The Battle of King's Landing 302 AC,
Ned Stark.
Daemon had come to him and Benjen and asked them to lead the forces inside the wall, but it was not something that either of them could agree to. No matter how they lined up, there would be men and women of the North outside the walls of King's Landing and they needed to be led by a Stark. That had been the way of things for nigh on eight thousand years and neither he nor his brother would be the first Starks in history not to do as their ancestors before them had.
So Daemon had then offered a compromise, asking for one of them to lead those outside the walls and the other to lead those inside. Again it was something that neither he nor Benjen could agree to. They'd lost too much family when it came to wars in Westeros. No matter that it was only in the lead-up, the instigating event, or the aftermath of a war in which their brother, father, and sister had lost their lives, it was war that truly claimed them. Should it dare to do so again then it would need to take them both, each of them had declared to the other and Daemon, despite his worries, had reluctantly agreed.
Ned could understand it. He knew what drove Daemon in his decision-making regarding the setup of their defenses. In the Red Keep, all those who shared blood with his nephew were kept as far from the fighting as possible. Daemon had even forgone the protection of the Kingsguard and left men of the caliber of Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy behind. All to see his family protected as best he was able. It had made Ned and Benjen consider doing the same to their sons, yet they could not. Robb and Torrhen were almost men grown and around them, the other heirs and second sons of the North stood ready to fight. For his son and nephew not to be seen to do so would be to shame them both. Yet still he had considered it and almost brought it up.
" Aye, I'd do it if I thought my son would ever forgive me for it, Ned. I'd risk him not speaking to me again if I knew it would buy him the years to know a wife and a family of his own."
" Is that not what Daemon is doing with his wife and family?"
" In a way, aye. Yet I wager were our nephew to speak true, he'd say that should we fall here today then it matters not where our family is, Ned. We win or we die, he's said it without saying it, has he not?"
" Aye." Ned nodded.
" So best we win then and let the boys play their part in that victory."
It was a victory that Ned had been confident about right up to a few moments ago. Never before had he seen an army of the likes that assembled at King's Landing. Nor one of the size and makeup of that army. The West, Reach, Riverlands, Vale, Crownlands, and the North had all come together to face a threat made up of men from Dorne and those from Essos. Evenly matched though they were, their side had a dragon to call upon and Daemon had powers that Ned understood not. So not even when another dragon appeared did Ned's faith falter.
Looking on as the battle around them was waged was a hard thing to do, but until they had played their part, the Northern Army could not offer aid or assistance to those of the Reach and the West. So they'd watched as the former of those fought in a battle that had shown no clear winner. The latter had then finished the breaking of the Golden Company that Daemon and his dragon had begun. They'd then readied themselves as their attackers moved towards them, only for Daemon's plans to be revealed as good and true.
"By the Old Gods, I'd not have believed it had I not seen it for meself." The Greatjon bellowed in his unique style. Jon Umber's talking voice when he was happy or drunk always took on the timbre of a man shouting. Though the true strength in the man's voice was when he roared in anger and it was a sound that few of those he'd been angered at ever forgot.
"We serve our god's chosen." a dark-haired man with what looked to be a green marking on his face said as he and the men who'd marched with him turned their cloaks on the men who believed they'd led them.
"And most pleased we are that you do," Benjen called out happily.
It left but a couple of thousand men at most amongst the force that had set out to face them. Turned what would be a true fight into a rout as those poor fools continued their march and fought them regardless. Ned almost admired their bravery and would have, had it not been that their folly cost a few Northmen their lives. That alone led to no quarter being offered and no surrenders accepted. Not that any of those men threw down their swords and sought to live to fight another day.
With the famed Tiger Cloaks now on their side and the few men who'd remained loyal to their enemy, finally dealt with, Ned looked to the battlefield and readied to send aid to their allies. He was just about to decide to send some of the Northern Army to where the Reach were still fighting against the men of Dorne when the air began to chill. A cold coming over them that was unlike any they'd faced before.
"What is this fell magic!" a voice called out from somewhere down the line and Ned may have tried to offer up an answer were it not for what he now bore witness to.
All around a field that had been bathed in darkness, dead men began to rise. Ned had heard some of the stories that the red priest who his nephew was closest to had told them all. Thoros of Myr informed each of the Lords and Ladies of the North that it was the dead who would be the true threat. In the Battle Beyond the Wall and the one fought in Essos, this had been who Daemon had truly needed to defeat.
" Blue Eyes my prince and I closed beyond the Wall and together with Daemon's brother by choice, we did the same to red ones in Essos. Here, in the days to come, it will be White Eyes we face and once again the dead will march."
" Can the king and his dragon not…"
" They will, and yet not even my prince and his mount can be everywhere they're needed to be. So prepare yourselves and hold to your faith as my prince and I hold to our own."
Ned couldn't see if the eyes of the dead that now arose in front of them were white. The darkness that had come upon them before the battle had even begun allowed for it not. There may have been torches, arrows that had been aflame, and fires that still burned in the distance but they illuminated only the sight of dead men rising. Dead men who now formed into what looked to be ill-fitting ranks and as one began to charge towards them.
"Spears! Dragonglass at the ready!
"Fire Arrows!"
"Nock!"
"Aim!
"Loose!"
The commands went up around them and though Ned and Benjen had shouted some of those commands, he'd not even remembered doing so. Instinct and the desire to return to his family had taken over. Muscle memory and the experience of fighting in more than one war would soon add to it. Ice was raised and though it was an unwieldy weapon to bring to bear, it was the best one for the job according to his nephew and Thoros of Myr.
" Dragonglass, Dragonsteel, and Dragonflames. They are our best weapons and so I'll arm you all with the first of those things and ask any of you who have the second to bring them with you." his nephew looked around the room at the war council that had been assembled. "As for the last, well that's Lyanax and mine own domain."
Thoughts of his nephew's words had Ned searching the sky. The Black Dragon had only been seen when she'd released her flames or when Daemon's swords had been alight. Now, she was nowhere to be found and that should worry him greatly. Ned had seen what his nephew had done, however. How he'd led the other dragon far from the field and done so more than once, returning each time to wreak havoc on the army of their enemies. He had no doubt he'd return soon enough and do the same, nor that they'd have much need of him to do so.
The Tiger Cloaks formed up, their line impressive and more regimented than the Northern Army's own. Ned looked to his brother, to his sons, and to those who'd come when he'd called. Pride and worry were equal in his mind as he turned his attention to the dead men who now raced their way.
"For the North and King Daemon!" Ned shouted.
"The North!"
"King Daemon!
Then as the dead crashed into their lines, Ned found himself almost chuckling at the oddest thought he ever remembered having.
' Men with white eyes look more like feeble-minded fools than a force to be feared.'
Sandor Clegane.
The storm had moved across the field in a manner that called it unnatural. Both that it seemed to be localized and that it moved so swiftly offered up naught but confusion and mayhap it was that which meant that Sandor was not there to see his brother fall or Tywin Lannister meet his end. Both of which were things he'd never imagined he'd ever feel any sadness or anger over when they eventually came to pass. Yet anger was among the many emotions that Sandor had gone through in the last few moments.
' At least it allows me to worry not about the fear I feel.' he thought as he cut down another dead thing before stabbing it through its eye with a black dagger made of stone.
They had been winning. No, that wasn't exactly true, they had won. The dragon had taken the elephants from the world and their cavalry had done the same for the Golden Company. Sandor, like many of the other men who lived and breathed for a good and true fight, had waited to be ordered to save the Reachmen's arses, only for a storm to rob them of his brother and their liege lord.
Tywin's death had then caused a panic and loss of cohesion amongst their men. Kevan Lannister had almost been broken by the loss of his brother and while Sandor could never be by the loss of his own, it had brought him feelings he'd not expected. It brought him questions that he received no answers to, as well as a desire for vengeance that he'd only ever felt when it came to his own against Gregor. So Sandor had sought to avenge his brother's death and he would revel in that death a different day.
The man, thing, or monster that had taken both Gregor and Tywin from the world had long since left them, however. Words were spoken of how it was a creature of ice that had done for them both. While others named a blue-haired man as Gregor's killer and Tywin Lannister's too. Sandor was confused greatly by the different stories and while they'd won their battle, the war was still in the balance.
"Even more so now," he muttered as another dead thing with eyes as white as snow found itself hacked apart by Sandor's Greatsword and then ended for true with the black stone knife he'd been handed just hours earlier.
The rising of dead men had not been seen by Sandor or by many others in the Army of the West. Darkness had allowed for it not. So when the first of those dead men attacked them, they were faced as if they were simply men and not creatures that befouled the very ground they moved across. That and the lack of a commander to form their army up and order their counterattack had cost far too many lives. Even Sandor's own had come close to ending. Which he would never allow come to pass.
' I'll live for at least one more day than that fucker I shared blood with, on that I vow.' Sandor said to himself.
Had it not been for Ser Addam Marbrand, it would have been a vow that he'd already have broken. The Burning Tree had lived up to his name somewhat, coming to Sandor's aid with a flaming torch which he used to set alight the dead man that Sandor had believed he'd killed for true. That and the words spoken loudly before Ser Addam had left to offer aid to others were what guided Sandor's hands as yet another dead thing with white eyes fell to his sword and then his knife.
" They rise again, Clegane! Steel alone is not enough for them. Fire, Valyrian Steel, that knife on your hip or a weapon made of the same material and the dragon, wherever she be. Naught else kills them for true and they fucking rise again if they're not." Ser Addam's words, his waving of the torch, which had Sandor move back a step or two. Followed by the sight of a dead thing doing just as Ser Addam had said, all had shown Sandor the way.
As he fought them, Sandor repeated those words to others. Should he have the time to do so, he showed them before moving on. Some listened and yet that was not enough to stop them from being overwhelmed and Sandor had looked on in shock as they too rose and began to attack men they had named allies mere moments earlier. It brought an uncomfortable thought to his mind and changed his direction of travel. Where once he was heading out and moving out to the field to fight against these dead things, now he turned and moved through their own ranks to do so.
Along the way, Sandor saved some and watched others die before even more rose. He saw men aflame and it sent a shiver down his spine as even as they burned, they tried to attack still. Sandor bore witness to groups of men being led by others who had been tasked with seeing that those who fell did not rise once more. Flame and Dragonglass were being brought to bear and despite the situation, it made him laugh. His hand moved to the black knife he'd been given before the battle and Sandor now naming it as it was instead of stone as he'd been calling it up to then. Not that it made any difference to its effectiveness or that knowing its name brought him comfort or joy, still, it was an amusing thing to him and gods knew he could do with being amused this day.
Sandor saw it when Ser Addam Marbrand fell. He was too far from the fight to save the man who'd saved him and all he could offer him was the dignity of not rising again.
"Send your flaming arrows there! He shouted and be it that Sandor was a large imposing figure of a man, fear of what he'd do to them if they did not, or simply that the archers knew the truth of what they faced, the arrows flew true.
Continuing on his way, Sandor heard the screams long before he saw the source of them. Different than those he'd heard thus far and not sounding like the simple death cries of men who'd fallen, Sandor knew their source though he could see it not. Running, quickly but not fast, Sandor came across a scene from the seven hells themselves. Men weren't just being killed, they were being obliterated. A monstrous figure was all but tearing them apart limb by limb.
"Hello, Brother!" Sandor shouted as Gregor went about his deadly work.
In one way, his brother helped him in the fight that they were soon engaged in. The monster that Gregor Clegane had always been had carried over into death it seemed. So rather than simply end men and add more to the army that they faced, Gregor rendered those men useless in both life and death. Arms, legs, heads, and torsos were strewn around his brother and it meant that the fight that Sandor had always known would one day be fought, was the one he would have wished for. Other than the fact that Gregor was already dead and his eyes were white that was.
"For the Fire!" Sandor shouted as two Greatswords crashed together.
When it came to strength, Gregor always had the edge. Sandor beat him in speed and skill, however. Had this simply been a fight between them with both of them unmarked, unharmed, and ready for that fight, then Sandor would have needed to find a way past his brother's heavy plate armor. Someone had done so for him, however. So Sandor aimed his attacks at the gaps that were now there, all the while trying to avoid both his brother's sword and Gregor's outstretched and grasping arm.
He tired, Gregor did not. Sandor took wounds that bled, his brother's never did. Not one man be that dead or living came their way. The two of them were given the freedom of the battlefield or so it seemed. A moment passed, two, five, ten, they fought for close to an hour, and other than some blood loss from Sandor that was now becoming an issue, and his tiredness which was even more of one, the fight simply ebbed and flowed.
At no point did Sandor have the upper hand long enough to truly end his brother and send him to the seven hells where he belonged. Nor, despite feeling no pain or fatigue, did Gregor have the chance to make them as much brothers in death as they had been in life. Something that fuelled Sandor even more during the fight if he was being honest with himself. The thought of fighting alongside his brother had been a hard enough one to accept when both lived, it would not be one that he'd relish if both were dead.
"No, Today is your day to die, not mine own!"
The kick caught him by surprise. Sandor felt a rib break and lucky that was all, as he flew threw the air and crashed into the ground. Faster than should be possible, his brother was upon him. Feet and Gregor's sword both tried their best to end Sandor as he rolled on the ground and spat out the blood from his mouth. His roll took him close to a fire that burned and though he feared it greatly, Sandor grabbed what looked to be a broken piece of wood from a cart and thrust it into the fire. Before then rising to his feet to avoid another blow from his brother.
A roar rang out and the black dragon flew low over their heads. Sandor looked on stunned as Gregor seemed to try and grab the dragon or the man atop its back. His brother's focus on the dragon allowed him to grab the now burning piece of wood and when Gregor turned back it was the fire that he was met with.
"Take that, cunt!" Sandor shouted as he thrust the wood between the gap of his brother's visor.
There were no screams and the burning piece of wood itself was not enough to end his brother. The fire only blinded Gregor momentarily and never quite took hold. It did allow the Dragonglass knife to be shoved into a gap of Gregor's armor and the sound of his brother's fall rang out loudly amidst the silence of their solitary battle. One strike ended the Mountain that Rides and it was not even in a place that was it a true blade, and not one made from some volcanic rock, would have done so. Yet seeing his brother immobile was not enough to make up for all that Gregor had done to him and cost him over the years.
Behind him, a battle still raged on with no clear victor decided as of yet. Sandor would soon rejoin that battle and he may not have the time for what he was about to do, but do it he would. It took him some time to roll his brother to the fire. More to find some pitch so that the fire truly took hold, and even more to remove the armor that his brother wore. Then, just as Gregor had done to him many years earlier, Sandor pushed his brother's face to the fire and smelt flesh burn truly once again.
He moved away when the fire fully caught. Stood silently as Gregor burned and only once he was all but gone from this world, did Sandor walk away. His survival was not yet guaranteed. Victory was far from certain and the vow he'd made, may still not be one he'd be able to live to see true. It stopped not the smile he wore on his face as the sounds of battle reached his ears once more, nor the calm and peace that his heart finally knew.
Ser Garlan Tyrell.
He'd seen House Tarly's end. First Dickon and then Randyll falling to the Dornish. The latter to Prince Oberyn's spear. A part of him had wished to go and face the Red Viper himself. To finally find out if all the years of training had made him into the warrior that he'd always longed to be. He could not. Nor would he allow Loras to do so. Not out of fear or cowardice, but the Reach needed to be led by capable men and they had few left.
Mathis Rowan had died and while Garlan's father was ostensibly the Warden of the South and in command of their army, few if any listened to him. Instead, it was Tarly, Rowan, Ashford, and Hightower that most men took their orders from. He and Loras too, given who they were and their martial prowess. With all of the major Houses having suffered the losses of their lords, and his grandfather's House having lost two sons, his uncles, it fell to him and Loras to keep the men in line and fight the good fight.
So, Garlan had let others try their blades against the Red Viper. He'd stayed where he was and commanded the men both with his words and his actions. In this, he'd been helped greatly by his brother. Yet he'd not lie and say that had it not been for the arrival of the men from the Fiery Hand, the Red Priestess, and the Red Priest their king was so close to, it would be a much harder challenge than he'd thus far faced. Or that he and Loras may not have broken and lost their nerve when the dead began to rise and attack them.
" How?"
" Surely this is…"
" What are we to do…."
" Dragonglass and fire. Use both and send these fell things back to their false god." Melisandre of Asshai called out.
" Fight with us! For your king! Your homes! And your families! Fight with us and together we shall see the light once more!" Thoros of Myr called out and when he and Loras added their voices to theirs, the Reach rallied.
The fight they faced was like none that he'd ever imagined. Before the dead arose, Garlan had named the battle even. Now it was anything but. They had lost many men facing the Dornish Army and had taken just as many in return. Now all those men rose once more and moved though they should not be able to. Each of them turned their white eyes towards them and soon enough Garlan was facing off against men wearing the color of Dornish Houses along with those who wore the colors of the Reach.
He believed he saw Loras take what seemed to be his uncle from the world. Baelor had fallen to someone or another and had risen once more. Garlan was happy that only he and Loras would be there to see it, as even his father was further back and none of them were there when his other uncle had fallen too. Had his grandfather been fit and able to lead this army, then the sight of his sons falling and rising again would no doubt have broken him. The news of their falls alone may be enough to do that, so Garlan was thankful his grandfather was spared this much at least.
In his hand, he wielded a sword that he was rightly proud of. Never had it let him down and though he'd faced men better than he and lost with it in his hands, he'd change it for nothing. Now, against the dead, however, it may as well have been a sparring sword he wielded. Still, Garlan found a way and used his sword to hack off limbs. Then he used the Dragonglass dagger he wielded in his other hand, to end those he faced for true. Down the line, he knew that Loras was doing likewise. As for the Fiery Hand, they set men ablaze with ease. Their fire-tipped weapons were seemingly able to set anything they came into contact with alight.
Next to those men, red priests and priestesses seemed to send balls of fire into groups of dead men. Garlan knew not how they did so and truly it mattered not. Fire was their true friend this day and while he and the men cut down one dead man after another, the balls of fire took tens of them from the world at once. Thoros of Myr took even more than that. His flaming sword burned like a beacon and any who came close to it felt naught but its fiery kiss. Garlan had faced the man more than once since that ill-fated day when he and Loras had joined in with Hardyng and the others in the tourney. He'd even managed to beat him more than once. Today, he knew he'd not even come close enough to make the man break a sweat and that comforted him greatly.
Though not as much as the sight of the dragon's flames off in the distance did.
The cheers rose when Lyanax reappeared. Dead men burned by the hundreds and thousands or so it seemed from where Garlan stood. Then a storm appeared and the dragon and it were soon far from their sight. A worried look on Thoros' face that Garlan was among the few to notice. Those worries shaken off far more quickly than Garlan's own as the Red Priest threw himself back into the fighting.
What it was that told him his brother needed his help, he knew not. A feeling came over him and Garlan, despite knowing he was needed where he was, left his position and raced through the lines of men and the dead they faced. It was his father's body he came across first. Tears in his eyes as he stabbed the Dragonglass dagger down and at least saved himself the sight of seeing his father rise as one of the fell creatures that had taken his life.
"I will mourn you when I can, father."
There was no time for that mourning to begin. The feeling of Loras being in danger had only grown and now he knew that should he be late, his brother would fall. In the end, he arrived early enough to have a chance to stop that from happening. Whether or not he could, however, was a different matter altogether. Loras was doing all he could to fend off an attack from the Red Viper and his brother was clearly losing the fight. Garlan's arrival tipped the odds in their favor, or so he hoped.
"Another Rose to see wilt." Oberyn snarled.
He joined in with his brother, answering the Red Viper not in words but with a slash of his sword. Unlike the dead, Oberyn's eyes were still as dark as ever. Upon his face, the prince of Dorne bore a look that Garlan would name as vengeful. Loras' words then named what it was that Oberyn sought to avenge.
"Your girls are naught but these fell monsters now, Martell." Loras snarked. "A fitting fate for the bastard daughters or a man whose end is soon to come."
"You'll die slowly, Tyrell. My spear up your arse and not the one between my legs either."
"You were barely a match for me, together my brother and I…"
The knife was small. So much so that neither Loras nor Garlan even saw it as it flew through the air. A night that was bathed in an unnatural darkness not allowing for such a thing. It caught his brother beneath his gorget and Loras fell to the ground with blood spurting from his neck. Garlan's last sight of him alive was to see a pleading look in his brother's golden brown eyes.
Rage. Despair. Devastation. All of it filled him at once and for the next few moments, it was without skill that his sword was wielded against Oberyn's spear. Somehow he composed himself and soon enough it was his years of training that Garlan now relied on. The skills he was so very proud of now that he allowed himself to bring to bear. Oberyn Martell was skilled too, however. With his spear in his hands, the Red Viper was able to force Garlan back more than once.
A spear allowed for more distance to be put between the wielder and whomever they faced too, and so it took Garlan quite some time to get to face the prince on his terms. Around them, dead men battled the living and yet they were left alone for some reason. None tried to end Oberyn even though Garlan was certain they saw only the other dead men as their allies. Any man who was living was simply an enemy to first kill and then an ally to raise. So it made little sense to him and it was never going to be truly a question he'd get to ask or answer. Even when the killing blow was struck and Garlan saw his brother rise and move to Oberyn's side, no attack ever bothered the Red Viper.
In his final moments, Garlan thought of his wife and prayed that she was indeed with child. Before his eyes turned white, he saw them all, the family he'd loved with all his heart. Margaery and his grandmother, his mother, and his last remaining brother were in the Red Keep and were safe for now. Another prayer offered to a god he believed in not was spoken so that they would remain so forevermore.
"May R'hllor protect you," Garlan said as he breathed his last.
Had he eyes to see then he'd have found the answer as to why none bothered Oberyn Martell. He'd have seen that the protection the Red Viper had from the dead, was the dead themselves. His daughters, his former squire, Randyll Tarly, and now both he and Loras moved when Oberyn moved. The Red Viper had more work he wished to do this day and yet, even had he seen all of that, Garlan would have still been able to offer a smile and feel some comfort.
As above him the Black Dragon had seemingly dealt with the storm and was now headed the Red Viper's way.
Maege Mormont.
They were winning and then they were very much not. Men whose courage Maege would put up against any in Westeros turned craven when faced with things that were not men. None of hers, mind. Jorah, her daughters, and Maege all saw to that. Not that they had truly needed to rally the men and women of Bear Island, as their courage had held while others had not.
Maege had sworn she'd seen Roose Bolton retreat. She'd certainly seen Bolton men do so. Karstark and Glover men as well if her eyes didn't deceive her. A thing that was quite possible in the darkness that they fought in. The Umbers had held though.
"There are scarier things than the dead, after all." Maege chuckled as she looked to where Jon Umber and his son were taking down dead men three and four at a time. The Greatswords both wielded carved bodies in two and the men who followed the giant lord of Last Hearth and his son finished those dead men off with their weapons of Dragonglass.
The Starks held too, something which made Maege just as proud as seeing her men do so. Both Benjen and Ned fought side by side with their men as too did their heirs and the loyalty that had held for eight thousand years, held still. Which was more than can be said for the Northern, Reach, and Westerlands' lines. No matter how many dead men they ended for true, more rose again and their enemies' ranks were continuously replenished while their own were not.
Maege looked to the sky, as she knew the Starks and others did as well. The Black Dragon, however, was not there when they needed it most. Its battles were fought elsewhere and Maege knew that it was that and that alone that kept Daemon Targaryen from the field of battle. She'd seen the mettle of the king more than once and questioned it not. Whether others did, she couldn't tell, but it seemed likely to her as she watched more Westermen and Reachmen leave the lines and retreat to the city.
'I'll die before I do so.' she vowed to herself as she looked to Dacey, Lyra, Jory, and Alysanne. Her girls, barring her youngest, all fought alongside her and Jorah. The pride she felt because of that could not be measured.
A roar rang out and Maege turned her eyes to the sky once more. Cheers then sounded before horns blew and all of them bore witness to sights that lifted their spirits greatly. The Black Dragon had returned and it had brought naught but fire with it. Wave upon waver of flame was laid down and the dead were burned away in the blink of an eye. Horses rode out and Maege needed not to see them to know who they were.
"The Knights of the Vale," Dacey said happily beside her.
It was a majestic thing until it was not. The charge cut through dead men like a knife through butter and then it hit something that stopped its progress. Where the storm had come from, Maege couldn't tell. What its nature was, well that was somewhat easier to ascertain. It was not of this world or at least not one that had been formed naturally. Yet, it was neither of those things that finally made the fiercest of the She Bears feel true fear.
How many there were in the charge of the Knights of the Vale, she knew not. Ten thousand, five and ten, twenty, more. It could have been any of those numbers. All or most fell by the time the storm had dealt with them. Fell and then rose again, as too did their horses.
This time she and those with her turned and sought the cover of the walls of King's Landing. The Black Dragon landed in front of them and even amidst the din of battle, Daemon Targaryen's voice carried. Maege, her girls, her nephew, and the men and women of Bear Island. Ned, Benjen, Robb and Torrhen Stark. The Great and Smalljon's, all of them turned, and yet their path to safety was one fraught with danger.
They fought their way when they had to. Ran, when they could. Maege was so busy protecting those she loved and making sure she fell not, that she only heard of the losses when the gates closed behind her. Rickard Karstark and two of his sons. Robett and Galbart Glover. Big Bucket Wull, Morgan Liddle, and Torghen Flint of the Mountain Clans. More men than had fallen in four hours of battle had met their ends as they retreated from it. Maege heard that even the Smalljon, who had been overwhelmed by the sheer number of dead that came at him, had fallen too.
As they recovered, were fed, had wounds tended to, a loud wail cried out that none could ignore. Jon Umber was a man who had never had difficulty making himself heard at the best of times. Maege wished with all she had in her that she and those with her had never needed to hear what he sounded at the worst of them. His son and heir were dead and it took both Ned and Benjen Stark to stop the Giant Lord of Umber from giving up his life needlessly to join him. Promises of vengeance were enough for now to hold Jon Umber back, they would not hold him back for long she wagered.
"I… so many," Jory said as Lyra handed her sister a mug of something warm.
"We were winning. We…." Dacey said resignedly.
"The Greatjon I've never…." Alysanne said as Maege moved to place a hand on each of her girls' shoulders. The comfort she brought them was but fleeting, and yet it was a mother's duty to offer her children all she had in her to give them.
"Rickard, his boys. Robett and Galbart….so many." Jorah said. Her nephew and head of their household had named most of those who'd fallen as his true friends and he'd taken their losses badly.
Maege had too. Yet now was not the time for mourning and the battlefield was certainly not the place for it. She looked to her nephew, and her girls and spoke the words she hoped would be enough for them.
"The battle is not yet won." she began before raising her mace high in the air "Here We Stand!"
The words were repeated but not with any passion. Maege then shouted out those words one more time. This time, her girls and her nephew matched her in passion and determination. Others soon joined in and those that were left from the army of the North all began to shout the words of whatever House they were either a member of or owed their allegiance to.
"Winter is Coming." Four Starks called out and Maege too joined in this chant. Not even the fact that it seemed to already be here was enough to stop her from doing so.
Jon Umber bellowed out a much different sound. A call for a father's justice to be served on those who'd taken his son from him. Then, all of them were stunned as the sound of men marching was heard from behind them. The sight of eight thousand Unsullied soldiers bearing torches, carrying spears and shields, and moving to stand in front of them would stick with Maege for the rest of her life.
Those men turned and faced the walls and gates. A line stretching as far as the eye could see and that line was soon joined by others too. The broken Reach and Westerlands armies were not as broken as they may have seemed. Alongside them were men from the Riverlands, Crownlands, and even men of the Vale, not all had charged and it filled her heart with relief to see those who had not and who now stood with them.
Soon enough they were joined by the Red Priests and Priestesses. By the men of the Fiery Hand and Maege looked on as those closest to Daemon Targaryen moved forward to speak. Thoros of Myr and Melisandre of Asshai she'd heard them both be named as. Daemon's mother and father by choice, some others had called them both.
"Look to the Walls and those beside you. We hold so those who cannot fight have no need to." Melisandre said to nods of heads, Maege's own among them.
"Our prince readies to bring the light that chases the darkness away. R'hllor's light. For while the night is dark and full of terrors, each of us." Thoros looked to men who followed the Seven piously and those who did not and named others as their gods. To Maege and those from the North, he offered them all a smile that she was happy to see him able to make as true as it seemed to be. "Even those unbelievers like yourselves," Thoros said to laughter. "We all walk in his light and his champion, his chosen, the Prince that was Promised to us all, now makes ready to unleash that light for true."
Some would argue that Daemon had not done so as of yet. Others who'd question why that was so. Maege was neither of these. She did as Thoros bid her and she looked to the walls and beyond them. Then she, others, all of them had to shield their eyes when a light shined so brightly that it was as if the sun itself had fallen upon them.
What that light did, she knew not. Dead things came over the walls, however, and the fight that had thus far taken place outside the city, now took place inside it.
Thoros of Myr.
The dead were relentless. They moved forward unhindered and each life they took was another soldier in their army. How many they'd lost was uncountable. At one point, Thoros would have named them as having taken down a third of the army they faced, and yet, looking at it now, he'd say that the army was half as large again as it had been when it had first attacked.
They'd lost men against Dorne, and even some against those left behind when the Tiger Cloaks had joined their forces. The West had all but obliterated the Golden Company and yet they had taken losses too in their victory. When the dead arose however was when they truly began to lose men and the pendulum began to swing in the favor of their enemy. Thoros was shocked to see just how much magical power the Great Other was truly able to call upon. As he was, how little it seemed that Daemon had to answer it with.
He knew that the Shadow Dragon had needed to be dealt with. Then he'd seen the Storm and how it affected Daemon and Lyanax. There were times when he'd look to the sky and see the Black Dragon loose its flames and think that the tide would finally turn in their favor. Or even when one of Daemon's contingencies was called upon and the Knights of the Vale rode out, only to find it was to their doom and not to victory. That accursed storm appeared out of nowhere once more and Thoros was shamed to say that he had begun to question his faith in his god and his prince. Right up to when Daemon bid Lyanax land and did so close enough so that Thoros could see his face, did he do so.
"We Retreat! We Retreat!" he shouted adding his orders to Daemon's own.
"Back Behind the Walls!" Melisandre called out and Thoros wondered if she had even a momentary doubt about their victory, god's plan, or Daemon's tactics.
Once they were behind the walls of the city, Thoros could breathe somewhat. Seeing Grey Worm and the Unsullied march and take up their places in front of them all, allowed him even more time to compose himself and make everyone ready for what was to come. Before doing so, however, he moved to Melisandre and spoke words that only she could hear. Her soft hand touched his shoulder once he'd done so.
"To question is not to fail him, Thoros. Neither our god nor Daemon would name it so."
"I should have more faith." he sighed.
"What is faith until it's been tested, my friend."
"You?"
"I have lived a long and full life and yet it is only by his side that I've truly lived. My day to die has long been known to me, Thoros. I fear that day's arrival not."
After speaking the words and readying them for what was to come, the light shone brightly on the other side of the walls. Had they been in front of rather than behind them, Thoros would wager that some would have lost the use of their eyes forevermore. As it was, none did so and it was just as well, for as soon as the light dimmed, the dead clambered over the walls and fell upon them.
What Daemon's plans for inside the city were, he knew not. None but Grey Worm and those in the Red Keep had been told them. Daemon was not being vague with no reason. There was simply too much to keep in mind for the battle that was waged outside the walls to then have to consider what happened once those walls were breached. Or so his prince had said. Thoros' words that Daemon was concentrating on both had brought a laugh from his prince and a shaking of Daemon's head. The words he'd spoken to him before saying his goodbyes were ones that Thoros thought back on fondly now.
" I'm smarter than you, remember." Daemon winked.
The plan was now somewhat revealed to him and Thoros was stunned by its simplicity. There were no living people between them and the Red Keep. Naught but empty buildings that could be used as shelter should the need arise. Where the people who had called those buildings homes or businesses now were, Thoros knew not. Nor did it matter truly. Should the dead seek more meat for their army then they'd find men with weapons to be their only option for such. It brought Thoros some much-needed relief and allowed for his flaming sword to be swung with more certainty than it otherwise may have.
What almost cost him everything he held within him was the smile that Melisandre aimed his way. It was the sight of Daemon leaping from his dragon and how quickly his prince moved towards the woman he'd all but named his mother. Yet not even with all the gifts that he'd been given, or with the Shadows that Thoros knew were by his prince's side, was he able to reach her before the spear landed in her chest. Daemon was only able to catch her body when it fell and stop her from hitting the ground with a thud.
"NO! NO! NOOOOO!" Daemon cried out with an agonized scream that Thoros had only ever heard the like of that very day. The Greatjon had lost his son and had cried out just as truly as Daemon now did.
Around him, the dead fought the living and Thoros cared not. It was his prince and Melisandre that he focussed on and moved to. Unsullied spears stopped the dead from ending him as he did so.
"You can't. I can't….no, R'hllor I beg of you." Daemon cried out.
Thoros looked on as Melisandre raised her hand to Daemon's cheek and pulled Daemon closer. Whispered words and a soft kiss to their prince were the last actions made by Melisandre of Asshai before she breathed her last breath.
Daemon rose to his feet. A look on his face that Thoros had never seen before. With Flame and Spark in his hands, he called their fire forth and crossing both blades, Daemon set Melisandre alight. Then his prince walked past him, stopped but briefly, and pulled Thoros close to whisper in his ears.
"My family. Take fifty men and go to them. He's here, Thoros and though I must face him, now is not the time for it. There is someone who I must face first."
"Daemon."
"Her killer is mine and mine alone, Thoros. I owe her that much at least and the man who took her from this world is a man still."
"I'll stand with…"
"My family, Thoros, ready them for what comes their way."
"I will," Thoros said firmly. Happy to see Daemon nod. "What did she say, Daemon? Her last words."
"That even knowing today was her last day was not enough to stop her from being here. That while we are parted for now, one day we'll be together in R'hllor's warm embrace and that by my side was the only place she ever truly felt herself to walk in his light."
"I'll protect your family, Daemon."
"Protect yourself too, old friend. I cannot…"
"Go do what you must. I'll see you soon."
He knew it as soon as he said the words. There was no voice in his head which told him so and yet he knew it the moment they left his lips. Hurrying away from his prince and taking what he was certain was his last look at the man he thought of as a son, Thoros felt no doubt and had no questions that needed answering.
Upon reaching the Red Keep he saw him. The thing that had once been Daario Naharis cut through men as if they were nothing. Together with his fifty men, Thoros surrounded him and as each of them fell, he knew then what his god truly wished of him. To delay. Put an obstacle in Daario's path that he would not seek to bypass. He was to buy Daemon the time to do what he must and so Thoros would do just that.
"NAHARIS!" he shouted. Though whether the thing in front of him still thought of himself as such, he knew not. It did turn and seemed to recognize him, however. "For My Prince! My Son!"
Flaming sword met icy blade. Speed and strength that was god given met experience that was well earned. Daario Naharis was not a match for him in life. In death, however, it was Thoros who was outmatched. It was not enough to stop him fighting. Nor to try and lure Daario to where he wished him to go. Further and further from the Red Keep was where Thoros forced the fight. All the skills and whatever favor his god had given him over the years, was all brought to bear as he fought not for his life but for time.
How long he bought Daemon, he knew not. Some, Enough, a little, it could be any or all three. The death blow was as cold as anything he'd ever felt in all of his years by Daemon's side. It chilled his insides and to his horror, Thoros felt himself turning to ice.
Alone, on the ground, his blood formed into an icy puddle beside him as it left his body, Thoros looked to the sky and for the briefest moment, he saw a light that shone as brightly as any he'd ever known. He heard a voice that sounded much like Melisandre's to him. Its sweetness was something that he needed in his final moments. Then he felt the fire engulf him as Lyanax flew overheard and as it took him and sent him home, he heard his prince's words once more.
"Thank you, Father."
Prince Oberyn Martell.
He was as dead as the things that marched alongside him. Oberyn breathed still, his heart beat in his chest and he felt the chill in the air as the coldness almost overwhelmed him. Yet, seeing his girls fall, his former squire fall, looking on as so many men of Dorne lost their lives and rose again as things that lived no more, Oberyn felt as dead as they were. Had it not been for what he sought, then he may have cut his throat or swallowed the poison he carried with him always.
' Not until I take everything he loves from him would I do so.'
So Oberyn moved through the field and faced no obstacle or hindrance to his footsteps from the living or the dead. When the former moved to him, it was the latter who stopped them from reaching him. As for the latter, they seemed to care not that he breathed still. Be that because Oberyn walked not alone or for some other reason, it mattered not. As long as Oberyn got to cause Daemon Targaryen as much pain as had been caused him, all would be worthwhile.
He'd seen the Knights of the Vale charge into battle and fall to some fell magic, but since they all were now a party to that magic, it bothered him not. Had he been able to think clearly, then Oberyn would have worried about his children who were not here. Thoughts of Doran, Arianne, and Trystane would have filled his mind. Or Ellaria and the knowledge that he'd never see her again and that she too would turn into one of these dead things may have caused his footsteps to falter and brought panic instead of resolve to his heart. Oberyn, however, could think of none of these things. Naught but vengeance was at the forefront of his thoughts and so it was vengeance that he truly sought.
' All of them. His uncles, cousins, his Goodfamily, friends, those he loves and cares about, and finally himself and his wife. I'll see them all dead before I breathe my last.'
At least one of those had already fallen. The Old Lion had met his end at the hands of whatever it was that Daario Naharis was now. Oberyn would have liked to have seen it for himself, but instead, he'd only seen Tywin Lannister when he rose again. It comforted him not, but then again comfort was something he'd never know again. Death was the only way his suffering ended and each death he caused would be but momentarily respite.
Climbing the walls was easy enough. The dead had taken them and while they simply piled atop each other to clamber over those walls, a rope had been conveniently left for Oberyn and those with him to do likewise. He, Obara, Nymeria, Daemon Sand, Randyll Tarly. Garlan and Loras Tyrell and others that he'd killed now all followed after him like ducklings chased after their mothers. When the thing that had been his oldest daughter handed him a throwing spear, Oberyn at first was confused. When his second daughter pointed her dead fingers below him, he very much had not been.
"Melisandre of Asshai." Oberyn aimed, fired, and took the woman from the world and felt no better for doing so.
What made him feel better was seeing the leap that Daemon Targaryen made from atop his dragon's back. It was looking on as the man that Oberyn hated with all he was, held the dying woman's head in his hands. When Nymeria handed him another spear, Oberyn knew he could use it to end Daemon Targaryen, and yet the man had not suffered enough. Looking for another target, Oberyn soon spied the other Red Priest that was closest of all to Daemon Targaryen, he lined up his shot and readied to bring even more misery to the man who named himself king. It was not a shot that he never had the chance to follow through on.
The Black Dragon took Oberyn and those with him from the wall with a sweep of her tail. As he fell, Oberyn saw his chances of avenging his girls flash before his eyes. Beneath him, the hard ground readied to break his fall and leave him naught but a crippled mess or to take his life from him. Instead of hard ground, however, it was soft bodies that he fell on. His girls, Randyll Tarly, Daemon Sand, both Tyrells, and those he'd taken the lives of to get here, all of them somehow broke his fall. Which meant that Oberyn rose from a pile of broken dead bodies unharmed, but not alone.
"MARTELL!" Daemon Targaryen called out.
"BASTARD!" Oberyn shouted in reply.
It was his girls and the rest of those who'd broken his fall that moved to Daemon first. Oberyn looked on as despite broken limbs, they covered the ground more quickly than he. Each of them fell and was covered by flames. These were from Daemon's swords and not from his dragon which for some reason had left them alone. Obara, Nymeria, Daemon Sand, Randyl Tarly, Garlan, and Loras Tyrell, their losses biting hard even though they'd been dead for most of this never-ending night.
Spear in hand, Oberyn stalked the man in front of him. When more dead rushed to join him, some were brushed away by some unseen force. Others were forced away as with a wave of his hands, Daemon Targaryen summoned up a light that formed a square for them to fight inside. All those outside that square could be seen turn to dust and so soon enough none moved toward it. Oberyn welcomed it. He wished no one else to take this from him. Daemon was his and his alone and while he had hoped to hurt him more than he already had, this was now the fight he was faced with.
"Did you weep over her, Bastard?" Oberyn spat.
"More than you did over your daughters and squire, I wager. Yet I'll shed no tears when I take you from this world nor will it make her loss hurt any less."
The words were music to Oberyn's ears and so he thrust his spear forward. Daemon blocked it and the next three strikes Oberyn aimed his way and did so almost contemptuously.
Very soon it became clear that Daemon was toying with him. Yet, the fight itself was not one that he was taking his time with. Instead, Oberyn believed he was readying himself for the perfect moment to strike.
"Argh." he cried out as he lost a hand that he'd grabbed a poisoned dagger with. "AHHHH!" he shouted as he felt flesh being burned from his face as the shorter of Daemon's two swords hit his cheek. Before he knew it, his other hand was gone and with it his spear. Then his legs followed one after the other. "Finish me!" he shouted to a long laugh from the man in front of him.
"Oh no. Your suffering ends not here today," Daemon said chillingly. Oberyn felt his wounds burn as Daemon used his swords to cauterize them. He then was gripped by talons that wrapped tight enough around him so that he could not release himself from that grip.
Before he knew it, Oberyn was soaring high in the sky. His pain was not quite enough to make him black out and yet he wished it was. He was dropped unceremoniously on a ship's deck and struck hard across the head. Oblivion was not something he welcomed and how long he slept for he knew not, nor what it would be that he'd awaken to.
Daemon Targaryen.
Could he have killed Oberyn, certainly. Should he have, perhaps. It had felt right to let the man live, however. To let him suffer for longer than he would if Daemon simply took his life. Victory was not assured and so Daemon was mayhap taking a chance in what he'd planned for Oberyn Martell, still, it was a chance he felt worth taking. As was sending Lyanax to do as he wished her to.
Looking to the gates, the walls, and the fights all around him, Daemon knew it was time. Taking a knee, closing his eyes, he cut his hand and held all five rubies in his bloodied palm for the first time. The light began to shine. To move out from where he knelt and the city was soon bathed in it. Dead men began to fall, while others were held back by the light and tried in vain to find a way through it or around it. Only those within the city itself still fought on and Daemon had ensured they were outmatched by the living in terms of numbers at least. He'd made certain too that none could rise again. Not in the city at least and for those trapped outside it mattered not.
A glance to where his uncles fought showed them breathing still. Grey Worm and the Unsullied were proving themselves more than a match for the dead who charged against them. If the fight was truly to be fought here, then Daemon would stand with them and together they'd see R'hllor's will done, that fight however was being waged elsewhere. So, he willed the flames back from his swords and ran in darkness and shadow. His destination was clear and Daemon prayed he'd reach it in time. Only to find he both did and did not.
"You fool, I told you to protect yourself." Daemon wept as he knelt beside Thoros's burned blade. The pile of ash and stain of Lyanax's flames told him what it was he was looking at.
Around him, there were other piles of ash. Other stains. Some men of the Fiery Hand had joined Thoros and they too were now in R'hllor's warm embrace. Daemon wept for them as well. Then he rose to his feet, wiped his tears, and offered up a solemn vow.
"You bought me the time I needed, father. I thank you for it and all you've done for me and I will see you again, on that I swear."
There were too many dead between him and the gates of the Red Keep. Sentinels and not a force that sought to enter. These were to keep him out and yet they knew not what Daemon did. With barely a look at them, Daemon left them and was soon moving through the tunnels beneath the keep. As a boy, he'd hidden there and knew them as well as any. When he'd felt the pain of who he was and it had been made clear to him that he was unwelcome in this city or this castle, Daemon had sought comfort in the darkness that the tunnels offered him. Now he ran through them with Flame and Spark alight once more and he brought even these dark places, the light.
Climbing up a ladder, Daemon heard the sound of fighting. The dead moved towards his family and at their head was the last of the Great Other's Champions. Arthur, Oswell, Barristan, Bonifer, Jaime Lannister, and his son, all he'd left to guard his family did their best to hold them off. The shadows too played their part, yet none would be able to stop Daario Naharis from reaching Daemon's chambers and claiming the lives of his wife and unborn child. Not even Shiera who guarded the Children of the Forest and kept them hidden from the Great Other's eyes would be able to do so.
' It takes a champion to stop a champion.'
"For R'hllor and my family.! Daemon shouted as Daario Naharis looked behind him and moved not to Daemon's chambers but to the Throne Room.
Casualties
The Army of the Living.
15,000 men of the Knights of the Vale.
5,000 Northmen
10,000 Reachmen
10,000 Men of the West.
5,000 men from the Crown and Riverlands.
5,000 Tiger Cloaks.
Ser Addam Marbrand
Rickard Karstark
Torrhen Karstark
Eddard Karstark
Galbart Glover
Robett Glover
Hugo "Big Bucket" Wull
Morgan Liddle
Torghen Flint
The Smalljon.
Lord Mace Tyrell
Ser Garlan Tyrell
Ser Loras Tyrell
Melisandre of Asshai
Thoros of Myr
The Armies of the Dead.
15,000 men of Dorne
15,000 men of the Golden Company.
The Mountain that Rides (resurrected)
Randyl Tarly, Dickon Tarly, Garlan Tyrell, Loras Tyrell, Obara Sand, Nymeria Sand, Daemon Sand (resurrected).