, and didn't intend for that to happen again.
Once the small ship was in range of the fleet, Yara shouted out to it herself.
"KEEP YOUR DISTANCE! WHY ARE YOU HERE?"
"WHICH SHIP HAS QUEEN YARA AND LORD THEON? WE HAVE MESSAGES FROM QUEEN DAENERYS, QUEEN SANSA, AND LADY WINTER!" shouted the other ship, the voice having a pronounced Braavosi accent - from the rich areas of the Bastard Daughter of Valyria, too, if she was any judge... and she was. This was either real... or an expensive trick.
"YOU'RE SPEAKING TO HER! THEON'S ON DECK WITH ME! WHY WOULD THE DRAGON QUEEN BE SENDING MESSAGES WITH YOU?"
"BECAUSE WE'RE ALL ALLIES IN THE FIGHT AGAINST THE DEAD - I'VE SEEN THEM WITH MY OWN EYES, TENS OF THOUSANDS OF THEM MARCHING SOUTH!"
Yara exchanged shrugs with Theon, then replied.
"ALL RIGHT! WHAT'RE YOUR MESSAGES?"
"MESSAGE READS QUEEN YARA, PLEASE PROCEED ACROSS THE NARROW SEA TO PENTOS, THEN HEAD SOUTH TO TYROSH AND CONTINUE TO SLAVER'S BAY VIA LYS, PENTOS AND VOLANTIS! YOU WILL GUARD ADDITIONAL SHIPS FROM EACH CITY CARRYING PASSENGERS AND SUPPLIES FROM EACH CITY TO HELP FIGHT THE WAR AGAINST THE ARMY OF THE DEAD AND TO PREPARE FOR THE LONG NIGHT! TWO DOZEN SCORPIONS AND DRAGONGLASS BACKED BOLTS FROM THE ARSENAL AWAIT YOU AT PENTOS AS WELL AS A DOZEN WARSHIPS OF BRAAVOS AND ADDITIONAL SUPPLIES! QUEEN DAENERYS SENDS!"
"MESSAGE HEARD, BUT WHY THE FUCK SHOULD I BELIEVE IT!" shouted Yara to the Braavosi ship, looking at Theon and muttering, "We could really use something to kill a wight dragon with, though. Euron talked to me about dragon killing scorpions."
"QUEEN DAENERYS SAYS SHE REMEMBERS YOU NEVER DEMAND, BUT YOU'RE UP FOR ANYTHING, REALLY!" came the answer. Yara exchanged a glance with her brother, who smirked at her. She gave him a smirk back, licking her lips just to watch the expression on his face change - he'd come back for her, and was finally starting to show a little bit of what he'd once been. She hadn't known him long, but she wanted her brother back.
"ALL RIGHT, MESSAGE HEARD! WHAT ELSE YOU GOT!" called out Yara.
"QUEEN YARA, THANK YOU FOR YOUR AID AGAINST THE ARMY OF THE DEAD! WE WELCOME TRADE BY YOU AND YOUR PEOPLE IN THE NORTH AND THE VALE! THE LONG NIGHT IS HERE; THERE IS NO FOOD TO PROVIDE, PLEASE PROVISION YOUR FLEETS ACCORDINGLY! THE DAYS ARE SHORTER THE FARTHER NORTH YOU GO! FULL INFORMATION AWAITS YOU AT PENTOS! QUEEN SANSA SENDS!"
"MESSAGE HEARD!" replied Yara, turning to Theon with a raised eyebrow, only to see him shrug and smile at her.
"THEON, CONGRATULATIONS ON RESCUING YOUR SISTER AND SAVAGING EURON'S FLEET! PLEASE MAKE SURE THE IRONBORN UNDERSTAND IT'S ALREADY COLDER THAN IT'S EVER BEEN IN THE NORTH! QUEEN SANSA SENDS!"
"MESSAGE HEARD!"
"YARA, THE THREE-EYED RAVEN REPORTS EURON'S FLEET IS SPLIT. IN ADDITION TO THE FORCES YOU'VE JUST SEEN, HE HAS ONE FLEET BETWEEN DRAGONSTONE AND THE WHISPERS, AND ANOTHER BETWEEN MASSEY'S HOOK AND TARTH! THE ARMY OF THE DEAD WILL BE UPON WINTERFELL AND WHITE HARBOR BOTH IN A FEW DAYS! YOU AND YOURS ARE WELCOME IN THE NORTH AND THE VALE IF YOU LEAVE RAIDING, SLAVING, AND SALT-WIFERY IN THE PAST! IF THE IRONBORN CAN BUILD SHIPS AS WELL AS THE ARSENAL, SEND PRICES TO LORD GRAFTON, MASTER OF SHIPS! LADY WINTER SENDS!"
"MESSAGE HEARD!"
"THEON, HELPING A SISTER ESCAPE FOR HELPING A SISTER ESCAPE; BRAN'S AND MY DEBTS ARE CLEAR! LADY WINTER SENDS!"
"END MESSAGES!"
With that, the small purple-sailed ship heeled about and began tacking northeast.
Yara narrowed her eyes at her brother, "What's that about helping a sister escape... brother?"
************************
"WIGHT DRAGON SPOTTED! ROYCE OVER TWO! ONE MILE OUT, TWO HUNDRED YARDS UP! STATIONARY!" called a lookout on one of the big mounted far-eyes.
Daenerys looked out to her right, straining to see in the now-clear darkness until a brilliant blue light bloomed upwards a moment later, the light of wight dragonfire in the distance showing clearly where her enemy was even as the silver horn's clear notes from the command tower commanded them to stay where they were.
Right out there, she could see her poor Viserion. The Night King was out there, taunting her; showing her the ruined body of her child; he wasn't. She could feel Drogon rising up beneath her, ready to fly out right now and face what was once his brother; she glanced back, Jon and Rhaegal both felt the same. They could go and attack him right now; see how the Night King liked being bathed in dragonfire, liked being bitten in two and devoured! He was her enemy, he'd killed her child, and she could kill him now!
Dany put a hand over her leather armor, above her ribs and squeezed hard, letting the pain from her bruise, the bruise Arya had given her, chase the fury away. She thought back to the conversations she'd been having the past few days with Qhono and with Grey Worm about how their forces fought. The Dothraki fought with speed and overwhelming charges atop their mounts, the Dothraki way was for her and Jon to take her two dragons and attack the enemy right now, ignoring everything else. Win, die, or live defeated and cut her hair, those were her options as a Khaleesi.
The Dothraki didn't consider her three cities, her seven... her kingdoms, her Unsullied, her people, or the freed slaves that depended on her. Nor did they consider thrown spears that punch right through dragonscale hundreds of yards away as anything but fodder for a more glorious victory... for the survivors.
The Unsullied way was to follow orders exactly. They would form ranks and defend each other and those behind them... but even had she all the Unsullied who still lived, that wouldn't be enough... and, without other support, they would have been overwhelmed on the first charges, all but those Drogon or Rhaegal could protect.
The Lannister way was to use a line of archers and try to skewer the dragonrider... or, as she'd realized, perhaps the plan had been simply to make her either turn back again and again while their shields and spears tried to hold off her Dothraki. She was not going to be able to use that against the Night King out there... and without her Dothraki horse archers she couldn't even do so here.
The Stark way was to set a trap, hidden from the victim until escape was impossible. That was what Sansa Stark had done to her, and what Arya Stark had set for the Night King. Valyrian steel ballista bolts, by the gods, just waiting for what had once been Viserion to get close enough. Or, as Missandei had carefully informed her, Drogon or Rhaegal, should they give the order. Now she knew what Razdal mo Eraz had felt like when he'd come up to her and she'd told him her dragons hadn't granted safe passage. She was alive because they chose not to kill her. She wasn't nervous that they'd order her to her death, if only because they had no need of such subtlety... and because Jon was still with her.
That was something she'd need to keep in mind when she sat on the Iron Throne; how those approaching her felt. But now wasn't the time for ruling, or politics. Now was time for war.
Her own way... she didn't know yet what her way in war would be, but she knew it wouldn't be giving in to being a berserker; she would rule her rage, her 'bear face' as Arya put it, and she would make it serve her. For her, in this war, right now, the best way was the Unsullied way. The Starks and their commanders had been preparing for the Night King for a long time. She, and Jon, and Drogon, and Rhaegal were parts of the trap Arya was laying, and she would follow the commands sent to her, just as her Dothraki and Unsullied followed her, because she believed that those would be in the best interest of the war against the Night King. There were risks in war, and against Tyrion's advice, she would share in them, just as everyone else fighting on the front lines shared in them; as she'd shared the risks when she defended Meereen, when she led the fight against the Lannisters after the Reach had been sacked.
She did have more sympathy now for how Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah had felt when she was negotiating with Kraznys mo Nakloz for the Unsullied, and hadn't told them her plan beyond that she was going to buy the Unsullied. She didn't know the details of the plan now, she wasn't flying high, able to see everything, because right now Arya apparently felt giving a clear path for the arrows and bolts was more important. And, perhaps, Arya wanted her where she could be seen, and where she could hear.
What she did know was that the overall plan was to keep her children well inside the range of the scorpions and ballista, kept protected and used as bait at the same time. Neither she nor Jon could throw spears that would be a danger to Viserion, while the Night King had already killed poor Viserion... and she knew many Dothraki who were very dangerous with thrown weapons while mounted. The details, she didn't know, but Johnna had translated the battle signals earlier that night, and it had been changing all the time, as different forces were put into play based on what the enemy did. The details weren't set in stone - battle here was an ever-changing thing, like the flowing movements of a horde, shifting as the great grass sea shifted under their hooves.
"Umbagon kesir!" called out Daenerys to her dragons, then turned to Jon, who she could see was ready to go flying out to kill the Night King right now. All the time she'd known him, he'd been so focused on protecting his people, on protecting the North - on protecting everyone in the North, including the Free Folk. He'd talked about the rest of Westeros... but it was his people here that were always on his mind. Right now, it was their turn to wait for the best time to attack, based on the signals from Jon's sister, just as every other force in this battle would wait for the command signals.
"Jon, give him a good rub; calm Rhaegal down. He can sense you want to attack, and that makes him want to as well. We might be here for awhile, and you need to keep him alert but steady," said Dany, even as behind her a page came running out over the bridge from the first ring behind them bearing a tray of rapidly cooling food.
Up atop the command tower, Arya watched through a far-eye as best she could; she could spot a little movement in the starlight, coming out of the forest, going both to the north and the south. The wargs had reported only the two main forces finally moving out, each with hundreds of wight giants and mammoths, and thousands of the toughest of the animal wights. The giants were each holding entire sets of pine trees against their chests, the mammoths had had trees lashed to their backs as well, all with the branches more or less intact, barring being crushed.
Worse yet, many of the wight giants were wearing what was essentially armor - layers of thick hides, very few of which were rotted, whatever the state of the wights inside. The enemy was learning - the dead did not tire, and extra weight didn't bother them. It did, however, slow them down just a little.
Behind her stood Lyanna and Meera in addition to the others; with the Night King's dragon clearly visible, the risk was worth the quick, clear discussion - should the wight dragon approach, those two would be down the ropes and running to their posts before the dragon was in range, even if it survived to dragonfire range.
"Lyanna?" asked Arya, "If we begin loosing at maximum scorpion range, or maximum ballista range?"
"Ballista bolt'll punch through the trees with a steel plate-cutter head, no problem," said the Scorpion Bear, continuing, "Needle head, maybe, maybe not. Plate-cutter's a bad choice for going through hides and leather, though, the needle bodkin heads are better for that. Case-hardened iron shaft'll definitely work, ironwood shafts... maybe. The bigger scorpions will have a tough time, and those branches might have more effect, so... some of the time, and only with the case-hardened shafts. The small sled scorpions, not at all through the trees without Valyrian bolts, but the hides by themselves aren't a problem even with wooden shafted engine bolts. I want some Maesters, some hides, and some of the felled trees we got in just before the gates for experiments - then it won't just be what I and my commanders think. Maester Russal, how many can we expect before ring two is hit, best speed?"
The Bear Island Maester did some rapid math in his head, then replied, "If we open at five hundred yards, ring nine, the masters and the best of the marksmen will have ten bowshots, four scorpion shots, three ballista shots, and two trebuchet shots. At seven hundred yards, ring thirteen, add two scorpion and one ballista shot; the trebuchets would be too close to the ring 2 ramparts."
"You can have as much firewood trees as you want," said Arya, "it'll still be useful as kindling after you turn them to splinters. Sansa or Meera need to approve the hides and the solid trees - hides keep us warm and building wood is not something we'll get more of until the Night King's army is a lot smaller. We'll see what we learn in this attack; there's probably no time for an experiment before they hit us, and the extra two hundred yards is better held in reserve. Engines to loose at five hundred yards. Messenger, Maesters and scouts to the wall, ramparts, and to siege engine command for observations. Go! Meera?"
"It's a waste of shafts for archers shooting into branches from the front. Deflection shots, maybe, and hitting them in the face, feet, hands, or whatever other flesh is exposed. For hides that thick we'll need needle bodkins on warshafts loosed by the windlass crossbows or the more powerful warbows; nothing less will have a chance. Messenger, ask my husband how vulnerable the feet on those wight giants are," replied Meera Stark, rolling her eyes, "It's not like he need to look for the Night King right this minute. They could start throwing those trees, too - we know the Night King knows how to throw."
"Good point. Messengers, warn the lines to take cover when entire trees come flying through the air at their heads, then find Sansa - she can find someone to design better protection against thrown trees and get the crews started building it. Go! Jamie?"
"They can lose just a few mammoths to cross the moats, and if they charge, they'll crush the lines without slowing down. We can't let them get close."
"Possible. Brienne?" asked Arya.
"With respect, I think the Night King will flood the moats with whatever he thinks his weakest wights are - the giants and mammoths are being used like cavalry; you don't waste cavalry when you have other, less valuable ways," replied the Lady Commander.
"Just so. Messenger, pass that on to the Maesters and scouts observing, and the close-in wargs - they should watch for what kind wights are used to fill the moats, as opposed to what kind of wights attack and defend and work and so on. Go! There's something more going on; we just used pitch and tar to burn them up, so either they're going to come in so fast they don't burn up first, or they've got some other trick."
Lyanna gave a nod to the page standing by the gong, who immediately tapped out the correct signals while Arya continued to give instruction over the ringing sounds of the messages being relayed.
"Non-commanders are to send critical signals only; the Night King's trying something new, and he's just waiting for us to leave an opening he can fly a dragon through without getting turned into one of Sansa's pincushions, so we need to be able to give orders without delay or confusion. Massed archers and engines inside and beneath walls or more than two camps away from being able to see the enemy can rest and eat at battle positions; the other massed archers wait until Ring 3, and loose at specific targets only; they're to shoot like marksmen now."
Arya took a moment to receive a round of nods, then continued, "Marskmen archers and half the marksmen spring engines to take good deflection shots; don't shoot just to shoot, but when they've got a shot against unarmored or weak areas - hands, feet, eyes, noses, and so on - they should take it, remaining half of the marksman engines to watch the wight dragon. Master archers and two thirds the master archer spring engines to take the same kind of shots. Nobody looses past ring seven, and conserve shafts; the remainder of those engines to wait for wight dragon," commanded Arya, "We cannot afford to be vulnerable; just a few seconds of dragonfire is very dangerous."
"Rapid shots are going to tire my crews out fast," said Lyanna immediately, then turned to Jamie and Brienne as she she added some detail, detail she'd needed to have explained to her when she was first assigned the position, "The Maesters and carpenters have finished tuning the windlasses on the scorpions and ballista to match their crews. The massed engine crews are composed of the weak and the frail, they tire easily no matter what. While the marksmen crews are fitter, and the master crews are the best in Westeros, their windlasses, pulleys, and so on are made with a higher... mechanical advantage... as Maester Russal calls it, so they use all their strength and get it reset much faster than the massed engines can. Meera's windlass wound crossbows are similar, all the ones we use have about the same power behind the bolt, it's just a matter of how hard and how long they are to reset - some are easy to wind and take many many turns, and some are very hard and take fewer turns."
Arya nodded, "We haven't had a chance to do more than clear the dead from the rings, dump some hedgehogs off and pick up whatever dragonglass and unbroken shafts that can be found. When the dead have good footing, they take only a few seconds to run fifty yards to the next trench; if they charge in, we're going to need the quickest kills we can get... as long as we don't waste shafts excessively. If the Night King finds a way to get us to use up our arrows too much faster than we're killing his wights, he'll keep pressing us until we're out, and we can't stop them without missile support. Lyanna, rotate crews shooting and crews watching at your discretion."
The small bear gave a short nod.
"I'm going to call up the rest of my master archers and crossbowmen," said Meera, "And bring up the next watch's worth of marksmen as well; we're going to need them to deal with this many if they concentrate, and there's plenty of room on the ramparts and walls. What do you think, have them stand by north, south, east, and west until the wargs give us more information on how the dead are splitting up?"
"Agreed; have them gather at Manderly, Flint, Mollen, and Whitehill. If the Night King splits his force up into more than a few thrusts, we'll be able to handle it unless he's got some really good tricks," replied Arya, considering briefly; the normal front ranks were wearing heavy armor, but heavy by Northern, not Vale, standards, "Anything else? No?"
Arya waited a moment, hearing no dissent, she commanded, "Trebuchets, hot fire for all shots. Scorpions and ballista, dragonglass backed plate cutters until the ring three moat, then the Green. Lyanna, make sure your leaders have targets assigned relative to the center of the enemy's formations; we need to hit the center for sure, and spread some out over the rest without waste. Meera, take whatever shots are most likely to be kills on White Walkers, giants, and mammoths - bears and direwolves aren't nearly as much threat to a shield-wall, so we need the biggest threats slaughtered quickly. Signal Royce to split the cavalry to the same places; the best dragoons to dismount and form the first rank once we get an idea where the dead are hitting; we'll need full plate on the front lines. Signal Skamund split the sled scorpions likewise. Go!"
Meera wrapped a leg and an arm around a rope and slid downwards alongside Lyanna, they each gave orders to their own messengers to carry to their troops, then the two parted ways with respectful nods, the Scorpion Bear jogging to her own post as Meera ran to the entrance to the Godswood, slowing to a brisk jog as she headed to the northeast corner and made sure her less skilled archers were sitting or kneeling by their firepots to rest, had bread and water to eat, and were keeping their bows and quivers ready if they were needed. Around the Heart Tree a working party was placing a set of dragonglass hedgehogs in case more wights came up, to give them time.
"Alleras! Over here!" exclaimed Meera, taking the master archer by the arm with a grateful squeeze when she and her page arrived, guiding her to sit side by side on some barrels of arrows and handing her some bread she'd picked up, "Thank you for your great shooting; you kept the wights off me until the auxiliaries could set up a proper shield-wall. You got two the eye right with arrows right over my head and they blocked the ones behind while those other three were going for my ankles; I'd have had to fall back with five of them."
Alleras nodded, replying with a friendly smile, "I couldn't let a Princess retreat from simple wights! I've been training in archery my whole life; here's where I can make a difference. Here I can use all my skills to the benefit of all of not even just all of Westeros, but all the world."
"We'll need your skill with a bow again; ignoring over two thousand bears and direwolves that are coming; the Night King's sending hundreds of White Walkers as well as giants and mammoths carrying trees, so it's going to be precise shots. The White Walkers are probably going to be hiding behind the giants or mammoths; Arya thinks the Night King's got some tricks planned - maybe a fast charge to try and get past the fire barrels, maybe something else. This one's going to be ours and Lady Mormont's to fight. Massed volleys would just be a waste of arrows against those hides, but giants and mammoths hitting the lines would open them right up."
"No rest for the wicked Princesses of the North," said Alleras playfully, "As a good host, would you mind opening up the White Walkers for me?".
"For you, Alleras? Of course. You're not like the Princess of Dorne, who is doubtless lounging in her luxurious vacation quarters, eating only the finest of delicacies and napping all day while she sends poor Alleras to represent the might of Dorne? I'm just a working Princess, after all... not like poor Princess Arya, trapped up in her tall tower," replied Meera with a grin; having seen Princess Sarella during the coronation after having worked with Alleras, it had been very easy to make the connection between the two.
Alleras laughed, "Precisely! You should come to Dorne and enjoy a similar vacation. Fighting women aren't new to us, after all."
"Alas, my work is here, as I'm sure the Hand of the Queen would remind me, and I've still a great deal to learn. I'd expected to rule a castle, not the entire North, and that cunt," said Meera, jerking her chin out at where the Night King was hovering, occasionally sending up another tongue of blue flame, "isn't exactly giving me a respite from my military duties. My good-sister might enjoy the trip, though, once she has some time. She likes seeing new places and fighting new people!"
"Hands are like that, I'm afraid, as Princess Sarella may end up learning soon enough; the politics in Dorne aren't nearly as simple as here or in the Vale. I'm sure she would welcome Arya's company for... quite a few reasons; politically, that would throw a snake into whatever plans are being concocted in Sarella's absence," said Alleras with a smile as groups of skilled archers started assembling on the walls and towers, "I don't think they'd be ready for her."
"She doesn't exactly like plans that threaten her friends and family, no, and she's... very direct about it, in a way that's very hard to be ready for. For now, here's our warg. Can't let her report us for lazing around!" replied Meera as she stood and greeted the elderly Free Folk woman and her guards who were approaching to serve as the eyes of the commander of the archers.
Out on the ice ramparts separating ring two from ring three, Bronze Yohn Royce dismounted and strode to the imposing figure commanding this section of the defenses.
"Lord Clegane! You and all the infantry are to be congratulated on an excellent defense! Lady Winter has commanded that the Knights of the Vale have the glory of facing the next attack in the front rank. Would you do me the honor of instructing me on what it's like to face the dead?" said Lord Royce loudly, ensuring that the infantry - and his own cavalry - heard his respect for the infantry, and for the duty of the infantry. Lady Winter had brooked no hubris on the part of either nobility or cavalry; everyone had a role to play, and some of his younger knights still had notions of battle more suited to song than what they faced now.
Yohn Royce waited for the Hound to approach, listening to the profane but professional lessons the man had learned, and then lowered his voice and spoke quietly, "You've shown your courage, Lord Clegane. This attack will be met with wildfire right in front of the ramparts. I ask that you take charge of and prepare the next watch to relieve us if we win, and to defend the camps if we fall."
"Wolf bitch told you?" asked the Hound.
"I know fear when I see it... and I know the bravery needed to overcome that fear isn't easy, Lord Clegane," replied the old knight somberly.
The Hound nodded, then turned and headed inwards without another word.
Up in the command tower, Arya peered through a large far-eye, watching hints of movement revealed in the light of the rising moon, while beside her the bird warg sitting on the chair behind her with his own guards beside him had his eyes return to normal. When it was apparent that the Night King very obviously was trying something new, Arya had called for one of the younger bird wargs to climb the rigging to be right here, rather than reporting through messengers.
"Split two; north, south. Run fast. Same numbers," reported the warg before his eyes turned white once more as he warged back into his bird.
"Signal to prepare for battle as expected, two equal groups, heading north and south for now," commanded Arya as she stood up and turned slowly to scan the horizon herself, seeing with eyes and hearing with her ears. Once the enemy started in, based on how fast they'd started crossing the moat before, there might be barely a minute between the first bolts being loosed at the farthest reach of the scorpions and when the army of the dead hit the ramparts on the outside of the second ring.
The northern force of wights and White Walkers reached a point due north of Winterfell first, so the warg again returned to them for long enough to report in, "South at southwest, moving. North stop; shape circle-line; line north-south. White Walker picture-shape; White Walkers hide behind giants. Cowards."
Arya laughed at the insult, stepping back to let Mariya again take the big far-eye. Her bannerwoman was keenly perceptive, and was one of the best spotters in the entire force; she'd have to reward the girl and thank Sansa and Kitty again. Arya made sure to use a confident, slightly aggressive tone for her reply, "Signal spring engines double North, Scorpion Bear to designate target sectors; gongs siege engine command only. Signal watch for friendly dragons; dragons to Flint ring two. Signal cavalry to reinforce Manderly, Flint. Signal sled scorpions reinforce Manderly double, Flint half. Messengers, repeat that to them. Go."
Arya listened for a moment, not able to hear the motion of the enemy amidst the signals going out of her own tower, and then the continuous set of signals coming from Lyanna's command tower as the small bear gave directions to her crews.
"MOVEMENT!" called Maryia, "A bunch of smaller wights are charging in on both sides of that symbol; they're coming in now, one big mass. Passing ring nineteen!"
"We'll fight as planned. We've made him think; now it's time to see what tricks he has beyond a simple overrun," said Arya calmly, looking down at the northern wall, seeing the ready shapes of the best of the archers lining the wall; Meera had even called for the best of the massed archers to fill in the rest of the space available on the vast fortifications.
"Why just North and South?" asked Lord Commander Jamie, with Brienne looking equally interested, "What if they attack from other directions, or more than two?"
"The more they split up, the more of our forces and siege engines we can bring to bear - the Night King saw that at the beginning of this night, when he attacked from every direction at once. Were he an idiot, our ancestors would have killed him the first Long Night. Also, the formation - one circle, one line though it, north to south. In some forms of magic, there is meaning to the motions, to the symbols, and that's a symbol we've been told about by the Free Folk and the Night's Watch both. I suspect there is some power to it."
"Passing ring sixteen!" called out Mariya, the gongs continuing to allocate towers to targets. Arya looked to the southernmost camp; Drogon and Rhaegal were settling down, tucking in behind the ramparts and lowering their profiles.
"Less than a minute until they're in scorpion range," said Grand Maester Wolkan, who had stayed behind while his friend Maester Russal had gone to an outer tower to observe more closely. He was a little pale, and his breaths were a little short, but he'd glued himself to the outer edge of the rail, watching the motion in the moonlight as best he could.
"Are you sure we should give that little support to the south, Lady Winter?" asked Lady Brienne.
"South has the best fixed defenses; it has the main gatehouses, a good slope up for the attackers, and more towers, few of which have any view to the North, along with Jon and Daenerys and the dragons; we cannot under any circumstances split the dragons up as long as there's a dragon on the enemy's side; he'll always be able to get the first attack when he calls in fog and snow, and an unseen first attack is all any real killer needs. Then he'd have two dragons and we'd have one. Since we have to concentrate them, we'll take advantage of that anyway. Signal dragons that they're clear to engage in melee only if the enemy threatens the ramparts."
"Ring twelve!" called out Mariya.
"Enemy to the south making formation, Flint ring twenty!" called out another spotter, the tower falling silent as the enemy approached, Lyanna's gongs stilling as well, as they
"SIGNAL LOOSE AT RING NINE! RING NINE!" shouted Arya, making sure Fjornal above them and the other crews close by could hear, the gongs in her tower relaying the message immediately.
"Twenty seconds!" called Maester Wolkan, swiveling his far-eye north and then south, watching the vast forces approaching Winterfell for the Night King's second attack.
TWANG went the ballista on the platform above their heads, Fjornal having found a good target, a multitude of other ballista and scorpions following nearly immediately, along with the first shot of the trebuchets. Above them, the creaking of the windlass on the big ballista had already started along with the Free Folk subcommander's stern command, "Reload steel needle! Pull pull pull! We shoot four, you get my ale all month!"
The warg's eyes returned to normal again while he spoke, "They run same. Big big arrow hit, kill. Small big arrow, some kill, some not. Two giants face arrow. Giants wave trees now; branch stop small arrows. Big arrows hit. Other arrows some stop, some hit. White Walker move different giant, mammoth when kill."
Arya listened to the shouts and creaks from the reloading scorpions and ballista as the small, high-pitched drums signals from Meera's position finished allocating targets and preparing for emergency massed volleys should they be needed; otherwise, all archers were to wait for good shots. They'd be tiring the wargs out using more than a watch's worth at once, but if there was ever a time to do so, this was it; she could feel it, somehow - there was something larger at play, something that wasn't present during the first attack; what, she did not know, but something.
The flames from the barrels arced up high, far over the flat flights of the scorpion and ballista bolts, coming down gracefully before vanishing suddenly just before she heard the barrels smash apart; the sounds had been different, and it was still dark, no gouts of flame spreading over the enemy. Grand Maester Wolkan, Maester Russal, and the other Maesters who thought swords were shattering because they were cold were going to be crowing about their new evidence, she thought. The White Walkers were pulling out their magic, now - this strange formation was probably because of the magic, and it was definitely one of the symbols the Night's Watch and the Free Folk had reported the White Walkers using.
"Tails stopped burning while they were still in the air!" called Mariya, seeing the fire trailing the small barrels vanished suddenly as they fell towards the enemy formation, "No fire!"
The warg returned to them, confirming what Arya had suspected, "Barrel fire cold; barrel frost."
That was the Night King's gambit, then, Arya thought. They knew the White Walkers and the Night King himself put fires out by being near them; they had a way of putting fires out in an entire area, too. She didn't know if they'd had that during the first Long Night and Bran the Builder had managed some other magic to counter that, but right now, the only pure magic available was that of the Faceless Men, and that wasn't going to be enough to stop the dead. During the Second Long Night, however, they had new weapons to fight the dead, wildfire - fire given form, and dragons - fire made flesh, both of which were about to be tested against the ice magic of the Night King.
TWANG went the scorpions and a handful of ballista with the quickest crews, including the one atop Arya's command tower, loosing their second shot, followed by immediate calls for scorpions to reload with plate-cutters and ballista to reload with the green, all except for Fjornal's who called for another steel needle. Arya knew that Fjornal knew her crew well; they could keep up with the scorpions for four, maybe five shots... but that was all they needed to do, and it meant one more dead giant or mammoth, or White Walker if they were lucky.
"Crossing ring five moat! They're moving slower as they cross," reported Mariya, her eye still staring through the far-eye atop the dark hoarding, her hood held over her head and the eyepiece to block the moonlight, "Spreading out slowly; keeping that weird formation of a circle with a longer line through it; that's costing them speed as they cross. Wait! They're filling the moat in two more places to cross over, right at the outside of the circle."
"South ring thirteen!" called the southern spotter, reporting on the incoming second part of the attack.
TWANG went the ballista above them, amidst the third shot of the scorpions, all reloading with the precious glass wildfire balls even as the very fastest of the trebuchet crews finished reloading their own siege engines with the largest of the barrels of warmed mixes of tar and pitch and the creations of the pyromancers and the Maesters, each waiting for the central command to ignite and loose after preparing the weapon.
"Move faster after cross! Run again," reported the bird warg as the best of the archers on the northern side started loosing dragonglass tipped flight arrows into the dark sky, one after the other, seeking out the most difficult of targets behind or around the bushy pine trees protecting the enemy.
"Starting to cross ring four now, and not slowing down much; they're getting better!" called out Mariya.
"South ring eleven!" called another sharp-eyed spotter, "The whole other force! Same circle-line formation! Going fast!"
"Signal north siege engines wait for south to loose, south spring engines reload with the Green," commanded Arya. The Southron force wasn't going to be in deep and trapped by the time they needed to hit the northern force; they'd have only one shot at surprising them with wildfire, and if the southern force turned and fled, dragonglass backed bolts would get barely any kills; wildfire, if it worked, could deplete the Night King's forces much more, and make this a much more costly experiment. If it didn't work, they would be wasting quite a lot of it... but if it didn't work, they might be dead anyway, and quickly - that force of giants and mammoths would consider the walls of Winterfell no more than a slight delay, and two thousand wight direwolves and wight bears would be devastating once inside.
"Messengers, have Sam and Gilly prepare ravens for all strongholds stating that the circle-line formation puts out hot fire in the air, and that the Green was unsuccessful as well; have White Harbor recall the horse caravan by warg and consider us lost if they hear nothing more. They are to put maximum effort into harrying the foe, priority on giants, mammoths, and White Walkers; retreat from groups of fifty or more White Walkers. Do not send those ravens unless the Green fails. Go!" commanded Arya.
"SIGNAL COVER! TREES!" shouted Mariya, the signal for take cover going out immediately - it had very deliberately been set as one of the shortest, quickest signals, along with the signal to loose. Even as she spoke, the crossbowmen around the edge of the command tower began shooting the big windlass crossbows mounted on the universal joints on the hoarding around them, adding to the noise.
"You don't think we're lost, Lady Winter?" asked Brienne, looking out over the wave of wights charging in, her hand on her sword Oathkeeper's hilt by habit.
"Not yet, but if we are, we'll need the word to go out immediately," replied Arya.
"Reaching ring three!" called Mariya, seeing the wights filling the last completely undefended moat; as the dead crossed that one, there was a mere fifty yards before they reached the ring two moat and the ramparts behind.
"South ring nine!" called the South-facing spotter.
Some of the southern-facing engines were still reloading; but there was no more time.
"South ring eight!"
Gongs rang from Lyanna Mormont's tower, followed by every engine with a clear line of sight loosing their payloads; fire again sailing through the air, but this time the leisurely trails of red fire in high arches was joined by quick darts of green fire on shallow paths, nearly a third aimed at the center of each formation, the rest spread around the edges where the White Walkers were hiding behind enormous wights protected by makeshift wooden armor even on the run.
"YES!" shouted Mariya over the sounds of the engines again reloading as fast as they could as green fire bloomed out over both enemy formations, direwolf and bear wights going up like kindling, fur, hides, branches and pine needles immediately adding an orange tinge to the flames... and then the barrels slammed down, their own payloads igniting immediately, set ablaze more by the wildfire than their still-flaming cloth tails.
Meera's drums sounded at the same time as Lyanna's gongs, the different sounds each commanding rapid shots by all archers who can see a target even as the siege engines were creaking as they reloaded a little slower than they had a minute ago; the crews were already sweating, which if this went on much longer would start putting them at risk of frostbite.
On the wall, Alleras finally ignored the quiver on her right, a little less than half full of flight shafts, and pulled her first arrow out of her left-hand quiver, full of war shafts with needle heads and dragonglass, perfect for going through leather or hide armor; her page immediately swapped the right-hand quiver with a full one and started refilling the used one from a nearby barrel, raising her bow and watching a flaming giant she'd seen a wight ride behind when Meera had taken out the mammoth he'd been hiding behind before. As the giant started falling, she loosed, just a little to the right of center, pulling another warshaft even as a White Walker froze and then shattered as her shot took it in the hip; he had indeed been running for the next closest cover... as she'd anticipated!
Beside her, Meera loosed her own arrow and said, her voice even, not even breathing hard, "Four to the right, giant."
Alleras nocked her greatbow, finding the giant Meera had shot at, noted the next nearest cover, and drew her own bowstring back as the giant collapsed, sending an arrow to kill the White Walker that the Princess of the North had uncovered before he could scurry behind some other protection.
"Three to the left, mammoth," said Meera over the near-constant twanging of bowstrings, crossbows, scorpions, and ballista as everyone loosed as quickly as they could aim.
Atop the tower, Mariya called out, "North some retreating! Now all retreating!"
Arya looked to the north, past the Manderly camp at the rapidly falling wights; every time a White Walker was killed, an entire set of wights fell with them. Even as she watched, the enemy to the north turned back away, their formation ignored completely as they ran away.
"South crossing ring five! Coming fast!"
"Signal Mollen, Whitehill and nearby spring engines to reinforce south," commanded Arya. As the easternmost and westernmost engines swiveled around and started loosing at the southern enemy, Mariya called out again.
"North charging again!"
"Signal spring engines return to prior target!" ordered Arya immediately, continuing in a quieter tone, "Messengers, tell Sam and Gilly the Night King or his White Walkers can react nearly immediately to us. Immediate relay to Gulltown. Go!"
The torsion spring engines that had swiveled turned again, loosing more bolts at the northern enemy even as the dead crossed the ramparts and hit the shield-wall with bears and wolves; the giants had thrown much of what protected them at the defenders, leaving them vulnerable to bows and crossbows, while the mammoths were too difficult to protect against scorpions once they were in close, so they were going down quickly.
"The Night King's given up on the northern attack, I think," said Arya, "He turned them around as soon as we started hitting the southern attack harder; we can't afford to ignore them yet, but they're not a serious threat, not anymore..."
"South ring four!" interrupted the spotter.
The warg blinked his eyes open again, "Big attack south! Many many running!"
"Signal dragon flying attack Flint ring three and four, highest dragonfire height, best speed! Signal massed archers prepare for battle!" commanded Arya, murmuring afterwards, "Burn them all, Jon, Daenerys. Burn them all."
Jamie looked at the small Stark oddly, then turned his head from the glistening ice of the northern ramparts fighting the burning dead to the quickly approaching burning dead to the south, joined a moment later by brilliant columns of orange fire blazing down onto the fourth ring, sweeping rapidly across the ground, blooming out as dragonfire impacted the ground, the big black dragon first, and the green dragon farther back and closer to the castle. Burn them all, the Mad King had said, meaning his own people. Burn them all, the Stark commander had said, meaning the dead that came for all the living.
The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch looked over at Brienne and thought that, just perhaps, he was finally in a place where he could serve honorably, with honorable companions. Here he could defend the innocent and protect the weak; those vows, at least, he could uphold now just as he had tried to when he was young.
From the Scorpion Bear's tower came the command for the marksmen spring engines to exchange roles, letting the crews rest, and the master archer engines rotate which were shooting; with that, the tired crews reloaded with dragon-killer bolts while the incessant twanging of scorpions and ballista sped up again as new crews loaded dragonglass-backed bolts and loosed at their fastest rate, eager to be part of the fight.
"Night King?" asked Arya.
"Still hovering there," replied Mariya, "Thinks he's too pretty to get shot full of holes!"
"South wave ring eighteen! South ring three!"
Dragonfire again rained down, this time on ring three as the dead approached the last moat separating them from the defenders.
"North retreating!"
"South retreating! South wave ring seventeen and retreating!"
"They're bunching up; can't see the White Walkers at all anymore!" called out Mariya.
Arya listened as her army continued to kill the Night King's forces as quickly as they could, even as he tried to get his White Walkers out from under the deadly rain before he lost more of his army.
"Signal dragons to Flint ring two. Messenger, the less skilled archers are to switch to fire flight shafts and put careful shots into any wight corpse that isn't already on fire. Go."
Wight mammoths and giants fell as they retreated, storming over the already filled sections of the moat and back to their lines, staying between the missiles from the castle and the White Walkers as long as they could.
"North ring nine and heading out!" called Mariya.
"South ring nine, retreating!" called the Southron spotter.
"Night King flying north, out of sight."
"Signal stop shooting, return to watch for wight dragon," commanded Arya, "Messengers, remind all units to ensure our dead have dragonglass stabbed in them and guards on them until they can be properly cared for. Have the crews and archers who fought brought inside to dry off. Go. Signal change of watch. Signal dragons to begin clearing the rings and work parties to resume work refilling the fire trenches and resetting the defenses."
The second battle of this night was over, and they had survived. They had triumphed, even; casualties, especially those from the Northern line which had been hit hard, were still being carried into ring one areas where the Maesters and their students were healing those they could, but the Night King had lost scores of difficult to replace White Walkers, and hundreds of impossible to replace giant and mammoth corpses.
What would he do next, thought Arya to herself, as the moon rose higher into the sky.
************************
Quiet hours without any further movement from the Night King later, when east brightened as dawn finally approached, the morning chill and clear, Sansa climbed the stairs to the command tower, joining Arya and the other commanders and notables while Queen Daenerys and her group followed. Once atop the tower, she was finally able to look out and see what had surrounded them, spring engines and spotters all watching for the wight dragon.
For a mile around, Sansa could see that the dead were, quite literally, everywhere. Winterfell was completely surrounded by a motionless sea of the dead, starting about eight hundred yards from the wall and spread out like deadly flowers in a field, dozens of carelessly placed ranks deep with more of the dead revealed every minute as the sky lightened.
Closer, within the rings, the cleanup had moved from north and south to east and west, a shield-wall protecting the near side of ring five across one entire radial division on each side of the castle, with scores of barrels being poured into the fire trenches even as the hedgehogs and other fieldworks were being reassembled both in the moats and on the ground; wheelbarrows with recovered dragonglass and scorpion shafts as well as others with well-guarded wight survivors, mostly from the first attack, being brought back towards the castle.
"All right, I hope everyone got some food and a nap," said Arya with a grin, "We taught that cunt what happens when you wait eight thousand years to try again! Unfortunately, he seems to have decided to wait out the next eight thousand years just outside our gates. Wargs and the Three-Eyed Raven say the Night King and the wight dragon are still together, just to our North, in easy striking range, so make sure everyone knows we need to stay sharp. White
Harbor faced one attack like our first one; the second attack was just for us. Good work, all of you - you all fought just like we trained, and the Night King learned that the realms of men are still dangerous! Queen Sansa, would you like to say anything?"
Sansa strode forward confidently, still holding the dragonglass spear she'd fought with, and spoke to the proud but tired men and women around her; her subjects and her allies, who had protected the realms of men and stopped the Night King cold.
"As Lady Winter has said, congratulations to all of you - all of the tireless training, digging, building, and preparing those of the North and the Vale and the Free Folk did was not only necessary, it was enough! To all our allies, we thank you - we would not have been able to fill the fire trenches without the aid of the Braavosi navy and merchants, we would not have had enough dragonglass without Queen Daenerys and still more merchants from around the world, and we would not have the food stockpiles we do without even more merchants; the Iron Bank is an invaluable ally."
Sansa smiled, gesturing to Queen Daenerys, "We can also thank Queen Daenerys, Jon, Drogon, and Rhaegal for their unique and special help tonight. The Maesters healing the wounded, the Faceless Men caring for the dead, and all those who clean up after the fighting and prepare for the next also deserve thanks."
Sansa changed to a sober expression, lowering her voice as well, "I also thank all those on the watchtowers and the ramparts, in the streets and everywhere else, who gave their lives or their limbs so that the rest of us may live hale and whole. Their sacrifice will not be forgotten; their blood flows in our veins still, and will flow in the veins of our children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and we will remember them."
A few murmurs of 'the North remembers' followed that statements, as well as Lord Royce's quiet 'We remember', echoed immediately by Lady Mormont.
Sansa exchanged spears with Connas, who has been carrying her Valyrian steel, as she stepped back. She thought back to when she and Arya had spoken briefly an hour ago; while she was indeed grateful to the Dragon Queen for her aid, and for her willingness to ride her dragons into battle in defense of not just Winterfell but all of Westeros - including the portions she claimed. That was more than any other ruler of Westeros had done, or even of Essos. That said, she was also well aware that while they may well have needed the dragons during the second battle of the night, if Daenerys hadn't flown north and the Night King killed and raised the wight dragon, they would have been able to hold off the attack by using all the siege engines.
If Jon hadn't gone off on his idiotic quest to capture a wight nearly by himself and without asking anyone for help and advice... well, that was the past. He was safe in Winterfell, now, with all the rest of her family, and they were holding fast, nonetheless.
"By the gods!" came a startled exclamation from one of the spotters, still peering out through the far-eyes on the edge of the hoarding, prompting the group to turn and look, "It's covered with the dead!"
In the distance, two miles to the northwest, a large hill was not barren like the rest, but the top was dark with corpses instead of white with snow, a perfectly straight, even line separating the two colors.
Arya's expression faded into nothing, and she spoke flatly, "The House of Black and White is dedicated to the one true god, dead. That ground has been consecrated as a temple to the Many-Faced God, and the dead will always find peace on the temple's grounds."
************************
Last edited:
Minor updates made to Chapter 28 (a bunch of typos and altering "shift change" to "change of watch", since the latter is a seafaring expression they must have to do multi-day sea trips, and the former is probably not something Westeros has any equivalent of.
Minor change to Chapter 29 in the Daenerys POV section, making it more clear that Dany knew the overall plan and is choosing to follow the command tower's signals as part of an integrated joint forces command structure.
Minor change to Chapter 29 in the Daenerys POV section, making it more clear that Dany knew the overall plan and is choosing to follow the command tower's signals as part of an integrated joint forces command structure.
30 Aftermaths and Plans
Wylla led Lord Woolfield and the cleanup and dragonglass-scavenging party through the streets, her own dragonglass-head spear held tiredly at rest, her green hair dusty, tangled, and matted under her helmet. She'd been awake and active since long before the wights attacked, and it was wearing on her. Tired or not, she gave a bright smile and raised her spear to another group of workers dragging wight corpses into the burning pile already in the middle of the street, guards pulling the flakes of dragonglass out just before they tossed the bodies on the fire.
Wights had boiled up all over the town, some inside houses and in the old cellars; there had apparently been a long-forgotten lichyard that had been built over, and hundreds of wights had arisen. There were a few reports of the sounds of fighting from nowhere in the oldest parts of town, but... sometimes the wights were there, and sometimes no one had seen anything, either, and she was reminded of the materials her mother had had 'stored', never to be seen again, at Arya Stark's command - materials to build with, to defend with.
"Good work!" she exclaimed, watching them straighten as she and her military commander stepped out of the way of the wheelbarrows of reclaimed or repairable dragonglass weapons and missiles, the work crew seeing them with their rich armor showing signs of hard use, her own dragonglass head still bearing wight gore, one side now narrower than the other as it had caught on a wight's crowbar, "Is everything under control? Is there anything you need?"
"Thank you, m'lady," replied an old man, an equally old woman beside him as they approached, "The boys and girls have this all sorted out. Lost Matilda, probl'y lose Jonaasen as well, and Big Mathias won't be walkin' for months, but wes got 'em all. Thems wights surprised 'em as 'ey opened a door; weren't no sign o' wights before, then... lots o' em, in the root cellar, deep down. Not hammerin' and chargin', just waitin' like. We sent a boy off to tell a page; then a minute later we's gots another page tellin' us 'bout it. Too late for Matilda, buts probl'y help'd some other poor bastr'd," said the old man, trailing off at the end.
Wylla and Lord Woolfield bowed their heads to the elder couple for a moment, recognizing the dead - her people's dead, killed while defending their city from the enemy. She then raised her head and asked again, gently, "You and your boys and girls fought bravely and well; the Starks themselves would be as pleased as I am. Is there anything you need?"
"No, m'lady," said the old woman, "Youse gots no need ta linger; we gots what we needed before the dead came, as best anyone could. We be thankin' the Warrior for the trainin' and the Smith for the dragonglass. If'n not for that, we'd all be wights."
"Very well; you are all a credit to the North!" said Wylla, raising her voice for all to hear, "Biancae, stay a moment and take notes on Matilda for the Maesters to record; her name and deeds during the Second Long Night will live on in the histories the Maesters are compiling of those who dies. Jonaasen as well, and any others who distinguished themselves with exceptional service. By the Seven, they will not be forgotten; they served the Stranger's will upon the captive dead!"
As they walked on, one page remaining to record the stories of the smallfolk, Wylla asked quietly, trying to imitate how Arya Stark had spoken when she wanted to be quiet, "Lord Mitchar; you had doubts about training the smallfolk, about all the work put into the fieldworks and preparing the city and the harbor, didn't you?"
He took a half-step closer, speaking in barely audibly over the clanking of his plate armor, "I was... concerned about the training when King Jon ordered it, yes, but it seemed then to be easily enough complied with; a little training by a guardsman every day. Then Lady Winter gave her own decrees, and it was a huge undertaking that took enormous amounts of time and effort, land and materials, rebuilding parts of the walls and city, work parties of tens of thousands. Women fighting, women digging! Grant me the Mother's mercy, my Lady, but for an old man like me, it was a bit of a shock to see maidens train like warriors - truly train, be injured and bruised, to break bones and gain scars, and a few be crippled or killed in accidents. But..."
"But?" she asked, turning with him into one of the poorest sections of the city; it was away from the palace... and towards one of the areas with the most rumors of smugglers and tunnels. She had a suspicion they were actually going to meet the smugglers her mother dealt with!
"But now we've seen dragons overhead and in our fields, Unsullied and Dothraki on the streets of our city, wights and White Walkers. Without King Jon's orders, we would never have started training; without Lady Winter's commands, the training would not have been sufficient and the people would not have been armed; when the White Walkers made that circle and line symbol outside ring five, and the wights raised inside, it would have ended us. Had Lady Winter not designed and insisted on the fieldworks and siege engines, insisted on dishonorable weapons like crossbows being produced in the thousands, on everyone who could wield a bow well being trained for it, the wights would have overrun the walls entirely. Without Queen Sansa's handling the politics and managing the lords of not only the North but also the Vale, and reaching out across the Narrow Sea, we would not be supplied, not after the War of Five Kings and Cersei. It is their foresight that has saved us," he said, continuing somberly, "It is the Second Age of Heroes come again... and the only time that requires an Age of Heroes is when things are darkest. You, Lady Wylla, are part of that, with your sister and mother too, and Lady Mormont and Skamund and his sister, the fleet commanders from Braavos, and many others. I never thought to see such wonders; but for every wonder there is a horror."
Wylla nodded, then thought briefly that Wynafryd would say something to soften her words, and replied, "Thank you, Lord Woolfield. I understand your earlier doubts, but you should have had more faith in our liege lords, the Starks."
They turned a corner and saw a small fire, with several beggars in a circle around it, warming their hands, primitive spears to hand as they each watched ahead of themselves and to the right. As the green-haired woman looked closer, she saw they were actually warming themselves on a pair of merrily crackling wight corpses, one large bowl set next to the fire, a few small coins in it already.
"M'lady," called out one elderly, crippled beggar loudly, bowing as best he could, "M'lord!"
"You killed these wights?" asked Lady Wylla, "Was anyone injured?"
"Aye, we did, m'lady!" said a much younger beggar, exuberately brandishing a shorter than normal spear with not even a flake of dragonglass left on the end, just shattered, half-rotten wood, "Them stones din' do nuthin', but one poke with m'spear here and it wen' righ' down! Crazy Kaatie 'ere done fer t'other one - they din' git close 'nough to touch us even! Nows we keepin' warm and keepin' watch! We din' een' need ta call fer..."
The boy cut off at a sharp look from the elderly beggar, returning to warming his hands by the fire as his face reddened.
"Underfoot'd like us keepin' watch," said another begger, which resulted in a round of nods, and Wylla remembering again the name many of the senior servants and guards had called Arya Stark as a child. Curious, to hear it now, and from a beggar, of all people. She narrowed her eyes, looking at the other beggars; those nods had been very like what a high lord or lady would receive. She'd find out what was going on there, she would, but Wynafryd would certainly tell her this was not the time.
"You have all done good work defending our city, and I thank you for it," Wylla said, seeing that Kaatie also had a severely damaged spear, then turned and walked back to a wheelbarrow, selecting two damaged but still functional spears, each with several flakes of dragonglass fixed to the ends, speaking as she returned to them, offering the replacement spears herself, taking their old ones to put back in the wheelbarrow and dropping five silver stags into the bowl, "There may be more to come; Lady Winter would want us all to be both watchful and armed properly. Please share this will the others like you who have fought today; you have all done White Harbor proud. I will send messengers to make sure hot soup and fresh bread is brought out to here tonight, just as it is being brought to all who fought the dead."
She saw their eyes grow wide at the equivalent of eighty and two hundred copper pennies was placed in their bowls, and a marked straightening of their postures as she praised them.
The elderly beggar spoke quietly, "Pardon, m'lady; we 'eard we's inna siege? We's gonna 'ave 'nogh to eat? We canna' pay fer food if'n it git ta cost ta much."
Lord Woolfield exchanged a glance with Lady Wylla, then spoke, his voice confident, speaking a little louder as a nearby tower reported its ammunition status by gong, "We are under siege by the army of the dead, but they are being held off past the fifth ring, out at the edge of flight arrow range. They pressed us hard, but by the Warrior's strength, we held them off outside while the town guard and those brave souls like you held them off inside, and they have retreated."
Wylla took up the conversation without pause, "The harbor is open and active; three more ships came in to dock, two laden with barley even as the battle was fought, and our fishing fleet is working as hard as they can, spending long, cold nights on the water to gather more fish for White Harbor. Even without that, we have stores to keep us for years, even with all those from the rest of the North who have gathered here, and those from other kingdoms, too."
Her voice hardened, "My mother, the Lady Leona, has also decreed that there shall be no price increases for rationed and basic food, nor for fresh water, nor for firewood or simple clothes and blankets. If anyone tries to do that, report them to a guard, or send someone to come and find me at the harbormaster's office, or Lord Woolfield at the military command post. You are men and women of White Harbor, and White Harbor will not stand for your starving or freezing because of price gouging."
With that, she gave them a nod, received a set of bows and relieved expressions, and continued on, men and full wheelbarrows following behind as Lord Woolfield led them deeper into the warren, speaking with each group they found, sending some to the harbor to see a Maester for injuries received in battling wights. Those sheltering in doorways and alleys and around fires - whether fueled by wood or wight - suddenly were generally stronger-looking, and much more dangerous-looking.
Wylla had been around warriors her whole life, and the last months of hard training had enhanced her appreciation of the difference between strength and true deadliness, like Arya Stark. Arya wasn't what she would have thought of as a strong warrior, before; but now, she could recognize that the younger woman was the deadliest warrior she'd ever met. These men and women - even whores - weren't like a Faceless Man, but they were obviously experienced to her trained eyes. A large group of these more dangerous smallfolk was outside a dirty, ramshackle building with a brand new ironwood door, the glint of bronze visible in a small gap between thick planks.
"M'lady Manderly, M'lord Woolfield, ye honor us, comin' down here!" exclaimed a sturdy, middle-aged man in dark clothing.
The harbormaster saw he had a simple goat's-foot crossbow, all sharp, unfinished edges except for the smoothed out handholds, in his hands, dragonglass-tipped bolt held in place casually by his thumb; none of the few crossbows she'd seen in these warrens had the fancy spring to keep a bolt in when the weapon was being handled - they were rare, and of simple but effective make, striding forward. As he did, his head moved back and forth, eyes moving left and right, up and down, but not like a soldier's... shiftier, somehow.
"Piter, I see you made it through uninjured. I find myself most unreasonably glad the Mother showed you her mercy," replied Lord Mitchar, "My lady Wylla, this is Piter; he's spent some time, now and again, in our cells for possession of stolen goods."
"I ain't no thief!"
"I never said you were," replied Lord Woolfield, taking the man's hand and giving it a hearty shake, "But you did have stolen goods... and I am glad you are alive. Would you have a little water to share? I find myself a mite parched."
Mitchar glanced back at the wheelbarrows, then pointed at the one in front, with a pile of broken pieces of the poorest of the spears, staves, and knives that had been handed out, the ones Lady Wylla had replaced on their journey so far, piled atop the rest of what had been gathered from the battlefield, now mostly smaller pieces of dragonglass... but still very worth turning into new weapons with the addition of some wood.
"You men, stay with us; come over, have a drink. With you and Lady Wylla's guards, I'm sure we can fight off any wights that might appear. The rest of you, get a move on - the faster you get to New Castle and drop that off with the craftsmen, the faster you can warm yourselves and fill your bellies! Pass on Lady Wylla's instructions to have food brought out here for the people who helped defend the city, and leave some at the castle for the rest of us! I'm sure we'll be some time."
With that, most of the party disappeared quickly down the road, and of those that were left, Wylla saw that Lord Woolfield gently guided them all to one side of the remaining wheelbarrow, even as a troupe of dirty, tired smallfolk emerged from the ramshackle building. Very dirty, even - some were near-covered in mud, the smell of the sea strong on them, she noticed, narrowing her eyes... they really weren't that close to the harbor or the shore, not by the roads, at least - these men and women might be smugglers, from the tunnels!
"Did you see battle, Piter?" asked Lord Woolfield.
"Aye. Them's dead folk came swarmin' up in the... came swarmin' up. Theys was dead all o'er, looks like. Most o 'em are dead again, now, warmin' us up as 'ey burn. Some o 'em ain't cleared out; we's still workin' on that."
"I'll send some guardsmen to deal with them," said Wylla, "You've fought bravely for White Harbor, and I thank you for it; the army can take over now. The wights have stopped, outside, and most inside are already being burned."
"We's gots it!" exclaimed Piter at the idea of guardsmen wandering through the heart of the thieves tunnels, then recovered quickly, ducking his head, "We's got them wights licked, m'Lady. Youse warriors, they's can fight them other wights. Here, m'Lady, youse water!"
Wylla took her drink gracefully, their party lined up with their backs to the frigid northerly wind as had become normal, a lesson they'd all learned from the Free Folk running dogsleds and teaching them. Now, though, with wights still around, it seemed strange that Mitchar had placed them like this - and to leave their backs to the wheelbarrow while they drank, the smallfolk around them breaking out into loud conversations? She started to turn to take a look, stopping at an upraised hand from Lord Woolfield, the battle sign to wait, so she turned back, drinking nearly ice-cold water from a rough wooden mug as smallfolk walked to and fro, many carrying packs or small bags from one building to another.
Lord Woolfield drained his mug, asking quietly, "Thank you, Piter. I needed that. Can we give you anything to help with the wights? Weapons? Dragonglass? Pitch and tar?"
Piter sneered briefly before realizing who he was doing so in front of, responding sharply, "We ain't no beggars! Them's over here. We's works for what we got! Youse bein' kind, but we don' need charity."
Behind them came a single sharp banging sound, at which Piter winced, eyes glancing around even more rapidly than usual for a moment.
"WHAT'S GOING ON?" shouted Lord Woolfield as he spun around.
Wylla spun as well; there were a few smallfolk standing what seemed a little too near the wheelbarrow; three had both hands behind their back. The last had a broken off spearhead with a good dragonglass head at his feet, his other hand full of shining black shards as he gaped at them, frozen. The wheelbarrow itself no longer had a mound of recovered dragonglass and some beggar's broken weapons atop it; the mound was considerably smaller now.
"Seize him!" commanded Lord Mitchar, pointing at the one thief who had dragonglass in his hands, "That man is a thief!"
The green-haired woman saw the other smallfolk respectfully backed off, their faces after after either flashes of disdain or fear... keeping their hands out of sight the entire time. The entire group, she thought, was probably thieves! But thieves who had fought the dead. She could see the gore and smudges, and imagined that if her nose still worked and she didn't smell of the same thing, she'd recognize their smell, too... and they'd refused an offer of weapons. Thieves and smugglers they may be, but ones with pride, and, she thought, honor, since her mother had continued to do business with them. They'd chosen to defend White Harbor instead of running or hiding, even if they did break the law, even if they did steal. Arya Stark, too, They wouldn't take an outright gift, she thought, looking at the half-full wheelbarrow, but they'd happily steal one... just as they'd steal the ancient, maggot-infested grains her mother had stored not far from here on the Stark's orders, with naught but a couple of ancient, slovenly guards to watch over them.
She'd been willing to give them the dragonglass; the wights needed to be killed, and without losing more of her people - any of her people, so letting them steal it was truly Crone's wisdom! She could consider it a gift, and be glad that her people fighting the dead had what was required - and from salvaged fragments of weapons from the battle, of no use on the front lines for quite some time. They could consider it as having been 'worked for', and maintain their self-respect. And, as Wynafryd would say, as long as no one looked too hard at it, everyone was happy... and everyone wanted to stay happy, so no one would look too hard.
Politics was messy, she thought. She'd see what Mitchar's plan was; she'd worked very closely with him, for a long time, and he always had a plan.
"Piter! Who is this man?" demanded Lord Woolfield, looking somewhat shocked and outraged, and somewhat resigned, as two soldiers seized the man they'd caught red-handed, "Why is there a thief here, stealing from Lady Wylla's military supplies?"
"Them's Jory, m'Lord, third cousin twice removed on my mother's side's roommate's second cousin's husband's friend's son," Piter replied conversationally, before his voice strengthened and hardened, taking on a tone of command, "E's a clumsy wretch, and ere's no 'elpin im now! Ain't no help for them's get caught stealin'! Them's caught, they's face the Father's justice; Underfoot won't 'ave no truck with them's too clumsy or stupid to take care of 'emselves all proper-like!"
Piter then turned to give the poor thief a very direct, very hard look, "E's a screamer, Jory is. Real loud like."
"My lady, what is your judgement of this man?" asked Lord Woolfield.
Wylla thought hard about what she'd just heard. She rather thought that 'proper-like' meant not getting caught, rather than not actually doing something wrong in the first place... or at least something against the rules. Was it wrong to steal food for a starving family? That seemed cruel, but what if it was stolen from another starving family? Hmmm... well, these supplies had been to fight the dead, and that's what they'd be used for.
"Piter," asked Lady Wylla, "Do you, or anyone else here, have anything to say in defense of Jory?"
"E's a good lad, m'Lady... e's just stupid an' clumsy. Ye sees 'is leg? E' fell when fightin' wights, hit 'isself onna rock. 'Ats why e's limpin'."
"Very well. Jory, you have committed the crime of theft of your liege lord's property; stealing military supplies in time of war. In light of your service fighting wights, and the fact that you were stealing only scraps, you will be fined eight copper groats," said Lady Wylla, looking out over the others. Piter had told them he was a screamer... or, she thought, in those twisty ways her sister thought, he told Jory he was to scream. Arya Stark was even twistier than that - she had to be this 'Underfoot' they spoke of, and Piter had especially emphasized 'caught', just as Lady Arya had instructed the Manderlies to treat crimes as they always had... and the Stark had known far more about the underbelly of White Harbor than she could have learned from whispers and rumors in just a night.
Wylla continued, noticing a post holding up a ratty blanket to give shelter to a hovel across the way, next to a fire that would help Jory avoid frostbite during his lashing, "Due to the insulting and disrespectful nature of stealing right in front of your liege lord's family, you could be beheaded. For the theft, you could lose a hand. However, the Mother's mercy will stay the Father's harsh justice, for you have served the Warrior and the Stranger, fighting the wights, and your theft was intended to also fight wights. You will be given ten lashes, right there."
Lord Woolfield immediately gave orders as Wylla pointed to the post she's selected, and those with the Manderly party took the man over immediately, again putting their backs to the wheelbarrow as the man took his lashes. True to Piter's word, he screamed loud and long, and when Wylla turned back after it was done, the wheelbarrow contained nothing but the worthless scraps they'd taken from beggars when giving them better.
Someday, she thought, she'd be able to see the tunnels. Now, she'd given dragonglass to those fighting the dead, learned a little more about the people of her city, and it was time to go home. There was another set of merchant ships that would make the harbor in a few hours, and she wanted to be there; new ships docking at night was always delicate, and if the wights attacked again, or the wight dragon appeared, she'd need to be there.
************************
Sansa entered her chambers, petting the large pups as they nuzzled up to her and patiently waiting until her sister shut, barred, and furred the door, then sat down heavily, tired from the long day. She accepted the tall mug of water Arya handed her as her sister started unfastening her armor, drinking silently, the two of them alone in her chambers, leaning forward and breathing deeply as she finally let herself remember the feeling of actually fighting for her life, remembered the child-wight's knife that she'd blocked while she was stabbing a bigger wight that was assaulting the rank before her. That move had opened up her right side to another wight wielding an entire carriage axle, which the guard on her right had had to block.
"That was your first real fight; I heard you did well, Sansa," said Arya softly as she untied the fastenings of Sansa's armor, checking it over carefully; nearly all the damage was near the hem, but she wouldn't miss anything that might lead to her sister being killed later because of carelessness; she'd learned that lesson, and would carry the scars from it for the rest of her life. Now, they were all learning that wights and even pieces of wights were even more dangerous near feet and ankles than she'd thought.
"I wasn't even in the front," replied the Queen in the North quietly, her voice trembling slightly without her controlling herself fully. She set the empty mug down, letting Arya help her, care for her as she reminisced. She'd been in the second rank, had struck at wight after wight with her dragonglass-head spear, but they'd thrown themselves through the double doors recklessly; the front rank had guards hand-picked by Arya, and they'd all survived the attack with only minor wounds, despite being hit more heavily than any other brothel entrance.
"And do you think the fighters in the front would have it easier without fighters behind them? The shield-wall was made for you, Sansa - everyone fighting together. You killed some, didn't you? Protected your fellow soldiers with your spear, your shield, and your skills?"
"I didn't kill that many; everyone fought together just like we trained; the guards are very good, and even the whores and maids stood their ground," Sansa replied with a slight smile, remembering the feeling of standing side by side with others, the shield on her right protecting her, while her shield protected the spear on her left, her spear striking at openings in front and on the right, while the spear on her left struck at the openings she created with her shield. Sansa let the smile drop off her face, remembering how much better her guards were, and continued, "I didn't do much - I'm just not fast enough. What do you mean, my fellow soldier? I'm not a soldier."
"Yes, you are, Sansa - you've trained as a soldier trains, and now you've fought as a soldier fights, killed as a soldier kills - never let anyone tell you different! You fought more of them than me, you know - I didn't get to fight any, and I envy you that. Watch how people react to you now, sister; you'll see. You could have stayed inside, away from the doors, but you didn't. You chose to fight, to put your life on the line, like Robb did, like Father did in Robert's Rebellion. Everyone knows how hard you train - now they can see that you fight, too - not when the enemy leaves you no choice, but when the enemy is there, you step forward, as Starks have always done," said Arya, squeezing Sansa's shoulders.
She did want to test herself and her skills against the White Walkers, to ride out and face their ice weapons herself, but that wasn't her duty. Her duty as No One was ending the blasphemy as a whole, her duty as Lady Winter, commander of all the armies of her sister was protecting her people from unjust attacks, and her duty as Arya was to kill what had hurt and betrayed her family and friends. The Night King was on her list... but he wasn't someone she could just assassinate, either, so she'd leave him to others, who would follow the plans she'd made.
"I was afraid, Arya," said Sansa, her voice small, feeling the fear she'd felt then rising up and letting it wash over her. She had been terrified as the first wights had charged, even as she'd watched and struck and blocked as fast as she could, surprised by the sudden calls of 'wights inside' coming from the brothel, where she hadn't expected a large group of wights. She was still just a stupid little girl, after all, surprised at monsters coming to kill her and worse.
She'd taken the brothel from Littlefinger with her own actions and those of her sister, and her new sister Kitty had made it her own as well. She came regularly, knew her employees from Kiyana down to Klovis in the stables and Yaslana, the newest whore Kiyana had employed. It was far from the walls, deep in Winter Town, and still the dead had come boiling up. She'd heard the alarm sound, switched spears with the designated guard and dashed to the back door where the outer perimeter of guards were already holding the dead off in a single rank. She had taken her position just behind the center man of the three in front even as Kitty'd gone into the room to the left to fight the dead coming in through the large window.
"Of course you were. So is nearly everyone who fights in a battle like that. So is almost everyone who is surprised and survives it. Father always said that the only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid. Never doubt that you were brave, Sansa. You went towards the fight, not away, and you stood against the dead without fleeing, no matter what you felt. Did you freeze for a moment? A lot of people freeze their first real fight; the Many-Faced God collects plenty of them. That's one of the differences between a real warrior, a blooded veteran, and new recruits. Hard training helps, but only so much. Battle is different; you know that, now, more than me, even!"
"No, I didn't freeze. I wanted to, and I wasn't thinking at first, but I didn't. I just did what Chella taught me. It was... almost natural, in a way, after we killed the first wights and it became routine, like in the training yard," said Sansa, wrapping her arms around her sister. She let the feelings of the battle rise up in her, feeling them fully. She's pushed them down at the time, but now she had the time. The puppies whined a little as she let herself feel her terror, and knew that she'd acted despite her fear, which she now let fall away. Beneath the fear, she had anger, and after that had been triumph when the wights ceased coming; not just her own, but a feeling shared by all she'd stood and fought with.
She hadn't sat back and let others fight for her; so had her guards, so had those who worked in the brothel. Those songs she'd so enjoyed as a child had often sang of the comradeship of men who had fought together, had bled together, had won battles together. She felt that herself, now; she knew that she they would have her back when she needed it, and she would have theirs.
On a larger scale, she knew, that feeling would be shared by many more. This was the only battle she'd heard of where different forces had intermingled like theirs. Normally, the banners of each house stayed together, and the forces of each kingdom stayed together. Here the knights of the Vale rode with the heavy cavalry of the Manderlies, the spearmen of the mountain clans - Vale and Northern both - fought with the spearmen of the fields and cities and the lands north of the Wall, and units of archers were well and truly mixed. That, she mused, would help keep her kingdoms together once the immediate threats of the Night King, of Cersei and Euron, were dealt with, once the winter and the Second Long Night was truly upon them, and she would have to ensure they all starved equally. Once past that, the summer after would be easy enough if the Southrons could be kept in the South... or chose to stay in the South on their own.
"You did well, Sansa. You and Meera are the only Starks alive who've fought in a shield-wall like that, you know - Jon's fights as a solider in a melee, hacking and hammering by himself or near a partner, Bran doesn't fight, and I haven't had a chance to fight like that. You've fought the way our soldiers fight - you know what it's like, they know you know, and nobody can ever take that away from you. I'm proud of you, Sansa. You're a fighting Queen now, like Robb and the Kings in the North of old, or Queen Nymeria" replied Arya, squeezing Sansa tight, ignoring the thick patterns of scars over Sansa's skin as she pulled Sansa's head into her shoulder; something made possible only by Sansa sitting while Arya was standing.
"You really do envy me. You are very strange, you know that?" said Sansa into Arya's shoulder teasingly, idly scritching the puppies on either side of her, feeling their thick, soft fur through her fingers. They weren't Lady... but they were Lady's nieces, her family.
"I've heard that I'm both strange and annoying," japed Arya, "I don't see it, myself. I think I'm a perfectly normal assassin-commander-priest. I'm exactly like every other assassin-commander-priest I've ever met, after all! And of course I envy you - you got to fight them, got to experience battle the way our father did. Meera even got to fight them by the heart tree! I could have slid down a rope, but... I had other duties, and you and everyone trusted me to do them. You delegate lots of things to spend your time on the things that are necessary that can't be done by others... and I must do the same. Others can ensure the enemy is killed, but seeing the entire battle, directing it? That's not something anyone else can do. Soon, but not yet."
"You're the only assassin-commander-priest anyone's ever met, Arya. That makes you very strange, among any peoples anywhere! But not annoying," said Sansa warmly, then gave a nearly-hidden smile as she made the sign for truth and continued, "For the moment."
Arya poked Sansa in the side, then opened her arms and watched as Sansa straightened up, fully in control again, and Arya started unfastening her own equipment with Sansa's help. Sansa recovered faster now than when Arya had first returned, but she was still more fragile than she had been, and Arya knew a distraction would help her sister; and perhaps help herself too.
"Sometimes I think that's what the Many-Faced God took from me as payment, you know," said Arya, her voice turning serious as she also make the sign for truth, "My freedom. I have so many responsibilities, now; to the Many-Faced God and the House of Black and White in Westeros, to you and your kingdoms and our people. To my students and to Syrio, to my commanders and soldiers."
Sansa gave Arya a hug, then made the sign for jape as she said, "Oh? Is that what you think of me, your only sister? A terrible responsibility that keeps you from what, traveling the world like some kind of sellsword whoremonger? Do you dream the same dream Robert once did, when he wished to be the Sellsword King?"
Arya narrowed her eyes, glaring up at her sister, returning the sign for jape, "You are indeed a terrible responsibility, like a mammoth around my neck, weighing me down. I could sail west of Westeros, see things no one has ever seen; but no, I'm stuck here, cleaning up your mess for the rest of my life!"
"My mess? My mess! The Night King isn't my mess! I had nothing to do with him!"
"Of course he is; you're the eldest living trueborn child of Bran the Builder, who failed to actually finish the job in the first place; that makes it your mess! You're the heir; you inherit the debts as well as the lands. Never mind your kingdoms and you personally dragging Littlefinger up here!" exclaimed Arya, the accusation heavy in her voice and on her face.
"Well I never!" said Sansa archly, glaring down at Arya, "And aren't you the slightest bit thankful that Winter Town boasts the best brothel in all of Westeros, so you can at least get a taste of the world beyond the little ditch that separates us from the wide world?"
"No, I am not the slightest bit thankful," retorted Arya, returning the glare with interest, "I don't need Winter Town's whores or Winter Town's cooks for that!"
They continued the facade for another few seconds, then broke down laughing at the same time, "Sansa! You've been spending too much time with the working girls at the brothel."
"Well, I should hope so," replied the elder sister, her laughter fading as her voice turned serious, "They formed shield-wall against the wights too; they blocked off every window and door. Not one ran, and not one hid, Arya. They all fought. Not just them; the smallfolk in the streets; bakers, washers, builders, everyone. It wasn't anything like King's Landing."
"Of course they did, Sansa. We grow them tough, up here, and they've seen what happens when they don't fight. You and Meera fighting doesn't hurt, of course, since they can see their leaders fighting, just as Daenerys fighting is necessary to her leading the Dothraki, just as Sarella fighting will remind her people she is a warrior too, but more than that, they're fighting for themselves, for their own families and friends and comrades. They fight for what they want the North to be - fierce and independent. If they want that, they too must be fierce and independent. Those of the Vale will do the same, if it comes to that. Farther south... well, that will be different."
"Your training makes a big difference, too - I can see how much more confident they all are, Arya."
"Westeros is strange now, you know. It's almost always been ruled by Kings; we've had a few fighting Queens along the way, like Nymeria and Visenya, but now? Now nearly every ruler and contender south of the Wall is a woman. You, Sarella, Daenerys, Yara, Cersei; even your heir is Meera. Do you see what I see?" said Arya.
"Probably not," smirked Sansa, "Since I can, after all, see over the chair backs without having to get up on my tiptoes."
"Low blow, Sansa."
"Only to you, Arya. So... other than furniture, what do you see?"
"Of all the past rulers, nearly all had fought. Of all the current leaders, all but Cersei has fought - every single one, now that you've been in battle. And all of those Southron rulers and contenders agree that Cersei has to go... and that the Night King must be destroyed."
"Cersei wanted to fight, to go off to battle, too, you know," said Sansa, her eyes distant as she remembered the golden-haired Queen of Westeros talking to her. Amidst the insults, the barbs, and the constant reminders of Lannister superiority, Sansa had learned not just politics and even noticed some of the subtle hints of espionage, but also quite a bit about what it had been like to grow up with Tywin as a father.
Arya thought for awhile, remembering the expression on Cersei's face as she she sentenced Lady to die, how she'd held herself there, and replied thoughtfully, her voice turning sad, "I can see that; she approached politics like it was a duel... and she understood that it was always about death in the end, in a way that Father never did."
"Are you leaving? To kill her?"
"Not just yet, but soon. Probably after the caravans arrive and we see the Night King's next move. Right now he's just waiting, but he doesn't know if we'll be able to get supplies in, or if he can keep them out and just wait for us to starve to death. I need to be here when the sorcerers and Red Priests arrive, too. There's No One else with experience with magic, and I don't trust either one. Sorcerers rarely work in groups, and the Red God's face is selfish, giving vague visions prone to be interpreted badly by the priest, both deliberately and not, and desiring that all serve the Red God's face," replied Arya, pulling a large cork out of a small bottle and rubbing the contents into the boiled leather of armor, setting the bottle on a table between them so Sansa could use it after cleaning off her own armored dress.
Arya knew the names of many of the Red God's servants who had been assassinated in the past centuries; time after time they'd burned people alive, and time after time survivors with nothing left to live for had come to the House and offered up a name to the Many-Faced God, and their life as payment. Some of those servants were powerful, in their own ways - not just the well known powers of the Red God, but some priests and priestesses had their own magic, too. The Red Woman, she now knew, was also a Shadowbinder of Asshai in addition to being an ancient priestess; there would be others like her, too.
Sansa scrubbed at her dress carefully, then picked up a pair of cutters and started snipping off the damaged scales from the bottom, replacing them one by one with undamaged ones. That was one of the reasons she'd chosen this pattern; repair was very easy and extremely frugal; only small sections were damaged at a time. Other reasons were that it was more than flexible enough to fight in even as a dress, that it had a nice swish to it if she moved with confidence, that it spoke to her Tully heritage and her lost uncle the Blackfish, that she was extremely used to moving in dresses, that it was less offensive to those who felt highborn women shouldn't wear trousers, and that Arya said it was, properly sewn, very effective armor. Well, she was confident in her sewing skills, and in her sister's assessment... and she was uninjured because of it.
"You know what else I see about the rulers and contenders, as you put it, Arya?" asked Sansa after her short silence.
"That you're one of them?" japed Arya with a poke at her sister.
"Well, yes. But I also see that everyone except Cersei is working together - all of Westeros outside of the rule of the Iron Throne, and more and more of Essos. Perhaps we'll be able to keep working together at least through the winter, after you kill Cersei and the dead have been defeated," said Sansa, the undertones of her voice strange to Arya's ears as the redhead spoke of the most powerful Queen in Westeros today.
"You sound like you don't just hate and respect her; there's something more, isn't there, Sansa?"
With a sigh, Sansa throws a small cushion at her sister, which is promptly caught and used to prop up the piece Arya's working on.
"I also pity her, just a little. She's lost everything she loved except her power; all three of her children, her father and mother, her lover and brother. She's done horrible things... but she took the time to teach me in her own terrible way. Without her lessons, I'd never have been able to learn from Littlefinger, never have known what to look for, what levers to push; how to see what he wanted and manipulate him. She's an evil woman, but she also succeeded in killing everyone who ever crossed her; everyone except us, even after she made stupid mistakes," said Sansa.
"Would you like me to tell her anything before I give her the gift?" asked Arya. She'd never really dealt with the Queen after she'd had to send Nymeria away and Cersei had had Lady killed, but if her sister wanted her to pass on a message, that was something she could do easily. It'd probably be fun, too, seeing Cersei's face when she understood who had come for her.
"Tell her I thank her for her many lessons, and that I will never forget them."
Arya smirked, "The same thing you told Baelish, then. I can do that. Are you feeling better now?"
"A little," responded Sansa, looking up from her leatherwork to meet her sister's gaze, "Stay with me tonight?"
"Of course. May I humbly beg Her Grace the Queen's thoughts on a small matter?" asked Arya tremulously, ducking her head down, staring at her sister's feet and shuffling around as if awestruck to be in a famous person's presence, glancing up at her sister through her hair as she heard Sansa shift her head.
Sansa raised her chin, looking down her nose at her sister, "Only on account that my wisdom might, mayhaps, break through the thick shell of foolishness that surrounds you, and thus make you marginally less abrasive to be around."
"During the second attack, some of the White Walkers started retreating, one by one, and then all the rest turned to retreat at once. When the turned back to keep pressure on the northern camps, first those who retreated last attacked again, all at once, then the rest turned rejoined the attack, but raggedly. There was no pattern to which ones were which that any of us saw; it wasn't those closest or farthest, or all those near each other. You're one of the best politicians alive today; why do you think they would have acted like that?" asked Arya. She'd already gone over this with both her military staff and the other priests of the Many-Faced God, but the Night King was magic none of them were familiar with, and so she would ask who she could; her sister now, the sorcerers and the Red Priests when they arrived.
"You've already considered this, haven't you?" asked Sansa.
"Naturally. They could be the least brave, first to flee and last to return. So many of them acting all at once, but not all of them, though; that's odd. They could be the youngest and least trained, too. Men can do that if they all hear the same command at the same time - the Unsullied are amazing, for example, but few other people can match that. If it had to do with how easily they could 'hear' the command to retreat, there shouldn't have been one set doing it all at once... unless the Night King tried talking first and then 'shouted' second both times, which seems unlikely."
"All at once, you said? Like a line of puppets in a puppet show with a lone puppetmaster? Or it could be that they all can be perfectly disciplined... but some of them aren't loyal enough to obey orders to go to their deaths as easily as others. Waiting thousands of years after losing a war only to get stopped cold at the first real opposition south of the Wall isn't very inspirational, after all," replied Sansa with a smirk, then climbed into bed, lifting the thin furs for Arya, who joined her.
Once they were in, Sansa called out, "Up," at which the dogs all jumped up on the bed, padding up and starting to lay down around the sisters. Sansa continued, "You have new bruises."
"I do?" asked Arya blandly.
"You do. Even makeup as rare and expensive as yours can't handle the way you train... but you didn't get those bruises in the training yard; I'd have heard of it," replied Sansa quietly.
"Not all training happens in the yard," murmured Arya near-silently, reaching out to clasp hands with Sansa. Matters of the House were not for anyone else, but that she was indeed bruised was impossible to hide from her sister while still being her sister. Impossible now, at least, and she would not lose that closeness, not after all they'd suffered apart... and her sister could keep secrets as well as anyone else still alive.
Still, that was no reason to divulge more than necessary; it wouldn't help her sister to know that the other priests Jaqen had brought were still regularly beating her with their own favored weapons, or weapons they didn't favor that she had even less experience with, or when they had the use of all their limbs and senses, and she did not, or when she tried to use glamour and it affected her fighting. She'd left Braavos as No One, but before completing her training. Just because a soldier was a veteran didn't mean they'd learned all there was to learn, or even all they would learn in their lifetime; she still had much to learn and more to improve.
"Mmmm... were you anyone else, I would wonder more," said Sansa, squeezing her sister's hand, then closed her eyes, "I'm glad you came back, even if you'll leave soon, Arya."
"So am I, Sansa. Your puppies are very well behaved; like Lady was. When I was with the ice-river clan, we'd sleep in a pile with the dogs at night, too, in snow caves, as small as we could make them; tight confines and the dogs kept us warm, the snow kept the wind out. It was quiet and peaceful, but we still had to be on guard; I don't think we'll ever not need to be on guard again, but the peacefulness, that may come again," said Arya, "What names did you give them?"
Sansa stretched her right arm out atop the covers, scritching one dog after another, Arya doing the same with her left hand as Sansa spoke quietly.
"This is Alayne; the blanket hog is Jeyne, and that one's Beth. They've taken something of a shine to me, and are well behaved."
"By that you mean perfectly behaved, don't you. Did I ever tell you the story of when Jon gave me Needle? I was packing for the trip to King's Landing, and when Jon came in, I told Nymerica 'gloves'; I thought I'd been teaching her to fetch my gloves. She just cocked her head and looked at me; she wasn't meant to be for a girl showing off; wasn't meant to be obedient."
"The puppies like you, Arya; why don't you keep one or two with you, instead of spending a little time with each of them?"
"They're just... they're not me. They're not meant to be mine, to share my life; they're just... they're not Nymeria, and she's still alive, leading her own pack. These are Ghost's get. He was always quiet, and the Frozen Shores bitches who whelped them bigger than even Nymeria, but they're still too well behaved for me."
Sansa rolls her eyes, petting Jeyne, who put her enormous furry head on Sansa's belly, "Only you would think the rest of that lot were too well behaved. Eight of them got into the kitchens yesterday, running around under the baking tables until Donovar lured them out with some drippings. The kennelmaster swears they're the unruliest bunch of dogs he's ever seen... I may talk to Meera about appointing a new kennelmaster for the castle. Could you find someone?"
"I'll talk to Skamund and see who from the ice-river clans might want to, and Tormund to see about the Frozen Shores clans. That's probably a good idea, too - you won't let me go South without the troupe, so you won't have Donovar to oversee things anymore," said Arya contemplatively, scritching under Alayne's chin as the puppy whined softly.
Then the small Stark let out a sudden huff as the third puppy flounced atop Arya, driving the air out of her to shove her nose under Sansa's hand, "Beth! Get off! Jump on the Hound if you want jump on someone, you great bitch!"
Giggling, Sansa guided Beth down to lay across their feet, wiggling her toes to rub the poor lonely puppy's belly.
************************
Daenerys looked around the room deep in the First Keep at her advisors, "Grey Worm? What is the military situation here?"
"They stop attack. We defend. Now they wait, we not attack. More than two, maybe three hundred thousand. Defenses good; Unsullied can use, can fight behind. Need many spears; dragon-glass break easy," replied Grey Worm.
"Qhono?"
"Need khalasar. Good archers move fast on horse, over bridge. Need many bridge, not leave bridge behind when retreat. Kill many wight. Iron, steel, bronze no good. Arakh no good. Bows good. Need many many many dragon glass arrow. Good arrow, fly very far, straight."
"Lord Tyrion, the political situation?"
"Well, I don't think there's much chance of the North or the Vale deciding to join you, my Queen. I have heard that the Princess of Dorne is here; she attended the coronation of Queen Sansa Stark the day we arrived, though I haven't seen anyone Dornish beyond Acolyte Alleras and... his... guards. Princess Sarella Sand is said to be a ruling princess," replied Tyrion, expounding a little as he noted Daenerys watching him without speaking, "Dorne follows the Rhoynish customs; they are always ruled by a Prince or Princess, never a King or Queen, and your ancestors, my Queen, allowed them to keep those titles."
Daenerys simply continued watching him for a long moment, expression neutral.
"And Alleras is a woman," continued Tyrion, a little uncomfortable as the silence stretched longer.
"And the rest of my territories?" asked Daenerys dryly. Who her advisor had noticed was and was not a woman was not what she and her other advisors needed to hear, and would not help her, though she decided that she would at least like to meet another strong woman like the master archer she'd heard about.
"Ah, yes, of course! Dragonstone is stable, the Unsullied and Dothraki are holding it without issue. I've heard no indications of trouble from Dragon's Bay," said Tyrion quickly.
Daenerys watched him for a moment. She'd follow up with him later, in private - that answer hadn't actually been much of an answer.
"Lord Varys?"
"Lord Patrek Mallister is also present, as you know, and was at the coronation. Further, I have heard whispers that his father has offered his hand to Arya Stark. Combined with Lady Frey's close company with Queen Sansa, I believe the northern Riverlands may also be under the sway of the North. A few little birds whisper that Princess Sarella of Dorne will declare for neither you nor for Queen Sansa; Dorne will be independent. There is general support for Queen Sansa; the soldiers are loyal to the Starks - mostly to Lady Winter, as are the lords and ladies to Queen Sansa and the smallfolk to one or the other; it varies, peasant to peasant. You, my Queen, have improved your standing; the soldiers and those in the camps behind them who you protected with dragonfire are grateful, and your dedication in clearing the defenses for so long after the battle is also appreciated."
"Varys, you said the northern Riverlands. That implies only part of the Riverlands; what about the Southron Riverlands?" asked Tyrion.
"No whispers at all, I'm afraid, though I have not seen any evidence of supplies or men from Riverrun," said Varys.
"Missandei? What have you heard?"
"The people are proud to have won against the dead, my Queen. They are relieved that the wights inside the town and castle were easily destroyed, and proud not only that their own training let them destroy those wights, but also that their work digging and building was an important part of their survival, and that work is acknowledged by those who fight and those who lead. It is strange, your Grace."
"How is it strange, Missandei?" asked Queen Daenerys.
"When you came to Astapor, you burned my Master with your dragon's fire, you set the Unsullied and other slaves free. When you came to Yunkai, Grey Worm and the others opened the gates from the inside, and you set the slaves free. When you came to Meereen, you asked the slaves to rebel, and they did, and opened the city to you. Here, it is like Meereen; the people part of what is happening, and they take pride in that. They know you came to fight the dead, that you provided dragonglass, and they are grateful for that, but they do not look on you as a savior, even as they know your children burned the dead by the hundreds or thousands. While they are grateful for the dragonglass that you have given them, they are also aware that the 'better' dragonglass was bought from Essos," said Missandei.
Grey Worm took up the report, a bit disgruntled at how the people he'd been observing weren't following his Queen as he had expected, "Soldiers, they see dragon fire. They use fire, green fire, dragonglass weapons. Soldiers think dragon fire like green fire; is good weapon, but not special - soldiers also think fire good, siege engines good, arrows good, food good. My Queen not just give weapons, but also fights; soldiers approve, but only follow own leaders, who also fight. Is not like Essos, not like Masters who too scared to fight. Here no leaders scared to fight."
"Jon?" asked Daenerys softly.
"The defenses don't stop the dead, but Arya uses them to trap the wights and destroy them; even the white walkers, here and in White Harbor both. She costs the Night King more than he gains every time he attacks; even with half a million wights in the North, he's obviously scared of Arya. She's fighting the Night King, and Sansa opened up another glass garden while we were burning the dead," said Jon ruefully. His little sisters were doing the job he thought he'd have been doing.
"Excuse me, Lord Snow; what is a glass garden? I thought the formulation in your language was that the product of the garden preceded the word garden, such as a rose garden, or a fruit garden," asked Missandei.
"A glass garden is a garden enclosed in Myrish glass - you can grow plants in it all year round, even those that like it warm. We've had lemon trees from Dorne in one for longer than even Old Nan can remember, so we have lemons and other fruits that ward off the winter sickness grow even deep in the winter," answered Jon.
"Queen Sansa opened up a garden during a battle?" asked Tyrion, "The timing seems rather curious."
"Sansa's always been very concerned with the food stockpiles. We can," said Jon, pausing as he re-thought what he was going to say, given the current situation, "I always thought we could figure out what to eat after we killed the Night King. Since we're surrounded by an army that doesn't need supplies, Sansa may have had more of a point than I'd thought at the time."
"It's worse than that, I'm afraid," said Lord Varys, "Whispers are that the Green Fork and the Blue Fork rivers are both frozen solid south of Fairmarket, with large amounts of ice seen at Lord Harroway's Town. The Riverlands are no longer capable of growing crops, and likely will not be again until spring, however far off that may be. Meereen, like Highgarden, report the shortest days and coldest temperatures in any recordsthe Maesters have, though they are still easily able to grow food - the days, it seems, are still longer to the south."
Daenerys thought for a moment. Every missive from Sansa she'd received or heard about had been concerned with food and cold, with preparing to survive the winter. The winter and the far future was Sansa's concern, she thought, as all fighting was Arya's concern, and the Night King was Jon's. All of them had to be her concern; she didn't have a sister to share them with. Nor, she mused, did she have people to delegate specific concerns to. Well, that was something she could change easily enough, once she knew what concerns were most pressing. Dragons did not hesitate once they decided on a course of action.
"Lord Hand, send word to Daario immediately. Every field is to be put to use growing crops for the winter and the war; every person who wishes to work will be paid a fair wage from my treasury. Every worker who has no field to work is to create new fields to till. The Dothraki are here, with me, so there should be no danger. We will offer excess crops to our neighbors and allies at a low price, to foster goodwill."
"My Queen, that will take a long time to repay the investment, even if there are buyers for the food! Paying that many workers is very expensive," exclaimed Tyrion.
"Exactly how expensive? How much is in the treasury now? Will I need to raise taxes? How much would they need to rise? Do we have enough to not need to do so? What will happen to my people if they do not have work? How will they clothe themselves without being paid" asked Daenerys, looking steadily at Tyrion. She needed more than clever plans and attempted japes from him; she needed him to step up and perform all the duties of the Hand of the Queen. She'd start to address that right now - and both her problems had the same solution.
"I don't have those figures in front of me, your Grace," replied her Hand.
Daenerys bit back her first reaction, to snap at Tyrion for his failure to even know how much money she had, and paused for a moment before responding, just as she'd learned in her staff training; attacking angrily always led to a painful result. She felt herself able to do this more quickly than before, though she could see her advisors had noticed the pause, and kept her voice level despite the irritation from that as well, "Then it's past time to fill out the Small Council. I have a Hand. Lord Varys is Master of Whisperers. Find me suitable candidates for Master of Coin, so that they can take up some of the duties the busy schedule of Hand doesn't leave you time for. Send word to Oldtown that I require a Grand Maester, and Dragonstone, Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen all require Maesters as well."
Tyrion looked startled for just a moment at her command, then bowed his head, "Of course, your Grace, but the Citadel has never sent Maesters to foreign lands before."
"They're not foreign lands, they are my lands. I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Whether I have the North, the Vale, and Dorne or not, I do have Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen. You may inform the Citadel of that when you request the Maesters," commanded Queen Daenerys.
"Yes, Your Grace. May I respectfully remind you that the customs in Dragon's Bay are somewhat different than those here?"
"Consider me reminded; Dorne has had their own customs, have they not - I believe I've been told they allow the firstborn to inherit, regardless of sex. An enlightened custom, to be sure; I am sure all my kingdoms can manage their own customs as part of the Seven Kingdoms. As to my small council, you will provide me with a list of several candidates for each position," Daenerys said, thinking 'not just one' to herself as she continued, "with specific points in favor of and against each of them for me to consider. We'll start with Master of Coin, and proceed to the other positions after that, since that would seem to be our most pressing need."
She met each of their gazes levelly, trying to see what they were thinking. She wasn't a fool; she knew Varys and Tyrion had their own agendas. Varys claimed it was the 'realm', but he'd originally been backing her craven, cruel brother. Or so it appeared, she thought; precious little in her life had ever been as it appeared, it now seemed, so why would that? Tyrion was obviously concerned for his family. His brother who had killed her father - her evil father, the Mad King - was here, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. His sister was in the Red Keep, which Tyrion was trying his best to keep her dragons away from. Well, she'd deal with that soon. First, she needed to remind them, to make them understand one of their most important duties, so she spoke, voice intense with her earnestness and sincerity.
"Lord Varys, after we took Dragonstone, I told you that if you ever think I'm failing the people, you should look me in the eye and tell me so. I command each of you to do so! I have freed people from slavery, I intend to free those under Cersei's tyranny, and I intend to leave things better than I found them. If I am failing to do those things, if I am failing the people, you must look me in the eye and tell me how I'm failing them."
After receiving a round of solemn nods, she continued, "These glass gardens; will we need them if the Long Night continues? Arya told me that during the first Long Night, rivers froze as far south as Highgarden, well into the Reach. I will not have my people starve to death in the winter! We're already short on food, and the cargo ships had to take the long way around to avoid Euron's fleet."
Starting to think, Tyrion answered slowly, "The glass gardens here trap the heat from the hot springs and from the sun. The days are growing shorter, so it is safe to assume that we can only depend on the hot springs. There aren't enough hot springs in the world to feed all the people, even with plants that can grow without much sun - plants that normally grow well in shade, like mint and rhubarb, or even lettuce, spinach, broccoli, carrots, potatoes, peas, some kinds of beans, and so on. None of those grow in frozen soil with frost on their leaves."
Daenerys thought; she had never heard of hot springs in Dragon's Bay, though it was far to the south... but they were still only three cities, and her flights across Westeros had showed her it was a vast land; she needed to feed all her people, in Essos and Westeros both. Dorne would probably be an important source of food as well; she'd have to find this Princess Sarella and speak with her. What else could she do? She had two children left, but they couldn't just breathe fire and grow enough food to feed even themselves. She was of the blood of Old Valyria, but their magics were lost to... wait. Not all the magic was gone.
"Old Valyria still burns, does it not, Lord Tyrion?" asked Daenerys Targaryen, heir to Old Valyria.
"Yes, it does, your Grace. The Fourteen Fires scorch the air and boil the water for... I see. You want to start farming in Old Valyria? Build glass gardens there... too close and they burn, too far away and you have to bring the heat in," mused Tyrion, leaning his head back on the stone wall, feeling how it wasn't as cold as it should be, and snapped his eyes open widely, "You can pipe the heat in! Pipe the boiling water through the glass gardens, and out again. Even if water from the Fires is poisonous, which it might be, if the pipes are closed, it doesn't matter! Other pipes can bring in fresh water for the crops. We'll have to find a way to deal with the stone men, but they can't be harder to deal with than the wights; expeditions to loot Valyria are common enough."
Daenerys smiles, "Very good, Lord Hand. I leave this project in your capable hands. See to it that it proceeds quickly."
"Yes, my Queen; I'll contact a Myrish glassblower at once. I'm sure I can find a friendly one at a tavern."
"Anything else for the war or the Long Night?" asked Daenerys, then continued at the lack of response, "What of Dragon's Bay?"
"I have only a few whispers, though if we remain here for a time I will have more for you. Daario has executed several Masters after the Sons of the Harpy reappeared several weeks ago, though Meereen is stable now. The councils in Astapor and Yunkai were experiencing rather more difficulty, but the news of the army of the dead, and of your fighting them, has been something of a stabilizing influence," replied Varys.
"The Sons of the Harpy need to be stopped. Lord Varys, find out who is behind it, why they're behind it, and what else they might want," said Daenerys, thinking back to the fitting and the points Arya and Sansa had made to her; she felt her anger at how they'd done that rise, then fall as she pushed it down and started thinking more carefully, "We'll meet again tomorrow on this; I want specific options from each of you. What else is happening in the world, Lord Varys?"
"Queen Yara is sailing for Essos as you requested. The wights that were shipped out as evidence are causing quite a lot of concern; in concert with the ravens that have already been sent and their observations of the Long Night, more kingdoms and Free Cities are making preparations, including Dragon's Bay. I will send a raven at once to inform them of your orders, naturally."
Daenerys nodded, "What else?"
"Your Grace, this came for you," said Missandei, handing her Queen an envelope of thick, fine parchment; the sigil of House Stark plain on the unbroken wax seal.
Daenerys cracked the seal and opened it, withdrawing another fine parchment covered in elegant calligraphy, inviting Queen Daenerys and one advisor to a meeting of the leaders of the North, the Vale, Dorne, the Twins, and Seagard; the Iron Bank representative was also listed as being present, as was Arya Stark by name. The purpose, it was written, was to discuss the war against the dead and the Long Night both.
"It appears I and an advisor have been invited to a meeting of the leaders of Westeros. I intend to make sure this one will be more profitable than the meeting with Cersei. Missandei, you are both intelligent and are not a political liability, so it is you who will accompany me," said the Queen sternly, looking at her Hand and Lord Varys before they could speak. They were on notice for their many failures, she needed unbiased advice badly... and her excuse was also true. Lord Varys was an incredible liability, here, looked down on blatantly by all. Tyrion was looked down on as a kinslayer as well as a Lannister and a dwarf, though that disdain was at least somewhat more hidden.
"Cersei is next, then. I am ending the siege immediately," continued Daenerys.
"Your Grace, we've been over this. You don't want to be Queen of the Ashes," said Lord Tyrion, soothingly.
"And I will not be," snapped the Queen, "Nor will I wait for a siege to starve the very people we just spoke of feeding. Send word to Dragonstone immediately; shipments of food and warm clothing are to be allowed to pass into King's Landing untouched, but no luxuries. No silks, no good wines, nothing for Cersei and her Lords and Ladies to enjoy, but the smallfolk should not suffer for the trespasses of those above them."
Daenerys suppressed a smirk as Varys cut off Tyrion before her Hand could quite begin to speak again. Tyrion wouldn't like this, but he knew what he was signing up for when he agrees to advise her.
"Your Grace, I take it you have a new plan?" asked Lord Varys with apparent interest.
"I do. I will not burn the city. I will not burn even the Red Keep with all its servants and prisoners. I have instead hired a professional; Cersei will be handled properly," replied Daenerys. She'd had the time during her training with Arya to bring up the contract she had been, she now knew, tricked into signing. Her arms teacher, it seemed, approved of her having a cool conversation while training, though she took a hard hit every time she showed a hint of temper. Harsh training, but she could feel she was the better for it; she would not be an uncontrolled berserker on the battlefield or on the throne. She wondered if her brother could have been a different person with training like that; if he'd been destined for madness, or if it could have been avoided. If she could have had a loving family.
As for the contract, tricked or not, she had signed it. Jon's sister had been quick to correct her; she had not hired the House of Black and White, not hired the Faceless Men, so the kill was not truly certain, not guaranteed by the young Stark's god of death... and yet she was quite certain that Cersei would never survive who came for her. Equally, she was certain that while the North and the Vale were lost to her, they had no designs on the Crownlands, the Reach, the Westerlands, and so on. The Riverlands... those were yet to be decided, she thought.
"Mercenaries?" asked Tyrion, "There are a few very good ones, like Bronn, who might be able to do it, but he wouldn't be able to get in, not after my sister closed the Red Keep off entirely. She wouldn't have forgotten about the tunnels."
"No, I hired Jon's sister, Arya Stark," said Daenerys, then smiled narrowly, "I hired a woman with the skills of a Faceless Man. I am quite sure she is capable of something less destructive than burning the Red Keep to the ground, given that she removed the Freys without hurting innocents... and yet Cersei herself will die. That much is certain."
"Your Grace, while I applaud finding a solution that will not harm the people, are you fully aware of the cost of hiring a Faceless Man?" asked Lord Varys carefully, disgust edging into his tone at the end.
************************
Qhono looked out from atop the wall at the walled town before him, the camps alight in the setting sun past the wall, defenders sitting in ordered ranks on the ramparts beyond, resting and eating after they'd practiced, and the dead far beyond that, cut in half by the line of shade and light. Insulting the Night King, those city soldiers were, showing neither fear nor respect for the army outside their gates; the largest army in the world, the enemy had, and this was only one in two. Two days had come and gone since the attacks, and the city dwellers here had sent a force out to the edge of the ditch inside the farthest ditch, and then showed the enemy exactly how they would defeat them, as if it would make no difference.
Strange, it was, to be on this side, atop thick city walls, behind trenches and other armies. It was not the Dothraki way, to hide like this, to cower behind trenches in the dirt rather than the glory of a pure attack, breaking their enemies before them, slaughtering and taking as they wished. The enemy, however, would not break; he had seen that. It could be forced back, but only just out of range of those monster arrows from the giant machines, and no more.
These city dwellers, too, did not break. It is known that city dwellers when faced with a great horde would cower behind their high walls, and that was true. But these would stop behind their walls and ditches and cower no farther, grant no glorious fights... and force back a force larger and more frightening than any khalasar could ever hope to be. When they sent their forces out to the ditch, they moved many different kinds of fighters together.
A Khalasar had those who liked the arakh and those who liked the bow, and while they rode all together, each fought on their own, proved their own strength to all who could see. It is known that the man who broke the enemy first should be followed, and a strong khalasar would break the enemy in many places; that was how a man could prove to the warriors he was worthy of challenging the Khal for leadership of the khalasar! How else to prove strength, but in battle?
That, he knew now, was a question the Dothraki would have to answer. These strange people in this land of frozen water had food for years in their stone houses. He had seen them cook and fight; he had heard the tones of their voices. They would not buy off a khalasar. They would retreat to their stone houses, like those near the Great Grass Sea would retreat to their cities. Back home, a khalasar would be able to ride around the city they'd chosen, burn the villages and fields, kill the farmers outside the tall walls and take their women and children as slaves. No city could allow that to happen, and so they would either ride out and fight the Dothraki atop the grasslands, or they would pay tribute, for they could not stay forever inside their walls.
Here, he thought they could. They could stay inside their ditches and their walls, eating their plain soup and bitter bread, drinking from the spring their stone house was on top of, and sing songs as they looked out at a khalasar freezing to death, waiting for the city to fall. And, he thought, if they did come out to fight, they would move far faster on the snow than his people - the trip here had been faster than he'd ever gone, the dogs faster than the best horses, day after day. And both dogs and horses pulled those giant bows, bows that shot not just arrows, but also fire. Spearmen like the Unsullied in front, longer spears behind like the spears of some other armies who had fought off hordes, bows behind that, giant bows behind that.
A large group like that could fight any khalasar even without tall walls or big ditches. In the snow, the khalasar couldn't outpace them, couldn't attack and kill and plunder where they liked. And the dead... the dead didn't stop. He'd stabbed one himself with his arakh, seen it keep attacking back at. He'd thought about that a lot, seeing the vast army before him; they could simply grab onto a horse and hold on, and that would let the rest of them easily kill any warrior who charged into them without a metal suit.
Even with the black stone weapons, they needed to change. Now he knew why they had been commanded to bring only archers and Unsullied. The Khaleesi had forbidden them to take slaves and to rape and pillage as they had before; truly, she was a good leader to have foreseen that the ways of their fathers had come to and end before the Dothraki, too, came to an end. Now, they needed to find a new path.
He had seen the little girl called a 'First Sword' show them the new way to fight... he could not use that new way if she could not actually fight. He could not command the khalasar to fight like city people unless the city people were strong! The only way to prove that was through battle - not the battle of the horde, but a man to... warrior... challenge.
"Must fight like them," said Qhono, "Not like did."
"Yes," said Grey Worm, also looking out at the enemy, and at his Queen's allies.
"Men not want fight like them."
"Unsullied follow our Queen's orders."
Qhono scoffed, "You not true warriors! No glory, no show strength! But you fight good. We fight good. Must learn fight same."
"Fight together," replied Grey Worm, "Dothraki and Unsullied. Unsullied in front."
"Khalasar archers behind. Horses move archers fast; always behind. Ride at enemy strength."
"Yes."
"Train morning? You, me. Khalasar, Unsullied here few days," said the blood-rider.
"Yes," replied Grey Worm with a nod, continuing as he saw the commander of the horse cavalry turn towards the steps, "Why you go?"
Qhono reached up to touch the bedraggled purple feather braided in his long hair, then ran his hand down his hair. He was proud of his long hair, proof of his many victories. He could keep it long, he knew - could stay as he was. That First Sword girl was a pretty one, with a tight, strong body. He'd seen women that looked like her before - had the Great Stallion lead them down a different trail, he might have taken her as a slave, broken her, seeded her and had her bear strong sons for him. Breaking a woman like her was as much fun as breaking a great stallion to ride, but it was not to be.
He would do as he must for his people; they must know that these strange new ways came from strength, not from cowardice and weakness. They knew his strength. They knew the strength of the Khaleesi's dragons. They must also know that he followed strength, that the leaders of these strange new ways were strong enough to be worthy to challenge, to fight with, to fight like.
The blood-rider strode quickly towards the First Keep. He would first wash his hair, and then go to the city with the short walls. He would challenge the First Sword, and if the Great Stallion was with him, if he was strong enough, he would emerge with long hair, much glory, and many questions on what trail to follow next. If the Great Stallion was not with him, he would need to ask the dwarf for more coin for another purple feather, and then he would force all who challenged him to cut their own hair when he defeated them in single combat, thus proving his strength forcing them to change their ways! The Khaleesi tried, she did, but it was up to him and her other true blood-riders to ensure the Dothraki would have the strength to survive in this strange new world... even if there weren't quite the Dothraki their ancestors were.
************************
"Are ye sure it's here?"
"Aye, you dumb cunt. We got the right tree, the right stream, the right boulder, all like that raven from Lady Winter said. I've checked it three times. Just keep digging. That's what you're being paid to do, and paid well!"
"We's five foot down like it 'ay an still nothin!"
"Keep diggin' I say! We's bein paid to find it and bring it back."
"Wait! Wait! Look 'ere! We's found 'omethin'!"
"Watch ye'self! Not so 'ast!"
"Aye, aye! Gots it! Lemme wipe 'er off... ooohhh, lookit' 'at! 'Eautiful, it is. Cost a fortune, if'n we sells it."
"Oh? And you think those lords and ladies with enough coin to buy a Valyrian steel longsword like Vigilance kept all that gold by being honest, upright, fair dealing folk?"
"We kin hides it, makes 'em 'ay 'first!"
"And exactly what do you think Lady Winter will do? There's no place in the North, or the South, the East, or the West that the Three-Eyed Raven couldn't find you - by the gods, man, we got a gods be damned map to a damn buried sword that's been lost for hundreds of years! And after he finds you, there's nowhere in Westeros or Essos you could flee to and live long enough to find a buyer, much less spend the coin even if you could magically survive selling it. You'd die, and die slow when Lady Winter finds you. Gods, man, if you're going to betray someone, at least pick an easier pair of cunts than a Faceless Man and the Three-Eyed Raven! Maybe spit in Euron Greyjoy's eye and steal the crown from Cersei Lannister's head at the same damn time! No, this is going straight to Winterfell, and we're going to be well paid and live to enjoy it."
"Ya... I guess ye's gots a 'oint. Ain't no 'ood 'omes from 'ucking with magic 'uckers. 'et's go!"
"Not quite yet. First you need to fill that hole in again and hide that it was disturbed; we're being paid for that, too."
"Gods 'amnit."
************************
"Esinasolat!" called Ser Jorah, as he had every few minutes for days, and watched as the ambling column started rapidly catching up while first one, then another of the Dothraki in the lead fell back into a single file walk, the next group kicking into a canter to replace those breaking the way through the snow at a quick amble, packing the snow down for the long column while the outriders of Northern and Vale cavalry rode easily atop the snow on their snowshoes; some wildling invention, like the scorpion sleds that were there to kill dragons.
Oh, they talked about wight dragons, but he knew the truth; they'd been built to kill his Khaleesi's dragons, and it didn't matter to them whether those dragons were wights or not. Still, his Queen had commanded, and he would obey. She had listened to him and the little man, too, and at least gone to Winterfell as quickly as she could and still have some protection against the Night King and the wight dragon. She had Grey Worm and Qhono with her, at least; they'd protect her on the ground if it came to it, but she'd never faced a dragon in the air; no one had for hundreds of years, and he worried for her when that happened.
He guided his horse into the snow to his right, shoving into it and carving himself and his horse a small niche so the small khalasar could pass him in the narrow trench the horses were packing. Many horses were carrying both a Dothraki and an Unsullied; they rotated between that and riding on sleds. The Unsullied had tried insisting they could just run, but they didn't know the cold, didn't know what would happen when they stopped, soaked in sweat from running through snow. He'd grown up on Bear Island, seen many winters, and he'd still never seen so much snow, felt such cold before. And now here he was, commanding the summer forces his Khaleesi had brought to fight the dead. The Night King and the dead, stories told to frighten children, he'd thought!
That, he could doubt no longer; they'd slaughtered two separate small groups of wights already and avoided four more, each led by a White Walker. None had been too large, but the threat was real; they had to keep moving and make Winterfell before they were swarmed by the full force of the dead. The caravan's wargs had directed them with skill, though they were limited by the speed of the horses and herds they were traveling with. Mounts for men, mounts with full saddlebags, sheep and goats to feed men and dragons, mounts pulling sleds provided by White Harbor, in addition to all those being pulled by the rest of the caravan, up on their snowshoes.
Mounts ridden by idiot horselords who felt they were the best riders in the world. Mounts ridden by men who thought snow was no different than sand, and who had decided to take the 'short way', right over a hidden crevasse under the unbroken topsnow, and who were now floundering in a hole five and ten feet deep.
"Fichat fiez!" he called out, riding forward as the Dothraki fetched ropes. There were no trees on this stretch of the journey, and he could see no rocks, so he'd need to beg help from the outriders.
Again.
************************
Wights had boiled up all over the town, some inside houses and in the old cellars; there had apparently been a long-forgotten lichyard that had been built over, and hundreds of wights had arisen. There were a few reports of the sounds of fighting from nowhere in the oldest parts of town, but... sometimes the wights were there, and sometimes no one had seen anything, either, and she was reminded of the materials her mother had had 'stored', never to be seen again, at Arya Stark's command - materials to build with, to defend with.
"Good work!" she exclaimed, watching them straighten as she and her military commander stepped out of the way of the wheelbarrows of reclaimed or repairable dragonglass weapons and missiles, the work crew seeing them with their rich armor showing signs of hard use, her own dragonglass head still bearing wight gore, one side now narrower than the other as it had caught on a wight's crowbar, "Is everything under control? Is there anything you need?"
"Thank you, m'lady," replied an old man, an equally old woman beside him as they approached, "The boys and girls have this all sorted out. Lost Matilda, probl'y lose Jonaasen as well, and Big Mathias won't be walkin' for months, but wes got 'em all. Thems wights surprised 'em as 'ey opened a door; weren't no sign o' wights before, then... lots o' em, in the root cellar, deep down. Not hammerin' and chargin', just waitin' like. We sent a boy off to tell a page; then a minute later we's gots another page tellin' us 'bout it. Too late for Matilda, buts probl'y help'd some other poor bastr'd," said the old man, trailing off at the end.
Wylla and Lord Woolfield bowed their heads to the elder couple for a moment, recognizing the dead - her people's dead, killed while defending their city from the enemy. She then raised her head and asked again, gently, "You and your boys and girls fought bravely and well; the Starks themselves would be as pleased as I am. Is there anything you need?"
"No, m'lady," said the old woman, "Youse gots no need ta linger; we gots what we needed before the dead came, as best anyone could. We be thankin' the Warrior for the trainin' and the Smith for the dragonglass. If'n not for that, we'd all be wights."
"Very well; you are all a credit to the North!" said Wylla, raising her voice for all to hear, "Biancae, stay a moment and take notes on Matilda for the Maesters to record; her name and deeds during the Second Long Night will live on in the histories the Maesters are compiling of those who dies. Jonaasen as well, and any others who distinguished themselves with exceptional service. By the Seven, they will not be forgotten; they served the Stranger's will upon the captive dead!"
As they walked on, one page remaining to record the stories of the smallfolk, Wylla asked quietly, trying to imitate how Arya Stark had spoken when she wanted to be quiet, "Lord Mitchar; you had doubts about training the smallfolk, about all the work put into the fieldworks and preparing the city and the harbor, didn't you?"
He took a half-step closer, speaking in barely audibly over the clanking of his plate armor, "I was... concerned about the training when King Jon ordered it, yes, but it seemed then to be easily enough complied with; a little training by a guardsman every day. Then Lady Winter gave her own decrees, and it was a huge undertaking that took enormous amounts of time and effort, land and materials, rebuilding parts of the walls and city, work parties of tens of thousands. Women fighting, women digging! Grant me the Mother's mercy, my Lady, but for an old man like me, it was a bit of a shock to see maidens train like warriors - truly train, be injured and bruised, to break bones and gain scars, and a few be crippled or killed in accidents. But..."
"But?" she asked, turning with him into one of the poorest sections of the city; it was away from the palace... and towards one of the areas with the most rumors of smugglers and tunnels. She had a suspicion they were actually going to meet the smugglers her mother dealt with!
"But now we've seen dragons overhead and in our fields, Unsullied and Dothraki on the streets of our city, wights and White Walkers. Without King Jon's orders, we would never have started training; without Lady Winter's commands, the training would not have been sufficient and the people would not have been armed; when the White Walkers made that circle and line symbol outside ring five, and the wights raised inside, it would have ended us. Had Lady Winter not designed and insisted on the fieldworks and siege engines, insisted on dishonorable weapons like crossbows being produced in the thousands, on everyone who could wield a bow well being trained for it, the wights would have overrun the walls entirely. Without Queen Sansa's handling the politics and managing the lords of not only the North but also the Vale, and reaching out across the Narrow Sea, we would not be supplied, not after the War of Five Kings and Cersei. It is their foresight that has saved us," he said, continuing somberly, "It is the Second Age of Heroes come again... and the only time that requires an Age of Heroes is when things are darkest. You, Lady Wylla, are part of that, with your sister and mother too, and Lady Mormont and Skamund and his sister, the fleet commanders from Braavos, and many others. I never thought to see such wonders; but for every wonder there is a horror."
Wylla nodded, then thought briefly that Wynafryd would say something to soften her words, and replied, "Thank you, Lord Woolfield. I understand your earlier doubts, but you should have had more faith in our liege lords, the Starks."
They turned a corner and saw a small fire, with several beggars in a circle around it, warming their hands, primitive spears to hand as they each watched ahead of themselves and to the right. As the green-haired woman looked closer, she saw they were actually warming themselves on a pair of merrily crackling wight corpses, one large bowl set next to the fire, a few small coins in it already.
"M'lady," called out one elderly, crippled beggar loudly, bowing as best he could, "M'lord!"
"You killed these wights?" asked Lady Wylla, "Was anyone injured?"
"Aye, we did, m'lady!" said a much younger beggar, exuberately brandishing a shorter than normal spear with not even a flake of dragonglass left on the end, just shattered, half-rotten wood, "Them stones din' do nuthin', but one poke with m'spear here and it wen' righ' down! Crazy Kaatie 'ere done fer t'other one - they din' git close 'nough to touch us even! Nows we keepin' warm and keepin' watch! We din' een' need ta call fer..."
The boy cut off at a sharp look from the elderly beggar, returning to warming his hands by the fire as his face reddened.
"Underfoot'd like us keepin' watch," said another begger, which resulted in a round of nods, and Wylla remembering again the name many of the senior servants and guards had called Arya Stark as a child. Curious, to hear it now, and from a beggar, of all people. She narrowed her eyes, looking at the other beggars; those nods had been very like what a high lord or lady would receive. She'd find out what was going on there, she would, but Wynafryd would certainly tell her this was not the time.
"You have all done good work defending our city, and I thank you for it," Wylla said, seeing that Kaatie also had a severely damaged spear, then turned and walked back to a wheelbarrow, selecting two damaged but still functional spears, each with several flakes of dragonglass fixed to the ends, speaking as she returned to them, offering the replacement spears herself, taking their old ones to put back in the wheelbarrow and dropping five silver stags into the bowl, "There may be more to come; Lady Winter would want us all to be both watchful and armed properly. Please share this will the others like you who have fought today; you have all done White Harbor proud. I will send messengers to make sure hot soup and fresh bread is brought out to here tonight, just as it is being brought to all who fought the dead."
She saw their eyes grow wide at the equivalent of eighty and two hundred copper pennies was placed in their bowls, and a marked straightening of their postures as she praised them.
The elderly beggar spoke quietly, "Pardon, m'lady; we 'eard we's inna siege? We's gonna 'ave 'nogh to eat? We canna' pay fer food if'n it git ta cost ta much."
Lord Woolfield exchanged a glance with Lady Wylla, then spoke, his voice confident, speaking a little louder as a nearby tower reported its ammunition status by gong, "We are under siege by the army of the dead, but they are being held off past the fifth ring, out at the edge of flight arrow range. They pressed us hard, but by the Warrior's strength, we held them off outside while the town guard and those brave souls like you held them off inside, and they have retreated."
Wylla took up the conversation without pause, "The harbor is open and active; three more ships came in to dock, two laden with barley even as the battle was fought, and our fishing fleet is working as hard as they can, spending long, cold nights on the water to gather more fish for White Harbor. Even without that, we have stores to keep us for years, even with all those from the rest of the North who have gathered here, and those from other kingdoms, too."
Her voice hardened, "My mother, the Lady Leona, has also decreed that there shall be no price increases for rationed and basic food, nor for fresh water, nor for firewood or simple clothes and blankets. If anyone tries to do that, report them to a guard, or send someone to come and find me at the harbormaster's office, or Lord Woolfield at the military command post. You are men and women of White Harbor, and White Harbor will not stand for your starving or freezing because of price gouging."
With that, she gave them a nod, received a set of bows and relieved expressions, and continued on, men and full wheelbarrows following behind as Lord Woolfield led them deeper into the warren, speaking with each group they found, sending some to the harbor to see a Maester for injuries received in battling wights. Those sheltering in doorways and alleys and around fires - whether fueled by wood or wight - suddenly were generally stronger-looking, and much more dangerous-looking.
Wylla had been around warriors her whole life, and the last months of hard training had enhanced her appreciation of the difference between strength and true deadliness, like Arya Stark. Arya wasn't what she would have thought of as a strong warrior, before; but now, she could recognize that the younger woman was the deadliest warrior she'd ever met. These men and women - even whores - weren't like a Faceless Man, but they were obviously experienced to her trained eyes. A large group of these more dangerous smallfolk was outside a dirty, ramshackle building with a brand new ironwood door, the glint of bronze visible in a small gap between thick planks.
"M'lady Manderly, M'lord Woolfield, ye honor us, comin' down here!" exclaimed a sturdy, middle-aged man in dark clothing.
The harbormaster saw he had a simple goat's-foot crossbow, all sharp, unfinished edges except for the smoothed out handholds, in his hands, dragonglass-tipped bolt held in place casually by his thumb; none of the few crossbows she'd seen in these warrens had the fancy spring to keep a bolt in when the weapon was being handled - they were rare, and of simple but effective make, striding forward. As he did, his head moved back and forth, eyes moving left and right, up and down, but not like a soldier's... shiftier, somehow.
"Piter, I see you made it through uninjured. I find myself most unreasonably glad the Mother showed you her mercy," replied Lord Mitchar, "My lady Wylla, this is Piter; he's spent some time, now and again, in our cells for possession of stolen goods."
"I ain't no thief!"
"I never said you were," replied Lord Woolfield, taking the man's hand and giving it a hearty shake, "But you did have stolen goods... and I am glad you are alive. Would you have a little water to share? I find myself a mite parched."
Mitchar glanced back at the wheelbarrows, then pointed at the one in front, with a pile of broken pieces of the poorest of the spears, staves, and knives that had been handed out, the ones Lady Wylla had replaced on their journey so far, piled atop the rest of what had been gathered from the battlefield, now mostly smaller pieces of dragonglass... but still very worth turning into new weapons with the addition of some wood.
"You men, stay with us; come over, have a drink. With you and Lady Wylla's guards, I'm sure we can fight off any wights that might appear. The rest of you, get a move on - the faster you get to New Castle and drop that off with the craftsmen, the faster you can warm yourselves and fill your bellies! Pass on Lady Wylla's instructions to have food brought out here for the people who helped defend the city, and leave some at the castle for the rest of us! I'm sure we'll be some time."
With that, most of the party disappeared quickly down the road, and of those that were left, Wylla saw that Lord Woolfield gently guided them all to one side of the remaining wheelbarrow, even as a troupe of dirty, tired smallfolk emerged from the ramshackle building. Very dirty, even - some were near-covered in mud, the smell of the sea strong on them, she noticed, narrowing her eyes... they really weren't that close to the harbor or the shore, not by the roads, at least - these men and women might be smugglers, from the tunnels!
"Did you see battle, Piter?" asked Lord Woolfield.
"Aye. Them's dead folk came swarmin' up in the... came swarmin' up. Theys was dead all o'er, looks like. Most o 'em are dead again, now, warmin' us up as 'ey burn. Some o 'em ain't cleared out; we's still workin' on that."
"I'll send some guardsmen to deal with them," said Wylla, "You've fought bravely for White Harbor, and I thank you for it; the army can take over now. The wights have stopped, outside, and most inside are already being burned."
"We's gots it!" exclaimed Piter at the idea of guardsmen wandering through the heart of the thieves tunnels, then recovered quickly, ducking his head, "We's got them wights licked, m'Lady. Youse warriors, they's can fight them other wights. Here, m'Lady, youse water!"
Wylla took her drink gracefully, their party lined up with their backs to the frigid northerly wind as had become normal, a lesson they'd all learned from the Free Folk running dogsleds and teaching them. Now, though, with wights still around, it seemed strange that Mitchar had placed them like this - and to leave their backs to the wheelbarrow while they drank, the smallfolk around them breaking out into loud conversations? She started to turn to take a look, stopping at an upraised hand from Lord Woolfield, the battle sign to wait, so she turned back, drinking nearly ice-cold water from a rough wooden mug as smallfolk walked to and fro, many carrying packs or small bags from one building to another.
Lord Woolfield drained his mug, asking quietly, "Thank you, Piter. I needed that. Can we give you anything to help with the wights? Weapons? Dragonglass? Pitch and tar?"
Piter sneered briefly before realizing who he was doing so in front of, responding sharply, "We ain't no beggars! Them's over here. We's works for what we got! Youse bein' kind, but we don' need charity."
Behind them came a single sharp banging sound, at which Piter winced, eyes glancing around even more rapidly than usual for a moment.
"WHAT'S GOING ON?" shouted Lord Woolfield as he spun around.
Wylla spun as well; there were a few smallfolk standing what seemed a little too near the wheelbarrow; three had both hands behind their back. The last had a broken off spearhead with a good dragonglass head at his feet, his other hand full of shining black shards as he gaped at them, frozen. The wheelbarrow itself no longer had a mound of recovered dragonglass and some beggar's broken weapons atop it; the mound was considerably smaller now.
"Seize him!" commanded Lord Mitchar, pointing at the one thief who had dragonglass in his hands, "That man is a thief!"
The green-haired woman saw the other smallfolk respectfully backed off, their faces after after either flashes of disdain or fear... keeping their hands out of sight the entire time. The entire group, she thought, was probably thieves! But thieves who had fought the dead. She could see the gore and smudges, and imagined that if her nose still worked and she didn't smell of the same thing, she'd recognize their smell, too... and they'd refused an offer of weapons. Thieves and smugglers they may be, but ones with pride, and, she thought, honor, since her mother had continued to do business with them. They'd chosen to defend White Harbor instead of running or hiding, even if they did break the law, even if they did steal. Arya Stark, too, They wouldn't take an outright gift, she thought, looking at the half-full wheelbarrow, but they'd happily steal one... just as they'd steal the ancient, maggot-infested grains her mother had stored not far from here on the Stark's orders, with naught but a couple of ancient, slovenly guards to watch over them.
She'd been willing to give them the dragonglass; the wights needed to be killed, and without losing more of her people - any of her people, so letting them steal it was truly Crone's wisdom! She could consider it a gift, and be glad that her people fighting the dead had what was required - and from salvaged fragments of weapons from the battle, of no use on the front lines for quite some time. They could consider it as having been 'worked for', and maintain their self-respect. And, as Wynafryd would say, as long as no one looked too hard at it, everyone was happy... and everyone wanted to stay happy, so no one would look too hard.
Politics was messy, she thought. She'd see what Mitchar's plan was; she'd worked very closely with him, for a long time, and he always had a plan.
"Piter! Who is this man?" demanded Lord Woolfield, looking somewhat shocked and outraged, and somewhat resigned, as two soldiers seized the man they'd caught red-handed, "Why is there a thief here, stealing from Lady Wylla's military supplies?"
"Them's Jory, m'Lord, third cousin twice removed on my mother's side's roommate's second cousin's husband's friend's son," Piter replied conversationally, before his voice strengthened and hardened, taking on a tone of command, "E's a clumsy wretch, and ere's no 'elpin im now! Ain't no help for them's get caught stealin'! Them's caught, they's face the Father's justice; Underfoot won't 'ave no truck with them's too clumsy or stupid to take care of 'emselves all proper-like!"
Piter then turned to give the poor thief a very direct, very hard look, "E's a screamer, Jory is. Real loud like."
"My lady, what is your judgement of this man?" asked Lord Woolfield.
Wylla thought hard about what she'd just heard. She rather thought that 'proper-like' meant not getting caught, rather than not actually doing something wrong in the first place... or at least something against the rules. Was it wrong to steal food for a starving family? That seemed cruel, but what if it was stolen from another starving family? Hmmm... well, these supplies had been to fight the dead, and that's what they'd be used for.
"Piter," asked Lady Wylla, "Do you, or anyone else here, have anything to say in defense of Jory?"
"E's a good lad, m'Lady... e's just stupid an' clumsy. Ye sees 'is leg? E' fell when fightin' wights, hit 'isself onna rock. 'Ats why e's limpin'."
"Very well. Jory, you have committed the crime of theft of your liege lord's property; stealing military supplies in time of war. In light of your service fighting wights, and the fact that you were stealing only scraps, you will be fined eight copper groats," said Lady Wylla, looking out over the others. Piter had told them he was a screamer... or, she thought, in those twisty ways her sister thought, he told Jory he was to scream. Arya Stark was even twistier than that - she had to be this 'Underfoot' they spoke of, and Piter had especially emphasized 'caught', just as Lady Arya had instructed the Manderlies to treat crimes as they always had... and the Stark had known far more about the underbelly of White Harbor than she could have learned from whispers and rumors in just a night.
Wylla continued, noticing a post holding up a ratty blanket to give shelter to a hovel across the way, next to a fire that would help Jory avoid frostbite during his lashing, "Due to the insulting and disrespectful nature of stealing right in front of your liege lord's family, you could be beheaded. For the theft, you could lose a hand. However, the Mother's mercy will stay the Father's harsh justice, for you have served the Warrior and the Stranger, fighting the wights, and your theft was intended to also fight wights. You will be given ten lashes, right there."
Lord Woolfield immediately gave orders as Wylla pointed to the post she's selected, and those with the Manderly party took the man over immediately, again putting their backs to the wheelbarrow as the man took his lashes. True to Piter's word, he screamed loud and long, and when Wylla turned back after it was done, the wheelbarrow contained nothing but the worthless scraps they'd taken from beggars when giving them better.
Someday, she thought, she'd be able to see the tunnels. Now, she'd given dragonglass to those fighting the dead, learned a little more about the people of her city, and it was time to go home. There was another set of merchant ships that would make the harbor in a few hours, and she wanted to be there; new ships docking at night was always delicate, and if the wights attacked again, or the wight dragon appeared, she'd need to be there.
************************
Sansa entered her chambers, petting the large pups as they nuzzled up to her and patiently waiting until her sister shut, barred, and furred the door, then sat down heavily, tired from the long day. She accepted the tall mug of water Arya handed her as her sister started unfastening her armor, drinking silently, the two of them alone in her chambers, leaning forward and breathing deeply as she finally let herself remember the feeling of actually fighting for her life, remembered the child-wight's knife that she'd blocked while she was stabbing a bigger wight that was assaulting the rank before her. That move had opened up her right side to another wight wielding an entire carriage axle, which the guard on her right had had to block.
"That was your first real fight; I heard you did well, Sansa," said Arya softly as she untied the fastenings of Sansa's armor, checking it over carefully; nearly all the damage was near the hem, but she wouldn't miss anything that might lead to her sister being killed later because of carelessness; she'd learned that lesson, and would carry the scars from it for the rest of her life. Now, they were all learning that wights and even pieces of wights were even more dangerous near feet and ankles than she'd thought.
"I wasn't even in the front," replied the Queen in the North quietly, her voice trembling slightly without her controlling herself fully. She set the empty mug down, letting Arya help her, care for her as she reminisced. She'd been in the second rank, had struck at wight after wight with her dragonglass-head spear, but they'd thrown themselves through the double doors recklessly; the front rank had guards hand-picked by Arya, and they'd all survived the attack with only minor wounds, despite being hit more heavily than any other brothel entrance.
"And do you think the fighters in the front would have it easier without fighters behind them? The shield-wall was made for you, Sansa - everyone fighting together. You killed some, didn't you? Protected your fellow soldiers with your spear, your shield, and your skills?"
"I didn't kill that many; everyone fought together just like we trained; the guards are very good, and even the whores and maids stood their ground," Sansa replied with a slight smile, remembering the feeling of standing side by side with others, the shield on her right protecting her, while her shield protected the spear on her left, her spear striking at openings in front and on the right, while the spear on her left struck at the openings she created with her shield. Sansa let the smile drop off her face, remembering how much better her guards were, and continued, "I didn't do much - I'm just not fast enough. What do you mean, my fellow soldier? I'm not a soldier."
"Yes, you are, Sansa - you've trained as a soldier trains, and now you've fought as a soldier fights, killed as a soldier kills - never let anyone tell you different! You fought more of them than me, you know - I didn't get to fight any, and I envy you that. Watch how people react to you now, sister; you'll see. You could have stayed inside, away from the doors, but you didn't. You chose to fight, to put your life on the line, like Robb did, like Father did in Robert's Rebellion. Everyone knows how hard you train - now they can see that you fight, too - not when the enemy leaves you no choice, but when the enemy is there, you step forward, as Starks have always done," said Arya, squeezing Sansa's shoulders.
She did want to test herself and her skills against the White Walkers, to ride out and face their ice weapons herself, but that wasn't her duty. Her duty as No One was ending the blasphemy as a whole, her duty as Lady Winter, commander of all the armies of her sister was protecting her people from unjust attacks, and her duty as Arya was to kill what had hurt and betrayed her family and friends. The Night King was on her list... but he wasn't someone she could just assassinate, either, so she'd leave him to others, who would follow the plans she'd made.
"I was afraid, Arya," said Sansa, her voice small, feeling the fear she'd felt then rising up and letting it wash over her. She had been terrified as the first wights had charged, even as she'd watched and struck and blocked as fast as she could, surprised by the sudden calls of 'wights inside' coming from the brothel, where she hadn't expected a large group of wights. She was still just a stupid little girl, after all, surprised at monsters coming to kill her and worse.
She'd taken the brothel from Littlefinger with her own actions and those of her sister, and her new sister Kitty had made it her own as well. She came regularly, knew her employees from Kiyana down to Klovis in the stables and Yaslana, the newest whore Kiyana had employed. It was far from the walls, deep in Winter Town, and still the dead had come boiling up. She'd heard the alarm sound, switched spears with the designated guard and dashed to the back door where the outer perimeter of guards were already holding the dead off in a single rank. She had taken her position just behind the center man of the three in front even as Kitty'd gone into the room to the left to fight the dead coming in through the large window.
"Of course you were. So is nearly everyone who fights in a battle like that. So is almost everyone who is surprised and survives it. Father always said that the only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid. Never doubt that you were brave, Sansa. You went towards the fight, not away, and you stood against the dead without fleeing, no matter what you felt. Did you freeze for a moment? A lot of people freeze their first real fight; the Many-Faced God collects plenty of them. That's one of the differences between a real warrior, a blooded veteran, and new recruits. Hard training helps, but only so much. Battle is different; you know that, now, more than me, even!"
"No, I didn't freeze. I wanted to, and I wasn't thinking at first, but I didn't. I just did what Chella taught me. It was... almost natural, in a way, after we killed the first wights and it became routine, like in the training yard," said Sansa, wrapping her arms around her sister. She let the feelings of the battle rise up in her, feeling them fully. She's pushed them down at the time, but now she had the time. The puppies whined a little as she let herself feel her terror, and knew that she'd acted despite her fear, which she now let fall away. Beneath the fear, she had anger, and after that had been triumph when the wights ceased coming; not just her own, but a feeling shared by all she'd stood and fought with.
She hadn't sat back and let others fight for her; so had her guards, so had those who worked in the brothel. Those songs she'd so enjoyed as a child had often sang of the comradeship of men who had fought together, had bled together, had won battles together. She felt that herself, now; she knew that she they would have her back when she needed it, and she would have theirs.
On a larger scale, she knew, that feeling would be shared by many more. This was the only battle she'd heard of where different forces had intermingled like theirs. Normally, the banners of each house stayed together, and the forces of each kingdom stayed together. Here the knights of the Vale rode with the heavy cavalry of the Manderlies, the spearmen of the mountain clans - Vale and Northern both - fought with the spearmen of the fields and cities and the lands north of the Wall, and units of archers were well and truly mixed. That, she mused, would help keep her kingdoms together once the immediate threats of the Night King, of Cersei and Euron, were dealt with, once the winter and the Second Long Night was truly upon them, and she would have to ensure they all starved equally. Once past that, the summer after would be easy enough if the Southrons could be kept in the South... or chose to stay in the South on their own.
"You did well, Sansa. You and Meera are the only Starks alive who've fought in a shield-wall like that, you know - Jon's fights as a solider in a melee, hacking and hammering by himself or near a partner, Bran doesn't fight, and I haven't had a chance to fight like that. You've fought the way our soldiers fight - you know what it's like, they know you know, and nobody can ever take that away from you. I'm proud of you, Sansa. You're a fighting Queen now, like Robb and the Kings in the North of old, or Queen Nymeria" replied Arya, squeezing Sansa tight, ignoring the thick patterns of scars over Sansa's skin as she pulled Sansa's head into her shoulder; something made possible only by Sansa sitting while Arya was standing.
"You really do envy me. You are very strange, you know that?" said Sansa into Arya's shoulder teasingly, idly scritching the puppies on either side of her, feeling their thick, soft fur through her fingers. They weren't Lady... but they were Lady's nieces, her family.
"I've heard that I'm both strange and annoying," japed Arya, "I don't see it, myself. I think I'm a perfectly normal assassin-commander-priest. I'm exactly like every other assassin-commander-priest I've ever met, after all! And of course I envy you - you got to fight them, got to experience battle the way our father did. Meera even got to fight them by the heart tree! I could have slid down a rope, but... I had other duties, and you and everyone trusted me to do them. You delegate lots of things to spend your time on the things that are necessary that can't be done by others... and I must do the same. Others can ensure the enemy is killed, but seeing the entire battle, directing it? That's not something anyone else can do. Soon, but not yet."
"You're the only assassin-commander-priest anyone's ever met, Arya. That makes you very strange, among any peoples anywhere! But not annoying," said Sansa warmly, then gave a nearly-hidden smile as she made the sign for truth and continued, "For the moment."
Arya poked Sansa in the side, then opened her arms and watched as Sansa straightened up, fully in control again, and Arya started unfastening her own equipment with Sansa's help. Sansa recovered faster now than when Arya had first returned, but she was still more fragile than she had been, and Arya knew a distraction would help her sister; and perhaps help herself too.
"Sometimes I think that's what the Many-Faced God took from me as payment, you know," said Arya, her voice turning serious as she also make the sign for truth, "My freedom. I have so many responsibilities, now; to the Many-Faced God and the House of Black and White in Westeros, to you and your kingdoms and our people. To my students and to Syrio, to my commanders and soldiers."
Sansa gave Arya a hug, then made the sign for jape as she said, "Oh? Is that what you think of me, your only sister? A terrible responsibility that keeps you from what, traveling the world like some kind of sellsword whoremonger? Do you dream the same dream Robert once did, when he wished to be the Sellsword King?"
Arya narrowed her eyes, glaring up at her sister, returning the sign for jape, "You are indeed a terrible responsibility, like a mammoth around my neck, weighing me down. I could sail west of Westeros, see things no one has ever seen; but no, I'm stuck here, cleaning up your mess for the rest of my life!"
"My mess? My mess! The Night King isn't my mess! I had nothing to do with him!"
"Of course he is; you're the eldest living trueborn child of Bran the Builder, who failed to actually finish the job in the first place; that makes it your mess! You're the heir; you inherit the debts as well as the lands. Never mind your kingdoms and you personally dragging Littlefinger up here!" exclaimed Arya, the accusation heavy in her voice and on her face.
"Well I never!" said Sansa archly, glaring down at Arya, "And aren't you the slightest bit thankful that Winter Town boasts the best brothel in all of Westeros, so you can at least get a taste of the world beyond the little ditch that separates us from the wide world?"
"No, I am not the slightest bit thankful," retorted Arya, returning the glare with interest, "I don't need Winter Town's whores or Winter Town's cooks for that!"
They continued the facade for another few seconds, then broke down laughing at the same time, "Sansa! You've been spending too much time with the working girls at the brothel."
"Well, I should hope so," replied the elder sister, her laughter fading as her voice turned serious, "They formed shield-wall against the wights too; they blocked off every window and door. Not one ran, and not one hid, Arya. They all fought. Not just them; the smallfolk in the streets; bakers, washers, builders, everyone. It wasn't anything like King's Landing."
"Of course they did, Sansa. We grow them tough, up here, and they've seen what happens when they don't fight. You and Meera fighting doesn't hurt, of course, since they can see their leaders fighting, just as Daenerys fighting is necessary to her leading the Dothraki, just as Sarella fighting will remind her people she is a warrior too, but more than that, they're fighting for themselves, for their own families and friends and comrades. They fight for what they want the North to be - fierce and independent. If they want that, they too must be fierce and independent. Those of the Vale will do the same, if it comes to that. Farther south... well, that will be different."
"Your training makes a big difference, too - I can see how much more confident they all are, Arya."
"Westeros is strange now, you know. It's almost always been ruled by Kings; we've had a few fighting Queens along the way, like Nymeria and Visenya, but now? Now nearly every ruler and contender south of the Wall is a woman. You, Sarella, Daenerys, Yara, Cersei; even your heir is Meera. Do you see what I see?" said Arya.
"Probably not," smirked Sansa, "Since I can, after all, see over the chair backs without having to get up on my tiptoes."
"Low blow, Sansa."
"Only to you, Arya. So... other than furniture, what do you see?"
"Of all the past rulers, nearly all had fought. Of all the current leaders, all but Cersei has fought - every single one, now that you've been in battle. And all of those Southron rulers and contenders agree that Cersei has to go... and that the Night King must be destroyed."
"Cersei wanted to fight, to go off to battle, too, you know," said Sansa, her eyes distant as she remembered the golden-haired Queen of Westeros talking to her. Amidst the insults, the barbs, and the constant reminders of Lannister superiority, Sansa had learned not just politics and even noticed some of the subtle hints of espionage, but also quite a bit about what it had been like to grow up with Tywin as a father.
Arya thought for awhile, remembering the expression on Cersei's face as she she sentenced Lady to die, how she'd held herself there, and replied thoughtfully, her voice turning sad, "I can see that; she approached politics like it was a duel... and she understood that it was always about death in the end, in a way that Father never did."
"Are you leaving? To kill her?"
"Not just yet, but soon. Probably after the caravans arrive and we see the Night King's next move. Right now he's just waiting, but he doesn't know if we'll be able to get supplies in, or if he can keep them out and just wait for us to starve to death. I need to be here when the sorcerers and Red Priests arrive, too. There's No One else with experience with magic, and I don't trust either one. Sorcerers rarely work in groups, and the Red God's face is selfish, giving vague visions prone to be interpreted badly by the priest, both deliberately and not, and desiring that all serve the Red God's face," replied Arya, pulling a large cork out of a small bottle and rubbing the contents into the boiled leather of armor, setting the bottle on a table between them so Sansa could use it after cleaning off her own armored dress.
Arya knew the names of many of the Red God's servants who had been assassinated in the past centuries; time after time they'd burned people alive, and time after time survivors with nothing left to live for had come to the House and offered up a name to the Many-Faced God, and their life as payment. Some of those servants were powerful, in their own ways - not just the well known powers of the Red God, but some priests and priestesses had their own magic, too. The Red Woman, she now knew, was also a Shadowbinder of Asshai in addition to being an ancient priestess; there would be others like her, too.
Sansa scrubbed at her dress carefully, then picked up a pair of cutters and started snipping off the damaged scales from the bottom, replacing them one by one with undamaged ones. That was one of the reasons she'd chosen this pattern; repair was very easy and extremely frugal; only small sections were damaged at a time. Other reasons were that it was more than flexible enough to fight in even as a dress, that it had a nice swish to it if she moved with confidence, that it spoke to her Tully heritage and her lost uncle the Blackfish, that she was extremely used to moving in dresses, that it was less offensive to those who felt highborn women shouldn't wear trousers, and that Arya said it was, properly sewn, very effective armor. Well, she was confident in her sewing skills, and in her sister's assessment... and she was uninjured because of it.
"You know what else I see about the rulers and contenders, as you put it, Arya?" asked Sansa after her short silence.
"That you're one of them?" japed Arya with a poke at her sister.
"Well, yes. But I also see that everyone except Cersei is working together - all of Westeros outside of the rule of the Iron Throne, and more and more of Essos. Perhaps we'll be able to keep working together at least through the winter, after you kill Cersei and the dead have been defeated," said Sansa, the undertones of her voice strange to Arya's ears as the redhead spoke of the most powerful Queen in Westeros today.
"You sound like you don't just hate and respect her; there's something more, isn't there, Sansa?"
With a sigh, Sansa throws a small cushion at her sister, which is promptly caught and used to prop up the piece Arya's working on.
"I also pity her, just a little. She's lost everything she loved except her power; all three of her children, her father and mother, her lover and brother. She's done horrible things... but she took the time to teach me in her own terrible way. Without her lessons, I'd never have been able to learn from Littlefinger, never have known what to look for, what levers to push; how to see what he wanted and manipulate him. She's an evil woman, but she also succeeded in killing everyone who ever crossed her; everyone except us, even after she made stupid mistakes," said Sansa.
"Would you like me to tell her anything before I give her the gift?" asked Arya. She'd never really dealt with the Queen after she'd had to send Nymeria away and Cersei had had Lady killed, but if her sister wanted her to pass on a message, that was something she could do easily. It'd probably be fun, too, seeing Cersei's face when she understood who had come for her.
"Tell her I thank her for her many lessons, and that I will never forget them."
Arya smirked, "The same thing you told Baelish, then. I can do that. Are you feeling better now?"
"A little," responded Sansa, looking up from her leatherwork to meet her sister's gaze, "Stay with me tonight?"
"Of course. May I humbly beg Her Grace the Queen's thoughts on a small matter?" asked Arya tremulously, ducking her head down, staring at her sister's feet and shuffling around as if awestruck to be in a famous person's presence, glancing up at her sister through her hair as she heard Sansa shift her head.
Sansa raised her chin, looking down her nose at her sister, "Only on account that my wisdom might, mayhaps, break through the thick shell of foolishness that surrounds you, and thus make you marginally less abrasive to be around."
"During the second attack, some of the White Walkers started retreating, one by one, and then all the rest turned to retreat at once. When the turned back to keep pressure on the northern camps, first those who retreated last attacked again, all at once, then the rest turned rejoined the attack, but raggedly. There was no pattern to which ones were which that any of us saw; it wasn't those closest or farthest, or all those near each other. You're one of the best politicians alive today; why do you think they would have acted like that?" asked Arya. She'd already gone over this with both her military staff and the other priests of the Many-Faced God, but the Night King was magic none of them were familiar with, and so she would ask who she could; her sister now, the sorcerers and the Red Priests when they arrived.
"You've already considered this, haven't you?" asked Sansa.
"Naturally. They could be the least brave, first to flee and last to return. So many of them acting all at once, but not all of them, though; that's odd. They could be the youngest and least trained, too. Men can do that if they all hear the same command at the same time - the Unsullied are amazing, for example, but few other people can match that. If it had to do with how easily they could 'hear' the command to retreat, there shouldn't have been one set doing it all at once... unless the Night King tried talking first and then 'shouted' second both times, which seems unlikely."
"All at once, you said? Like a line of puppets in a puppet show with a lone puppetmaster? Or it could be that they all can be perfectly disciplined... but some of them aren't loyal enough to obey orders to go to their deaths as easily as others. Waiting thousands of years after losing a war only to get stopped cold at the first real opposition south of the Wall isn't very inspirational, after all," replied Sansa with a smirk, then climbed into bed, lifting the thin furs for Arya, who joined her.
Once they were in, Sansa called out, "Up," at which the dogs all jumped up on the bed, padding up and starting to lay down around the sisters. Sansa continued, "You have new bruises."
"I do?" asked Arya blandly.
"You do. Even makeup as rare and expensive as yours can't handle the way you train... but you didn't get those bruises in the training yard; I'd have heard of it," replied Sansa quietly.
"Not all training happens in the yard," murmured Arya near-silently, reaching out to clasp hands with Sansa. Matters of the House were not for anyone else, but that she was indeed bruised was impossible to hide from her sister while still being her sister. Impossible now, at least, and she would not lose that closeness, not after all they'd suffered apart... and her sister could keep secrets as well as anyone else still alive.
Still, that was no reason to divulge more than necessary; it wouldn't help her sister to know that the other priests Jaqen had brought were still regularly beating her with their own favored weapons, or weapons they didn't favor that she had even less experience with, or when they had the use of all their limbs and senses, and she did not, or when she tried to use glamour and it affected her fighting. She'd left Braavos as No One, but before completing her training. Just because a soldier was a veteran didn't mean they'd learned all there was to learn, or even all they would learn in their lifetime; she still had much to learn and more to improve.
"Mmmm... were you anyone else, I would wonder more," said Sansa, squeezing her sister's hand, then closed her eyes, "I'm glad you came back, even if you'll leave soon, Arya."
"So am I, Sansa. Your puppies are very well behaved; like Lady was. When I was with the ice-river clan, we'd sleep in a pile with the dogs at night, too, in snow caves, as small as we could make them; tight confines and the dogs kept us warm, the snow kept the wind out. It was quiet and peaceful, but we still had to be on guard; I don't think we'll ever not need to be on guard again, but the peacefulness, that may come again," said Arya, "What names did you give them?"
Sansa stretched her right arm out atop the covers, scritching one dog after another, Arya doing the same with her left hand as Sansa spoke quietly.
"This is Alayne; the blanket hog is Jeyne, and that one's Beth. They've taken something of a shine to me, and are well behaved."
"By that you mean perfectly behaved, don't you. Did I ever tell you the story of when Jon gave me Needle? I was packing for the trip to King's Landing, and when Jon came in, I told Nymerica 'gloves'; I thought I'd been teaching her to fetch my gloves. She just cocked her head and looked at me; she wasn't meant to be for a girl showing off; wasn't meant to be obedient."
"The puppies like you, Arya; why don't you keep one or two with you, instead of spending a little time with each of them?"
"They're just... they're not me. They're not meant to be mine, to share my life; they're just... they're not Nymeria, and she's still alive, leading her own pack. These are Ghost's get. He was always quiet, and the Frozen Shores bitches who whelped them bigger than even Nymeria, but they're still too well behaved for me."
Sansa rolls her eyes, petting Jeyne, who put her enormous furry head on Sansa's belly, "Only you would think the rest of that lot were too well behaved. Eight of them got into the kitchens yesterday, running around under the baking tables until Donovar lured them out with some drippings. The kennelmaster swears they're the unruliest bunch of dogs he's ever seen... I may talk to Meera about appointing a new kennelmaster for the castle. Could you find someone?"
"I'll talk to Skamund and see who from the ice-river clans might want to, and Tormund to see about the Frozen Shores clans. That's probably a good idea, too - you won't let me go South without the troupe, so you won't have Donovar to oversee things anymore," said Arya contemplatively, scritching under Alayne's chin as the puppy whined softly.
Then the small Stark let out a sudden huff as the third puppy flounced atop Arya, driving the air out of her to shove her nose under Sansa's hand, "Beth! Get off! Jump on the Hound if you want jump on someone, you great bitch!"
Giggling, Sansa guided Beth down to lay across their feet, wiggling her toes to rub the poor lonely puppy's belly.
************************
Daenerys looked around the room deep in the First Keep at her advisors, "Grey Worm? What is the military situation here?"
"They stop attack. We defend. Now they wait, we not attack. More than two, maybe three hundred thousand. Defenses good; Unsullied can use, can fight behind. Need many spears; dragon-glass break easy," replied Grey Worm.
"Qhono?"
"Need khalasar. Good archers move fast on horse, over bridge. Need many bridge, not leave bridge behind when retreat. Kill many wight. Iron, steel, bronze no good. Arakh no good. Bows good. Need many many many dragon glass arrow. Good arrow, fly very far, straight."
"Lord Tyrion, the political situation?"
"Well, I don't think there's much chance of the North or the Vale deciding to join you, my Queen. I have heard that the Princess of Dorne is here; she attended the coronation of Queen Sansa Stark the day we arrived, though I haven't seen anyone Dornish beyond Acolyte Alleras and... his... guards. Princess Sarella Sand is said to be a ruling princess," replied Tyrion, expounding a little as he noted Daenerys watching him without speaking, "Dorne follows the Rhoynish customs; they are always ruled by a Prince or Princess, never a King or Queen, and your ancestors, my Queen, allowed them to keep those titles."
Daenerys simply continued watching him for a long moment, expression neutral.
"And Alleras is a woman," continued Tyrion, a little uncomfortable as the silence stretched longer.
"And the rest of my territories?" asked Daenerys dryly. Who her advisor had noticed was and was not a woman was not what she and her other advisors needed to hear, and would not help her, though she decided that she would at least like to meet another strong woman like the master archer she'd heard about.
"Ah, yes, of course! Dragonstone is stable, the Unsullied and Dothraki are holding it without issue. I've heard no indications of trouble from Dragon's Bay," said Tyrion quickly.
Daenerys watched him for a moment. She'd follow up with him later, in private - that answer hadn't actually been much of an answer.
"Lord Varys?"
"Lord Patrek Mallister is also present, as you know, and was at the coronation. Further, I have heard whispers that his father has offered his hand to Arya Stark. Combined with Lady Frey's close company with Queen Sansa, I believe the northern Riverlands may also be under the sway of the North. A few little birds whisper that Princess Sarella of Dorne will declare for neither you nor for Queen Sansa; Dorne will be independent. There is general support for Queen Sansa; the soldiers are loyal to the Starks - mostly to Lady Winter, as are the lords and ladies to Queen Sansa and the smallfolk to one or the other; it varies, peasant to peasant. You, my Queen, have improved your standing; the soldiers and those in the camps behind them who you protected with dragonfire are grateful, and your dedication in clearing the defenses for so long after the battle is also appreciated."
"Varys, you said the northern Riverlands. That implies only part of the Riverlands; what about the Southron Riverlands?" asked Tyrion.
"No whispers at all, I'm afraid, though I have not seen any evidence of supplies or men from Riverrun," said Varys.
"Missandei? What have you heard?"
"The people are proud to have won against the dead, my Queen. They are relieved that the wights inside the town and castle were easily destroyed, and proud not only that their own training let them destroy those wights, but also that their work digging and building was an important part of their survival, and that work is acknowledged by those who fight and those who lead. It is strange, your Grace."
"How is it strange, Missandei?" asked Queen Daenerys.
"When you came to Astapor, you burned my Master with your dragon's fire, you set the Unsullied and other slaves free. When you came to Yunkai, Grey Worm and the others opened the gates from the inside, and you set the slaves free. When you came to Meereen, you asked the slaves to rebel, and they did, and opened the city to you. Here, it is like Meereen; the people part of what is happening, and they take pride in that. They know you came to fight the dead, that you provided dragonglass, and they are grateful for that, but they do not look on you as a savior, even as they know your children burned the dead by the hundreds or thousands. While they are grateful for the dragonglass that you have given them, they are also aware that the 'better' dragonglass was bought from Essos," said Missandei.
Grey Worm took up the report, a bit disgruntled at how the people he'd been observing weren't following his Queen as he had expected, "Soldiers, they see dragon fire. They use fire, green fire, dragonglass weapons. Soldiers think dragon fire like green fire; is good weapon, but not special - soldiers also think fire good, siege engines good, arrows good, food good. My Queen not just give weapons, but also fights; soldiers approve, but only follow own leaders, who also fight. Is not like Essos, not like Masters who too scared to fight. Here no leaders scared to fight."
"Jon?" asked Daenerys softly.
"The defenses don't stop the dead, but Arya uses them to trap the wights and destroy them; even the white walkers, here and in White Harbor both. She costs the Night King more than he gains every time he attacks; even with half a million wights in the North, he's obviously scared of Arya. She's fighting the Night King, and Sansa opened up another glass garden while we were burning the dead," said Jon ruefully. His little sisters were doing the job he thought he'd have been doing.
"Excuse me, Lord Snow; what is a glass garden? I thought the formulation in your language was that the product of the garden preceded the word garden, such as a rose garden, or a fruit garden," asked Missandei.
"A glass garden is a garden enclosed in Myrish glass - you can grow plants in it all year round, even those that like it warm. We've had lemon trees from Dorne in one for longer than even Old Nan can remember, so we have lemons and other fruits that ward off the winter sickness grow even deep in the winter," answered Jon.
"Queen Sansa opened up a garden during a battle?" asked Tyrion, "The timing seems rather curious."
"Sansa's always been very concerned with the food stockpiles. We can," said Jon, pausing as he re-thought what he was going to say, given the current situation, "I always thought we could figure out what to eat after we killed the Night King. Since we're surrounded by an army that doesn't need supplies, Sansa may have had more of a point than I'd thought at the time."
"It's worse than that, I'm afraid," said Lord Varys, "Whispers are that the Green Fork and the Blue Fork rivers are both frozen solid south of Fairmarket, with large amounts of ice seen at Lord Harroway's Town. The Riverlands are no longer capable of growing crops, and likely will not be again until spring, however far off that may be. Meereen, like Highgarden, report the shortest days and coldest temperatures in any recordsthe Maesters have, though they are still easily able to grow food - the days, it seems, are still longer to the south."
Daenerys thought for a moment. Every missive from Sansa she'd received or heard about had been concerned with food and cold, with preparing to survive the winter. The winter and the far future was Sansa's concern, she thought, as all fighting was Arya's concern, and the Night King was Jon's. All of them had to be her concern; she didn't have a sister to share them with. Nor, she mused, did she have people to delegate specific concerns to. Well, that was something she could change easily enough, once she knew what concerns were most pressing. Dragons did not hesitate once they decided on a course of action.
"Lord Hand, send word to Daario immediately. Every field is to be put to use growing crops for the winter and the war; every person who wishes to work will be paid a fair wage from my treasury. Every worker who has no field to work is to create new fields to till. The Dothraki are here, with me, so there should be no danger. We will offer excess crops to our neighbors and allies at a low price, to foster goodwill."
"My Queen, that will take a long time to repay the investment, even if there are buyers for the food! Paying that many workers is very expensive," exclaimed Tyrion.
"Exactly how expensive? How much is in the treasury now? Will I need to raise taxes? How much would they need to rise? Do we have enough to not need to do so? What will happen to my people if they do not have work? How will they clothe themselves without being paid" asked Daenerys, looking steadily at Tyrion. She needed more than clever plans and attempted japes from him; she needed him to step up and perform all the duties of the Hand of the Queen. She'd start to address that right now - and both her problems had the same solution.
"I don't have those figures in front of me, your Grace," replied her Hand.
Daenerys bit back her first reaction, to snap at Tyrion for his failure to even know how much money she had, and paused for a moment before responding, just as she'd learned in her staff training; attacking angrily always led to a painful result. She felt herself able to do this more quickly than before, though she could see her advisors had noticed the pause, and kept her voice level despite the irritation from that as well, "Then it's past time to fill out the Small Council. I have a Hand. Lord Varys is Master of Whisperers. Find me suitable candidates for Master of Coin, so that they can take up some of the duties the busy schedule of Hand doesn't leave you time for. Send word to Oldtown that I require a Grand Maester, and Dragonstone, Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen all require Maesters as well."
Tyrion looked startled for just a moment at her command, then bowed his head, "Of course, your Grace, but the Citadel has never sent Maesters to foreign lands before."
"They're not foreign lands, they are my lands. I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Whether I have the North, the Vale, and Dorne or not, I do have Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen. You may inform the Citadel of that when you request the Maesters," commanded Queen Daenerys.
"Yes, Your Grace. May I respectfully remind you that the customs in Dragon's Bay are somewhat different than those here?"
"Consider me reminded; Dorne has had their own customs, have they not - I believe I've been told they allow the firstborn to inherit, regardless of sex. An enlightened custom, to be sure; I am sure all my kingdoms can manage their own customs as part of the Seven Kingdoms. As to my small council, you will provide me with a list of several candidates for each position," Daenerys said, thinking 'not just one' to herself as she continued, "with specific points in favor of and against each of them for me to consider. We'll start with Master of Coin, and proceed to the other positions after that, since that would seem to be our most pressing need."
She met each of their gazes levelly, trying to see what they were thinking. She wasn't a fool; she knew Varys and Tyrion had their own agendas. Varys claimed it was the 'realm', but he'd originally been backing her craven, cruel brother. Or so it appeared, she thought; precious little in her life had ever been as it appeared, it now seemed, so why would that? Tyrion was obviously concerned for his family. His brother who had killed her father - her evil father, the Mad King - was here, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. His sister was in the Red Keep, which Tyrion was trying his best to keep her dragons away from. Well, she'd deal with that soon. First, she needed to remind them, to make them understand one of their most important duties, so she spoke, voice intense with her earnestness and sincerity.
"Lord Varys, after we took Dragonstone, I told you that if you ever think I'm failing the people, you should look me in the eye and tell me so. I command each of you to do so! I have freed people from slavery, I intend to free those under Cersei's tyranny, and I intend to leave things better than I found them. If I am failing to do those things, if I am failing the people, you must look me in the eye and tell me how I'm failing them."
After receiving a round of solemn nods, she continued, "These glass gardens; will we need them if the Long Night continues? Arya told me that during the first Long Night, rivers froze as far south as Highgarden, well into the Reach. I will not have my people starve to death in the winter! We're already short on food, and the cargo ships had to take the long way around to avoid Euron's fleet."
Starting to think, Tyrion answered slowly, "The glass gardens here trap the heat from the hot springs and from the sun. The days are growing shorter, so it is safe to assume that we can only depend on the hot springs. There aren't enough hot springs in the world to feed all the people, even with plants that can grow without much sun - plants that normally grow well in shade, like mint and rhubarb, or even lettuce, spinach, broccoli, carrots, potatoes, peas, some kinds of beans, and so on. None of those grow in frozen soil with frost on their leaves."
Daenerys thought; she had never heard of hot springs in Dragon's Bay, though it was far to the south... but they were still only three cities, and her flights across Westeros had showed her it was a vast land; she needed to feed all her people, in Essos and Westeros both. Dorne would probably be an important source of food as well; she'd have to find this Princess Sarella and speak with her. What else could she do? She had two children left, but they couldn't just breathe fire and grow enough food to feed even themselves. She was of the blood of Old Valyria, but their magics were lost to... wait. Not all the magic was gone.
"Old Valyria still burns, does it not, Lord Tyrion?" asked Daenerys Targaryen, heir to Old Valyria.
"Yes, it does, your Grace. The Fourteen Fires scorch the air and boil the water for... I see. You want to start farming in Old Valyria? Build glass gardens there... too close and they burn, too far away and you have to bring the heat in," mused Tyrion, leaning his head back on the stone wall, feeling how it wasn't as cold as it should be, and snapped his eyes open widely, "You can pipe the heat in! Pipe the boiling water through the glass gardens, and out again. Even if water from the Fires is poisonous, which it might be, if the pipes are closed, it doesn't matter! Other pipes can bring in fresh water for the crops. We'll have to find a way to deal with the stone men, but they can't be harder to deal with than the wights; expeditions to loot Valyria are common enough."
Daenerys smiles, "Very good, Lord Hand. I leave this project in your capable hands. See to it that it proceeds quickly."
"Yes, my Queen; I'll contact a Myrish glassblower at once. I'm sure I can find a friendly one at a tavern."
"Anything else for the war or the Long Night?" asked Daenerys, then continued at the lack of response, "What of Dragon's Bay?"
"I have only a few whispers, though if we remain here for a time I will have more for you. Daario has executed several Masters after the Sons of the Harpy reappeared several weeks ago, though Meereen is stable now. The councils in Astapor and Yunkai were experiencing rather more difficulty, but the news of the army of the dead, and of your fighting them, has been something of a stabilizing influence," replied Varys.
"The Sons of the Harpy need to be stopped. Lord Varys, find out who is behind it, why they're behind it, and what else they might want," said Daenerys, thinking back to the fitting and the points Arya and Sansa had made to her; she felt her anger at how they'd done that rise, then fall as she pushed it down and started thinking more carefully, "We'll meet again tomorrow on this; I want specific options from each of you. What else is happening in the world, Lord Varys?"
"Queen Yara is sailing for Essos as you requested. The wights that were shipped out as evidence are causing quite a lot of concern; in concert with the ravens that have already been sent and their observations of the Long Night, more kingdoms and Free Cities are making preparations, including Dragon's Bay. I will send a raven at once to inform them of your orders, naturally."
Daenerys nodded, "What else?"
"Your Grace, this came for you," said Missandei, handing her Queen an envelope of thick, fine parchment; the sigil of House Stark plain on the unbroken wax seal.
Daenerys cracked the seal and opened it, withdrawing another fine parchment covered in elegant calligraphy, inviting Queen Daenerys and one advisor to a meeting of the leaders of the North, the Vale, Dorne, the Twins, and Seagard; the Iron Bank representative was also listed as being present, as was Arya Stark by name. The purpose, it was written, was to discuss the war against the dead and the Long Night both.
"It appears I and an advisor have been invited to a meeting of the leaders of Westeros. I intend to make sure this one will be more profitable than the meeting with Cersei. Missandei, you are both intelligent and are not a political liability, so it is you who will accompany me," said the Queen sternly, looking at her Hand and Lord Varys before they could speak. They were on notice for their many failures, she needed unbiased advice badly... and her excuse was also true. Lord Varys was an incredible liability, here, looked down on blatantly by all. Tyrion was looked down on as a kinslayer as well as a Lannister and a dwarf, though that disdain was at least somewhat more hidden.
"Cersei is next, then. I am ending the siege immediately," continued Daenerys.
"Your Grace, we've been over this. You don't want to be Queen of the Ashes," said Lord Tyrion, soothingly.
"And I will not be," snapped the Queen, "Nor will I wait for a siege to starve the very people we just spoke of feeding. Send word to Dragonstone immediately; shipments of food and warm clothing are to be allowed to pass into King's Landing untouched, but no luxuries. No silks, no good wines, nothing for Cersei and her Lords and Ladies to enjoy, but the smallfolk should not suffer for the trespasses of those above them."
Daenerys suppressed a smirk as Varys cut off Tyrion before her Hand could quite begin to speak again. Tyrion wouldn't like this, but he knew what he was signing up for when he agrees to advise her.
"Your Grace, I take it you have a new plan?" asked Lord Varys with apparent interest.
"I do. I will not burn the city. I will not burn even the Red Keep with all its servants and prisoners. I have instead hired a professional; Cersei will be handled properly," replied Daenerys. She'd had the time during her training with Arya to bring up the contract she had been, she now knew, tricked into signing. Her arms teacher, it seemed, approved of her having a cool conversation while training, though she took a hard hit every time she showed a hint of temper. Harsh training, but she could feel she was the better for it; she would not be an uncontrolled berserker on the battlefield or on the throne. She wondered if her brother could have been a different person with training like that; if he'd been destined for madness, or if it could have been avoided. If she could have had a loving family.
As for the contract, tricked or not, she had signed it. Jon's sister had been quick to correct her; she had not hired the House of Black and White, not hired the Faceless Men, so the kill was not truly certain, not guaranteed by the young Stark's god of death... and yet she was quite certain that Cersei would never survive who came for her. Equally, she was certain that while the North and the Vale were lost to her, they had no designs on the Crownlands, the Reach, the Westerlands, and so on. The Riverlands... those were yet to be decided, she thought.
"Mercenaries?" asked Tyrion, "There are a few very good ones, like Bronn, who might be able to do it, but he wouldn't be able to get in, not after my sister closed the Red Keep off entirely. She wouldn't have forgotten about the tunnels."
"No, I hired Jon's sister, Arya Stark," said Daenerys, then smiled narrowly, "I hired a woman with the skills of a Faceless Man. I am quite sure she is capable of something less destructive than burning the Red Keep to the ground, given that she removed the Freys without hurting innocents... and yet Cersei herself will die. That much is certain."
"Your Grace, while I applaud finding a solution that will not harm the people, are you fully aware of the cost of hiring a Faceless Man?" asked Lord Varys carefully, disgust edging into his tone at the end.
************************
Qhono looked out from atop the wall at the walled town before him, the camps alight in the setting sun past the wall, defenders sitting in ordered ranks on the ramparts beyond, resting and eating after they'd practiced, and the dead far beyond that, cut in half by the line of shade and light. Insulting the Night King, those city soldiers were, showing neither fear nor respect for the army outside their gates; the largest army in the world, the enemy had, and this was only one in two. Two days had come and gone since the attacks, and the city dwellers here had sent a force out to the edge of the ditch inside the farthest ditch, and then showed the enemy exactly how they would defeat them, as if it would make no difference.
Strange, it was, to be on this side, atop thick city walls, behind trenches and other armies. It was not the Dothraki way, to hide like this, to cower behind trenches in the dirt rather than the glory of a pure attack, breaking their enemies before them, slaughtering and taking as they wished. The enemy, however, would not break; he had seen that. It could be forced back, but only just out of range of those monster arrows from the giant machines, and no more.
These city dwellers, too, did not break. It is known that city dwellers when faced with a great horde would cower behind their high walls, and that was true. But these would stop behind their walls and ditches and cower no farther, grant no glorious fights... and force back a force larger and more frightening than any khalasar could ever hope to be. When they sent their forces out to the ditch, they moved many different kinds of fighters together.
A Khalasar had those who liked the arakh and those who liked the bow, and while they rode all together, each fought on their own, proved their own strength to all who could see. It is known that the man who broke the enemy first should be followed, and a strong khalasar would break the enemy in many places; that was how a man could prove to the warriors he was worthy of challenging the Khal for leadership of the khalasar! How else to prove strength, but in battle?
That, he knew now, was a question the Dothraki would have to answer. These strange people in this land of frozen water had food for years in their stone houses. He had seen them cook and fight; he had heard the tones of their voices. They would not buy off a khalasar. They would retreat to their stone houses, like those near the Great Grass Sea would retreat to their cities. Back home, a khalasar would be able to ride around the city they'd chosen, burn the villages and fields, kill the farmers outside the tall walls and take their women and children as slaves. No city could allow that to happen, and so they would either ride out and fight the Dothraki atop the grasslands, or they would pay tribute, for they could not stay forever inside their walls.
Here, he thought they could. They could stay inside their ditches and their walls, eating their plain soup and bitter bread, drinking from the spring their stone house was on top of, and sing songs as they looked out at a khalasar freezing to death, waiting for the city to fall. And, he thought, if they did come out to fight, they would move far faster on the snow than his people - the trip here had been faster than he'd ever gone, the dogs faster than the best horses, day after day. And both dogs and horses pulled those giant bows, bows that shot not just arrows, but also fire. Spearmen like the Unsullied in front, longer spears behind like the spears of some other armies who had fought off hordes, bows behind that, giant bows behind that.
A large group like that could fight any khalasar even without tall walls or big ditches. In the snow, the khalasar couldn't outpace them, couldn't attack and kill and plunder where they liked. And the dead... the dead didn't stop. He'd stabbed one himself with his arakh, seen it keep attacking back at. He'd thought about that a lot, seeing the vast army before him; they could simply grab onto a horse and hold on, and that would let the rest of them easily kill any warrior who charged into them without a metal suit.
Even with the black stone weapons, they needed to change. Now he knew why they had been commanded to bring only archers and Unsullied. The Khaleesi had forbidden them to take slaves and to rape and pillage as they had before; truly, she was a good leader to have foreseen that the ways of their fathers had come to and end before the Dothraki, too, came to an end. Now, they needed to find a new path.
He had seen the little girl called a 'First Sword' show them the new way to fight... he could not use that new way if she could not actually fight. He could not command the khalasar to fight like city people unless the city people were strong! The only way to prove that was through battle - not the battle of the horde, but a man to... warrior... challenge.
"Must fight like them," said Qhono, "Not like did."
"Yes," said Grey Worm, also looking out at the enemy, and at his Queen's allies.
"Men not want fight like them."
"Unsullied follow our Queen's orders."
Qhono scoffed, "You not true warriors! No glory, no show strength! But you fight good. We fight good. Must learn fight same."
"Fight together," replied Grey Worm, "Dothraki and Unsullied. Unsullied in front."
"Khalasar archers behind. Horses move archers fast; always behind. Ride at enemy strength."
"Yes."
"Train morning? You, me. Khalasar, Unsullied here few days," said the blood-rider.
"Yes," replied Grey Worm with a nod, continuing as he saw the commander of the horse cavalry turn towards the steps, "Why you go?"
Qhono reached up to touch the bedraggled purple feather braided in his long hair, then ran his hand down his hair. He was proud of his long hair, proof of his many victories. He could keep it long, he knew - could stay as he was. That First Sword girl was a pretty one, with a tight, strong body. He'd seen women that looked like her before - had the Great Stallion lead them down a different trail, he might have taken her as a slave, broken her, seeded her and had her bear strong sons for him. Breaking a woman like her was as much fun as breaking a great stallion to ride, but it was not to be.
He would do as he must for his people; they must know that these strange new ways came from strength, not from cowardice and weakness. They knew his strength. They knew the strength of the Khaleesi's dragons. They must also know that he followed strength, that the leaders of these strange new ways were strong enough to be worthy to challenge, to fight with, to fight like.
The blood-rider strode quickly towards the First Keep. He would first wash his hair, and then go to the city with the short walls. He would challenge the First Sword, and if the Great Stallion was with him, if he was strong enough, he would emerge with long hair, much glory, and many questions on what trail to follow next. If the Great Stallion was not with him, he would need to ask the dwarf for more coin for another purple feather, and then he would force all who challenged him to cut their own hair when he defeated them in single combat, thus proving his strength forcing them to change their ways! The Khaleesi tried, she did, but it was up to him and her other true blood-riders to ensure the Dothraki would have the strength to survive in this strange new world... even if there weren't quite the Dothraki their ancestors were.
************************
"Are ye sure it's here?"
"Aye, you dumb cunt. We got the right tree, the right stream, the right boulder, all like that raven from Lady Winter said. I've checked it three times. Just keep digging. That's what you're being paid to do, and paid well!"
"We's five foot down like it 'ay an still nothin!"
"Keep diggin' I say! We's bein paid to find it and bring it back."
"Wait! Wait! Look 'ere! We's found 'omethin'!"
"Watch ye'self! Not so 'ast!"
"Aye, aye! Gots it! Lemme wipe 'er off... ooohhh, lookit' 'at! 'Eautiful, it is. Cost a fortune, if'n we sells it."
"Oh? And you think those lords and ladies with enough coin to buy a Valyrian steel longsword like Vigilance kept all that gold by being honest, upright, fair dealing folk?"
"We kin hides it, makes 'em 'ay 'first!"
"And exactly what do you think Lady Winter will do? There's no place in the North, or the South, the East, or the West that the Three-Eyed Raven couldn't find you - by the gods, man, we got a gods be damned map to a damn buried sword that's been lost for hundreds of years! And after he finds you, there's nowhere in Westeros or Essos you could flee to and live long enough to find a buyer, much less spend the coin even if you could magically survive selling it. You'd die, and die slow when Lady Winter finds you. Gods, man, if you're going to betray someone, at least pick an easier pair of cunts than a Faceless Man and the Three-Eyed Raven! Maybe spit in Euron Greyjoy's eye and steal the crown from Cersei Lannister's head at the same damn time! No, this is going straight to Winterfell, and we're going to be well paid and live to enjoy it."
"Ya... I guess ye's gots a 'oint. Ain't no 'ood 'omes from 'ucking with magic 'uckers. 'et's go!"
"Not quite yet. First you need to fill that hole in again and hide that it was disturbed; we're being paid for that, too."
"Gods 'amnit."
************************
"Esinasolat!" called Ser Jorah, as he had every few minutes for days, and watched as the ambling column started rapidly catching up while first one, then another of the Dothraki in the lead fell back into a single file walk, the next group kicking into a canter to replace those breaking the way through the snow at a quick amble, packing the snow down for the long column while the outriders of Northern and Vale cavalry rode easily atop the snow on their snowshoes; some wildling invention, like the scorpion sleds that were there to kill dragons.
Oh, they talked about wight dragons, but he knew the truth; they'd been built to kill his Khaleesi's dragons, and it didn't matter to them whether those dragons were wights or not. Still, his Queen had commanded, and he would obey. She had listened to him and the little man, too, and at least gone to Winterfell as quickly as she could and still have some protection against the Night King and the wight dragon. She had Grey Worm and Qhono with her, at least; they'd protect her on the ground if it came to it, but she'd never faced a dragon in the air; no one had for hundreds of years, and he worried for her when that happened.
He guided his horse into the snow to his right, shoving into it and carving himself and his horse a small niche so the small khalasar could pass him in the narrow trench the horses were packing. Many horses were carrying both a Dothraki and an Unsullied; they rotated between that and riding on sleds. The Unsullied had tried insisting they could just run, but they didn't know the cold, didn't know what would happen when they stopped, soaked in sweat from running through snow. He'd grown up on Bear Island, seen many winters, and he'd still never seen so much snow, felt such cold before. And now here he was, commanding the summer forces his Khaleesi had brought to fight the dead. The Night King and the dead, stories told to frighten children, he'd thought!
That, he could doubt no longer; they'd slaughtered two separate small groups of wights already and avoided four more, each led by a White Walker. None had been too large, but the threat was real; they had to keep moving and make Winterfell before they were swarmed by the full force of the dead. The caravan's wargs had directed them with skill, though they were limited by the speed of the horses and herds they were traveling with. Mounts for men, mounts with full saddlebags, sheep and goats to feed men and dragons, mounts pulling sleds provided by White Harbor, in addition to all those being pulled by the rest of the caravan, up on their snowshoes.
Mounts ridden by idiot horselords who felt they were the best riders in the world. Mounts ridden by men who thought snow was no different than sand, and who had decided to take the 'short way', right over a hidden crevasse under the unbroken topsnow, and who were now floundering in a hole five and ten feet deep.
"Fichat fiez!" he called out, riding forward as the Dothraki fetched ropes. There were no trees on this stretch of the journey, and he could see no rocks, so he'd need to beg help from the outriders.
Again.
************************
Last edited:
- Location
- United States, CA
Edmure, what are you doing?
Last edited:
Edmure Tully: Cooling his heels in the cells of his own ancestral castle since S6E8.
Jamie wasn't about to give Edmure back to the Freys and Cersei doesn't really like the whole idea of 'giving', so in this fic, Lannister forces were still around and controlling Riverrun at the time the Freys were annihilated, and they'd kept hold of Edmure.
That makes sense to me - Riverrun can be nominally under Walder Frey's control even as it's actually under Lannister control. Walder felt mocked again when he heard about that.
Thank you for the reply - I very much appreciate all replies, particularly those that highlight a favorite part or one that needs work - they help motivate me and improve this work.
- Location
- United States, CA
Innnnnteresting. Did you say that already in the story? Because I was really confused until you explained that bit.
Nope, sorry! Edmure and his immediate family has been a 100% nonentity so far, so it wasn't mentioned until now. Pretty much like in the show, really, which is where I'm drawing him from - this is show-Edmure, not book-Edmure. Show-Edmure can't really catch a break, at least not yet.
Now, if and when Dany does take the Iron Throne, she's going to need a Small Council, and she's going to need Lords Paramount, and she's going to need to keep good relations with her neighbors, so he might have a bigger role then.
However, if Edmure were free and still alive (as opposed to his in-story status of alive but captive), he would most likely have been doing one of two things:
1) Hiding out in Winterfell with his nieces.
2) Fighting against the Lannisters in the Riverlands.
I like how Dany's maturing into her role as Queen. It's also nice to see the 'newcomers' who joined her for power not for her a little dumbfounded.
I can't help but think in the future, this war (or Arya) will be known as the Queen Maker. Four of the worlds greatest Queens will rise, one will fall. Also, Poor historian to have to figure out Arya Stark, No One, Lady Winter, and Underfoot were all one person.
I can't help but think in the future, this war (or Arya) will be known as the Queen Maker. Four of the worlds greatest Queens will rise, one will fall. Also, Poor historian to have to figure out Arya Stark, No One, Lady Winter, and Underfoot were all one person.