Chapter Text
Sansa oversees the women and children going into the crypts personally. She refuses to go in until every single person is accounted for and taken into refuge. That is the duty of a Lady of Winterfell, after all.
As she guides a woman and her young son through the door to the crypts, she hears the boy ask, “Mummy, are there going to be monsters down there?”
“No, sweetling,” the woman assures, patting his head. “We’ll be safe down here. Right, milady?”
The woman looks at her, asking for reassurance seemingly for her son, but really for the both of them. There’s so many things that could go wrong. The dead could break through the door, or the ceiling of the crypts could collapse, or everyone could die outside and they’d be stuck in there to starve to death.
Sansa smiles, bending down face to face with the boy. “What’s your name?” she asks him.
He can’t more than six years old. Too young, far too young. And that shaggy brown hair on his head, caked with mud and soot, makes her think of Rickon, her lost baby brother. He never even had a chance, and this little boy’s chances aren’t any better.
He looks up at his mother, unsure if he should answer. His mother nods, and he replies, “Haeden.”
“Haeden,” she repeats. “Don’t worry. Everyone down in the crypts will be safe and sound. I promise.”
He beams at her, missing a front tooth. It’s nearly impossible for everything to go according to plan. Something is bound to go wrong, no matter what any of them do. And there’s nothing Sansa can do to change that. The only thing she can do is give this little boy one last glimmer of hope. Children don’t deserve to die hopeless, this she knows.
Haeden and his mother make their way into the crypts, and Sansa prays to the gods she stopped believing in long ago that they’ll see the light of day once again.
“That was very kind of you,” a lilting voice says from behind her. Sansa turns around and sees the young foreign woman known as the personal handmaiden to the Dragon Queen, hands always folded politely.
“Will you be joining us in the crypts, Lady Stark?”
Sansa stands, facing the handmaiden. “I will, but I want to make sure every woman and child gets inside first. I don't want to leave anyone behind.”
The handmaiden tilts her head and smiles. “You must care very much for the people of the North.”
Sansa stands a bit straighter, jaw a little tighter, the putting on the visage of the Lady of Winterfell. “I care for them as my mother and father would. It is my duty.”
As she looks into the entrance to the crypts, her body sags and releases with a sigh. Duty can take a toll on you.
“And that boy…” she continues. “He’s only a child. He didn’t need the truth right now. He just needed someone to tell him everything’s going to be alright. He doesn’t need the end of the known world on his conscious.”
The handmaiden steps forward. “I would have liked to have someone like you around when I was a child.”
Sansa looks in the distance and gives a sad smile. “Me too.”
There’s a pause, a moment of solidarity, between the two vastly different women from opposite ends of the world.
“I’m sorry, I never asked for your name,” Sansa inquires.
“I am Missandei, my lady.”
“You speak the Common Tongue exceptionally well for a foreigner, Missandei.” Sansa smiles at her, saccharine sweet.
“I know how to speak nineteen languages, my lady,” she states, some bite to her words. “When I was a slave, one of my first masters allowed me to learn to read and write, so I learned many languages, including the Common Tongue, and I became a translator.”
“That was quite nice of him,” Sansa says.
Missandei pauses. “Yes,” she responds warily. “Quite nice. For a slave master.”
Sansa looks down, wincing at her utter lack of tact. “I’m sorry, that was thoughtless of me. I didn’t mean to imply that you had an easy life. You were a slave. No person should ever have to endure that.”
“You meant no offense,” Missandei says, still uneasy.
“It must have horrible,” Sansa empathizes, “being ripped away from your home and family so young.”
“I believe we have that in common, my lady. I’d heard from your brother that you’d only just recently retaken your home from another house.”
Sansa glances to the side, terrible memories suddenly rushing back. “Yes, we seem to have many unfortunate things in common.”
Missandei unfolds her hands and lets her shoulders fall, opening herself up to a new acquaintance. Sansa supposes she hasn't found many in the North.
"Of course, I was never a slave, but I can’t count how many times I felt like my life was always in someone else’s hands, never my own.”
Missandei looks off in the distance, as though she were reliving her own past, no doubt fraught with immeasurable pain.
“I felt that way for a long time too," she echoes. "It’s not until just recently that I finally feel like I have some power back. I finally have a choice now.”
Sansa smiles, genuine, and the translator smiles back at her. She is quite lovely, an exotic beauty. Warmth radiates off her like the summer sun. The gray and dreariness of the North doesn’t suit her at all.
“I feel like we would have been quite good friends, Missandei,” Sansa says, sincerely. “If not for the Dragon Queen.”
With that, Missandei’s smile falls, turning into a flower. Her face turns cold as winter, and behind her eyes blazes a tranquil fury.
“Yes,” Missandei tepidly agrees. “Without the Dragon Queen, there would be no problem at all. We’d all be dead already.”
Missandei brusquely strides past Sansa and into the safety of the crypts, leaving the Lady of Winterfell in befuddled in the snow. Her opinion on the Dragon Queen hasn’t wavered, no matter how many different stories she hears of a hero or savior, the Breaker of Chains. Though she may have been blunt, Sansa has done nothing but stand by her beliefs. But even so, she can’t shake the feeling that she’s done something wrong.
Samwell Tarly, Slayer of White Walkers. He wonders if that’s how history will remember him. How Gilly and Little Sam will remember him. He wonders if there will be anyone to remember him after this night. He wonders so deeply that he doesn’t quite know where in Winterfell he is.
He was supposed to be heading to the armory, to be given a dragonsteel weapon now that he’d just turned over the ancestral sword of his house. It was never meant for him anyway. It was meant to be in a warrior’s hands, and Samwell Tarly was by no means a warrior. But as the end of humanity draws near, a warrior he must become, if only for this night. After that, who knows. Maybe the maesters might forgive him for running off and stealing books from the Citadel. Or maybe they’ll just banish him to the Wall and he’ll be in the exact place he started. A cold, sniveling southern boy with no prospects. Marvelous.
Sam knows in theory where the armory should be, past the entrance to the great hall and through the courtyard, Jon told him. But now he’s wandering around the halls on the second floor, walking past people and making sure he looks like he knows what he’s doing when he’s clearly lost, how could he get lost after Jon told him exactly where to go?
As he’s walking past an open door, he sees Bran Stark sitting by the fireplace, looking into the flames but not looking at them at all. Sam stops, and begins looking into the fire himself, mesmerized by the way it seems to move of its own accord. The flames crackle and dance, like it were telling a story in moving picture, a story of what has been, and what’s to come.
“If you’re still looking for the armory,” Bran says abruptly, eyes never leaving the fire, “head down the stairs at the end of the hall, through the door to your right and into the courtyard.”
Sam laughs nervously. “How did you–”
Bran looks up at him, a glint of bemusement in his dark stoic eyes.
“Ah right, yes. The uh–the ‘raven’ thing,” Sam stammers. “Shouldn’t you be heading to the Godswood?”
“I told Theon to wait a bit longer. Sit and have a good meal. It could be the last chance he gets,” Bran explains ominously.
Sam has been weary of the Stark boy ever since he returned from Beyond the Wall. Sam had seen a great deal himself during his time on the Night’s Watch, but whatever horrors he’d witnessed paled in comparison to whatever he saw up there. Whatever he saw, it had stripped away the boy known as Brandon Stark, and left something else in his place. Something Sam was a bit frightened of, to be honest.
No one says anything else for a few long moments. Sam feels a bit awkward, squirming from the apprehension. But Bran doesn’t move a muscle, unwavering in his gaze into the fire.
“So…” Sam starts, trying to fill in the awkward silence. “It all begins tonight, then?”
In that monotone yet patronizing way he speaks now, Bran states, “I suppose so.”
He supposes? Thought he was supposed to know everything .
“I, uh–” Sam sputters, avoiding eye contact. “I wanted to ask you something else. Though, to be quite honest I’m not even sure if I should even be asking it, or if you even know the answer, or if it even matters if I–”
“Speak you mind, Samwell Tarly,” Bran cuts. Right, he was rambling again, wasn’t he? He tends to do that when he’s nervous. Or scared. Or sensing his impending death.
Turning to face the young Stark, to look him in his blank eyes, he asks, “Do you know…if we get through this battle? If we can make it to morning? If…we can win?”
Bran inhales deeply, then glances away. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
Sam thinks for a moment. “No, actually.”
He thought he would at least get something . He thought an answer would help him, so he asked. Now he decides that he doesn’t want an answer, so he refuses one. His fears should be quelled at least a little. But he’s got nothing, and that makes Sam more terrified than anything else. Scared of the future, for the world, for Gilly, for Little Sam … he starts rambling again.
“Aren’t you at all scared? I mean, yeah, he’s coming after all of us, but he’s got his sights set on you personally. Don’t you think you should run, go south, or even leave Westeros? Try and preserve the world’s memory, if that’s what you are?”
Bran’s eyes didn’t leave the flames to answer him this time. “It’s not my place to try and change what is to come. I merely observe the passage of time. I do not interfere with it.”
Sam means to say something else, but what could he say? He knows nothing of what lies ahead in the darkness. Should he question the boy, who has become as close to the eyes of the gods as one could get? Who seems to know every secret in the world but won’t reveal them? Is he truly their ally in this fight?
“Besides,” Bran continues, “it wouldn’t matter where I go. He was always going to come to Winterfell. It’s not just me he’s after.”
“I don’t understand. Does he want someone else?”
“Not someone. Something.”
Sam stands silent, bewildered.
“A secret,” Bran says matter-of-factly, like that perfectly sums it up, “From the Old World. A forgotten relic from the Age of Heroes that lies deep within the heart of Winterfell. Not even I know what exactly it is.”
Bran finally turns away from the fire and looks into his eyes, half his covered by shadow and the other illuminated by flickering light. He speaks in riddles, metaphors, then expects everyone else to decipher them. Sam’s beginning to get real frustrated by it.
“You should go to the armory and get ready,” Bran tells him. “It won’t be much longer now.”
Right. The armory. That’s where Sam was heading before getting his mind screwed by none other than Bran Stark, or what’s left of him. Sam makes to leave, turning hastily and practically leaping towards the door, when Bran calls to him one last time.
“Know this, Samwell Tarly. After tonight, you will have done everything you can. And that is enough.”
Sam turns his head to the broken Stark, and Bran smiles, mouth closed. Sam thinks he means to be friendly and reassuring, but the smile is more a mask than a true smile, like he were playing at human emotion; it didn’t reach his eyes. It mostly just leaves him unsettled. Sam doesn’t know if his words should be a comfort to him or not. He nods his head and leaves, going down the steps at the end of the hall, through the door to his right, and into the courtyard.
Bran’s words echo in his head. Is it truly enough, what he’s about to do tonight? If so, why doesn’t tonight feel like the end? Why does he feel like it’s only the beginning?
Enough pondering. He needed a weapon. Now which direction did he say the armory was again?
“Oh, we're friends, are we?” Tyrion sneers. “Is that why you’re holding a crossbow to my head?”
Bronn shrugs. “Seems appropriate, doesn’t it?”
Tyrion looks down, remembering his father. That's odd. He didn't feel this much shame when he watched the bolt enter his father's body.
“Besides, your beloved sister’s promised me–”
“No wait, don’t tell me," Tyrion interrupts. "Was it gold?”
Bronn chuckles. “That and more. A castle, a title, a wife, and all the fucking gold I want. And that’s a lot more than you and your cunt of a brother could ever give me.”
Tyrion hiccups, vision blurry. He’s already deduced this isn’t one of his drunken dreams, since the end of the bolt to his forehead feels very much real. That’ll sober a man up real quick.
“You really think Cersei’s going to keep her promise? You trust her that much?” he asks mockingly.
“You did,” Bronn counters. Tyrion’s got no answer for that.
“I know you Lannisters enough to know never to trust one of you too much. You see, I was supposed to wait out the battle against the dead, then look through the rubble for your remains. But I’m not stupid like you, or crazy like Cersei.”
Bronn circles around him. “I’m gonna take both your heads before the ice monsters can. Then I’m gonna bring ‘em to Cersei, take as much gold as she can give me, then hop a boat to Essos and never look back.”
Tyrion turns back at him, both frustrated and perplexed. “You’re just going to kill me and Jaime and then run away?”
“Looking out for myself, remember? It’s what I do.”
“You don’t have to do this, Bronn. You could help us, Daenerys would pay you handsomely for your allegiance. Even more than what’s Cersei’s given you.”
“Enough with the bullshit, Tyrion.” Bronn circles back to face him again. “I’m tired of being a fucking errandboy to royalty. I’ll be sitting on a sunny little beach with a couple of Braavosi whores at my side, away from all the fucking politics. In the end, it doesn’t matter who sits on the Throne. You can’t fight Death.”
Bronn raises the crossbow. “I’ll make this as quick as possible. Consider this a gift. It’ll be a lot better than being torn limb from limb by a horde of undead.”
He touches the bolt to his forehead, finger on the trigger. Tyrion begins to see a shadow move in the background, stalking closer and closer. Odd, he’d thought all the alcohol had been scared out of him. Except this shadow has eyes, the same color as his own. It moves, long arm-shaped shadows flailing, telling him to keep going, keep doing what he does best: talking.
“You should know, as your friend, I’ll be inclined to haunt you after you kill me. And I will be a pest, I promise you,” Tyrion rambles.
“Well, then it shouldn’t be much different than when you were alive,” Bronn replies. The shadow inches closer behind him.
“Once I’m done here, I’ll head on over to your brother to finish him off. That is, if he’s finally done ‘finishing’ that beast of a woman Brienne.”
“That’s Ser Brienne to you.”
Jaime’s sword points straight at Bronn’s back. “Good to see you again, Bronn.”
Bronn turns swiftly, pointing the crossbow towards Jaime. “Likewise, pretty boy. Thanks for saving me the trouble of having to peel you away from Ser Brienne’s ass. Now I’ll just kill the both of you and be on my way.”
“It would be much better to die up there, fighting for the people of Westeros, than dying down here in a cold cellar, don’t you think?”
“For you?”
“No, for you.”
“Please, I’m not some fucking hero.”
“Come now, Bronn. I thought you’d have grown a heart in our time together.” Jaime brings his golden hand over his heart, feigning sincerity.
“Please think about this, Bronn,” Tyrion urges.
“In case you forgot, ‘old friend,’” Bronn hisses, “I don’t fight unless there’s something in it for me. And I don’t see the benefit of dying for you lot. So, if you’re all done pestering me, I’d like to kill you both now and get the hell out of here before the dead get here and kill us all. Cersei will have my ass if I go back empty-handed.”
“For gods’ sake, Bronn, just forget about Cersei and listen to us!” Tyrion stands to his feet. “She doesn’t give a damn about you or me or anyone else!”
Tyrion doesn’t fail to notice the way Jaime’s shoulders fall and eyes darken at the mention of their sister.
“The dead won’t just stop at Westeros, you know that,” he continues. “Wherever you run, they will find a way to reach you and the rest of the world. We can end it here, and you can help us.”
There’s a pause, a moment where Tyrion thinks that he’s gotten through to Bronn, that he’s more their friend than Cersei’s lackey. His hope has burned him before.
“The only way this is ending,” Bronn resigns, “is with a bolt through both of your heads.”
Tyrion almost believes him.
“You know I can’t let you do that, Bronn,” Jaime tells him, inching closer and closer with his sword.
“What are you gonna do, knock me over the head with your golden hand?” Bronn taunts. “You really think I’m gonna lose to a man who can’t even hold his sword straight?”
“No,” Jaime replies. “But that’s why I brought him.”
Out of the darkness, a boot kicks in the back of Bronn’s leg, sending him to his knees with a yelp of surprise. Jaime knocks the crossbow out of Bronn’s hands, falling to the floor with a clatter and thud. An arm slips around his neck, another holding a blade to his throat. Bronn reaches for his captor, grabbing the arm around his neck.
“Well, well.” Bronn chuckles, defeated. “If it isn’t Podrick fucking Payne.”
“Fancy seeing you here, Ser Bronn,” Podrick greets.
“Nice trick you learned there,” Bronn concedes. “Never thought I’d see the day a fucking squire gets the jump on me.”
“Well, I had an excellent teacher,” Podrick says knowingly.
Jaime sheaths his sword, then approaches Bronn. He removes the scabbard from his waist, tossing it to the side, and goes through his pockets, searching for the inevitable hidden blade or four. He pulls out five.
“Let’s make sure you don’t cause anymore trouble.” Jaime quickly glances around the room. “There.”
He points to a large wooden beam in the center of the room, supporting the ceiling from collapses in on them.
“Tyrion, grab that rope over there.”
Still is a daze of what the hell just happened, Tyrion stands there slack jawed. Rolling his eyes, Jaime tilts and points his head to the side of Tyrion, and he turns and sees a rope hanging on a hook the side of a shelf. He walks over to grab it off the hooks.
“Podrick, bring him over here,” Jaime directs, sounding like a true Lord Commander. Like a true knight.
Podrick puts down the blade on Bronn’s neck, and puts his arm behind his back, leading him to the wooden post. Tyrion brings the rope over and puts it in Jaime’s awaiting hand. Podrick shoves down on Bronn’s shoulder, and pushes him to the ground. He bring his hands behind him and around the post, holding them by the wrists.
“Afraid I’m a bit out of practice when it comes to tying knots.” Jaime hands the rope to Podrick. “Think you can manage?”
Podrick looks up at him, emboldened and determined. “Yes, my lord.”
He brings the rope around Bronn’s wrists, making sure they’re extra tight. Bronn hisses at the pain. “Watch the fingers!”
Tyrion turns to his brother. “How did you know Bronn was here? How did you know where to find me?”
“Call it a big brother’s instincts,” Jaime boasts, winking. Tyrion quirks his brow, silently asking really?
“I saw you fall on your face into the snow on your way here and followed you to make sure you didn’t do something stupid, like you always do when you’re drunk. That’s when I saw Bronn tailing you.”
Tyrion is silent, gathering his words. “Thank you.”
Jaime pats his head and ruffles his hair, like he used to do when they were younger to pester him. “Of course. You’re my brother.”
‘Brother.’ Tyrion’s heart soars. It wasn’t some offhanded remark or a mocking sneer. He genuinely called him his brother, his blood. Before a tear can even form, the ceiling above them shakes, sending dirt and dust falling below.
Tyrion can hear distant muffled cries through the stone walls. “They’re here! To your stations! They’re here!”
‘They?’ No. No no no no no. They were here. The dead. Maybe it was all the alcohol finally kicking in, but Tyrion feels numb, when he should be screaming and shouting in terror. He begins to feel his soul separate from his body, and he moves around, listless.
“I have to get to the crypts.” Tyrion explains, an afterthought.
He makes for the cellar entrance in a trance, but Jaime holds him back. “There’s no time! Both of you stay here!”
“But I–” Tyrion protests.
“It’s too late now, Tyrion,” Jaime chides, like an older brother would. “Lock the door after I leave. You’ll be safe here. Make sure you do not leave this room under any circumstance. Understand?”
“But–” Tyrion tries to protest again, but Jaime gestures for Podrick to follow him, already on his way up the stairs. The shouts outside grow louder, and more and more panicked.
Coming back to himself, Tyrion follows them up the stairs of the cellar, Jaime’s back to him. “I can still help, Jaime! I can’t just sit in here and do nothing!”
At the heavy door to the cellar, Jaime turns on his heel, kneeling down to his little brother. “Tyrion, please. Just do this for me.”
He can see the resolution in his brother’s eyes, but also the desperation, so vividly green, it reminds Tyrion of the spring he might never see again.
“I can’t lose any more family,” Jaime professes. Tyrion might fall to his knees himself. He’s spent the last few years, thinking his brother hated him, that he disowned them, and that his blood had abandoned him. But now his brother, truly the only one in his family he loved, calls him ‘family’ again.He hasn’t felt so little, so helpless, since was a child, crying for his older brother, his savior. Tyrion is speechless, and can’t do anything but nod yes.
Jaime clutches his brother’s upper arms, squeezing tight. He reaches behind him and pulls out an obsidian dagger. Dragonglass.
“You know what to do,” Jaime states. And he does. Tyrion takes it in his hand, and Jaime rises to his feet, exiting out the door without another word or glance. There was no time for any second guessing now.
The dead have arrived.