—At Winterfell—
Winterfell — War room...
"With these fortifications set up along the battlements and the trenches, we should be able to avoid the undead army where they're strong and hit them where they're not," Robb surveyed the northern landscape.
Daveth nodded, pointing to several army pieces. "Our first line of defense should be enough to break the enemy charge and force them to bunch up, slowing them down for our long-range artillery to pick them off once they get within the perimeter."
Both the Young Stag and the Young Wolf were gazing at the battle map in deep concentration; sharing notes and suggested ideas on how to make their stand against the Army of the Dead, the two young leaders' faces were of deep concentration.
"I noticed you left a gap within the next line for our cavalry. Our cavalry will be able to have enough room to maneuver for cycle charges without trampling our allies and sound the retreat before loses begin to mount if a trickle becomes a torrent."
"Hmm... Father always did say that only a fool would meet the Dothraki in an open field. The knights of the Vale and Dothraki screamers will be able to live up to their reputation."
"And from here," Robb points to a section closer to the castle, "the trenches here will dam the enemy close enough for our archers to engage should we need to withdraw our troops behind the castle walls or reinforce them. Fortunately, we have more men than the dead do by over 200,000."
"Enough to keep them bogged down until an opening presents itself," Daveth speculated.
"Right. If what Jon and Bran say about the Night King is true—if it comes down to a war of attrition and that he can raise our own dead and add them to his own, the tide might turn in his favor."
"Then perhaps it would be best to not let that happen." The Young Stag paused before looking out the window. "This is it... isn't it, Robb?"
"It is, my friend. Our men are already calling this 'the Second War for the Dawn'; another Long Night. 'Winter is coming' serves as a reminder of House Stark's beginnings in the wake of the Long Night and a grim portent of things to come."
"I suppose Starks are all right eventually. This winter could last five years, but there will be a lot of rebuilding to be done once this is all over and we miraculously make it out of this alive. The crown stands ready to assist the North in reconstruction efforts should you ask for it."
"I appreciate that, Your Grace."
Daveth shook his head. "Robb, we've been over this countless times. You don't have to call me 'Your Grace' whenever we're in private."
Robb shrugs. "Protocol often dictates that the rules and customs of the monarchy are to be respected, I'm afraid. Even if I wanted to address you informally, my sense of honor wouldn't allow me to be disrespectful."
That's the perils of your father's rigid sense of honor, Robb. A stubborn dedication to preserving one's honor can be a death sentence... "Do you remember back when we first met? You nearly dropped a great mountain of snow on me."
"Not exactly a first impression to make when the Crown Prince pays a visit to your home. Needless to say, I'm glad that we became friends. Even if the distance between Winterfell and King's Landing was a mile and a month away, it's a good thing messenger ravens came in quite handy to make up for lost time."
"And here we are now. Warden of the North and King of the Seven Kingdoms—Baratheon and Stark fighting a common enemy together as they've done many times before." He held out a hand. "No matter where this takes us, I'm proud to call you my friend... and a brother."
Robb reciprocated the act and clasped the Young Stag's arm. "And I will follow you to the ends of the earth, Daveth. Bound by blood and sworn an oath before the godswood, we are brothers from this day until our last day." He pulls away. "I'll go find Jon and give him the rundown. Our men will stand ready for the final preparation."
Upon their conclusion, Robb departed from the Great Hall to mobilize the allied armies—leaving Daveth alone to survey the map once more. The Young Stag was once again left to his thoughts as he moved various army pieces carved into stags, wolves and dragons across the map—calculating the strategical positions in which to move them into. For what felt like hours, Daveth stroked his chin—feeling the texture of his beard brushing against his fingers. All his 24 years of life, 7 years of ruling and 6 years of combat experience seemed as if an unseen hand of fate was steadily guiding him to this very moment with various obstacles, but what appeared to have troubled him most was that the enemy he was about to face was someone—or something—he had never seen or heard of before. It was like being blind, and no one liked being blind.
"You look like you're lost in thought, brother-in-law," a voice said calmly.
Daveth spun around, his hand gripped around the handle of Stormbringer to see who had crept up on him. When he turned around, he noticed Arya Stark standing in the door way with her arms behind her back. The fact that his sister-in-law was perfectly calm and composed seemed to unnerve him somewhat. "How did you get past the Kingsguard?" he asked.
"I didn't. You need better bodyguards," Arya replied while glancing at the map. "These are the plans for battle."
"What of it?"
"Nothing."
Daveth furrowed his brow. "Arya, I know that look."
She looked up at him. "Do you now?" she challenged.
"Court intrigue, remember? Grew up learning to know when someone's telling the truth and who's telling a lie," he answered wryly. "So if you have something to say, just say it already."
Arya glances over to the courtyard from the window. "I remember father used to watch us from here," she said. "He wouldn't say anything. Sansa was inside knitting all the time, you were playing your little games down south. One time Robb, Jon and Bran were shooting arrows with Ser Rodrick. I came out here after and Bran had left his bow behind just lying on the ground. Ser Rodrick would have cuffed him if he saw. There was one arrow in the target. There was no one around, just like now. No one to stop me. So, I started shooting. And every shot I had to go out there and get my one arrow and walk back and shoot it again. I wasn't very good. Finally, I hit the bullseye. It could have been the twentieth shot or the fiftieth. I don't remember. But I hit the bullseye and I heard this." She starts slow clapping. "I looked up and father was standing right where I was smiling down at me. I knew what I was doing was against the rules, but he was smiling so I knew it wasn't wrong. The rules were wrong. I was doing what I was meant to be doing and he knew it too."
"You never were the type to follow the rules nor allow tradition to bind you, weren't you? No, you have too much wolf blood in you. I suppose Ned Stark knew that as well from the beginning."
"And you got him killed," Arya accused.
Daveth felt a nerve twitch. You did not just say that... "Excuse me?" he pressed offended.
"I still remember the vivid details of the aftermath at the Blackwater. How my own father sacrificed his life to save you. I remember standing at his bedside when he drew his last breath, telling you to take good care of Sansa for him. Did you?"
"You don't like me, Arya, I get it. But when I make promises... or a threat, I keep them. When your father asked me to look after your sister, I vowed to keep that promise. Ned died with honor that day and the realm thanks him for his service."
"I would've saved him anyway."
"There are things we simply cannot predict nor control. To think otherwise is ill-advised."
"So you often say."
"And how would you know what I would say or do? What were you doing during that time?"
"I was training in Braavos."
"Training. Well, did you have any comprehension what happened when you left?"
"I can imagine quite a lot. Sansa, Robb and Jon buried House Bolton beneath a cold, harsh winter."
"Yet the damage remains done. Your fellow Northmen believed your friend Jeyne Poole was you and you were off training in Braavos? How irresponsible of you to just run away half a world away without consulting with your family of your intentions, Arya Stark."
"And how was your decimation of the Iron Islands any better?"
"I made mistakes, and you hold grudges. Petty. We can't change the past, but can learn from them and move forward... if you're capable of such."
"Doubtful it's as easy as you say. I can still see the look in your eyes. You have your doubts. You won't admit it, but I can see it's still there."
Daveth says nothing.
"What's that? Nothing to say? No rebuttal for me? Now that's a surprise. Your bastard brother Gendry seems to speak highly of your confidence as does your bastard sister Mya Stone," Arya proclaims.
"You're a sharp, dangerous little thing, aren't you?" he replies.
Arya unsheathed a piece of a dragonglass spearhead, fiddling with the tip of it against her fingertips when she heard that last portion. "Your grandfather once said the same thing about me years ago," she tells him. "Only Lord Tywin never called me dangerous before. Good thing too – especially considering what I've become now."
"And that is?"
"A Faceless Man."
"I only know little about them by reputation, though not much else."
"We're a guild of assassins, servants of the Many-Faced God. Well, I used to be one of them. The Stranger of the Faith of the Seven, the Drowned God and Old Gods of the Forest are merely one of many faces. Trained to relinquish our former identities and become 'no one', it allows us to become different people entirely to deliver upon certain people the gift of death." She flings the dragonglass spearhead at the wooden pillar, impaling it with the tip. "I know Death. He's got many faces. I look forward to seeing this one."
Daveth was surprised at the remarkably swift movement and accuracy. Even as impressed as he was, the soldier in him still felt his younger sister-in-law was somehow still untested. You claim to know death, but you've never faced it twice before as I have. "Not bad," he begins, "but you still have much to learn about the art of war."
"And I look forward to learning more when the fighting begins. Maybe when this is all over, I'll come pay my other nephews and niece a visit for once. Until next time... brother-in-law," Arya said and turned around, leaving Daveth alone to gather his wits.
"I'll be sure to not let my guard down for an instant from now on," he says quietly. It wasn't long until another visitor came to see him.
Winterfell — Outside the front gates...
Grey Worm and the other Unsullied start assisting the allied forces with testing out the traps around the castle, as more do a trial run with their recent addition of long-range artillery. From outside, Jaime is seen with Brienne surveying the recruits and militiamen sparring together—readying themselves for the fight of their lives with Barristan overseeing them personally. Brienne watches her squire Podrick training with a Northmen soldier, smiling proudly.
"Your squire?" Jaime inquiries.
Brienne glances at him. "He is, Ser Jaime," she answers.
"Can't be at least five or six years younger than Daveth. Isn't he a bit too old to be a squire?"
"He's alright. Still has a lot to learn, but he's made some progress since being assigned to me."
"I'm sure you'll teach him well enough," Jaime says. "I've been told you're being placed with the Eighth Platoon. That's on the left flank, is it?"
Brienne nods. "It is. It's, uh—it's good ground. The rise should give us an advantage. If we can keep a tight formation, we might be able to beat them back. I'm told us was quite a similar formation during the Battle of the Blackwater six years ago."
"So it's been said. You're not going to be at Daveth's side?"
"No, the King hasn't said anything to me or any of the others—including Ser Barristan or Olyvar. It makes me feel a bit uneasy."
"My nephew's always had a flair for the dramatic, but I'll admit he's never done something like this unless he had his reasons; seems a bit too shrewd if you ask me and we're related."
Brienne quickly turns around. "What are you doing?" she accuses.
Jaime looks confused. "What?" he asks.
"I think you know."
"No, I really don't."
"Ever since I was permitted to join the Kingsguard, for as long as we've met, we've never had a conversation last this long without you insulting me. Not once."
"What? Do you want me to insult you?"
"No, I don't!"
"Good. Because Barristan has placed me within the Eighth Platoon with you."
Brienne goes silent and looks down briefly before returning his gaze. "I better get back," she says simply.
Winterfell — War room...
"And you're certain of that, Lord Royce?" Daveth inquires.
Yohn nods. "The moment we can get the last infantryman out onto the field, we should shut the gates."
"Do what you can, but make sure there we're not missing anything or anyone. No one is to slack off when the enemy draws closer to our doors."
"I must mention that there have been rumors among our youngest recruits. They seem rather apprehensive and unsure of themselves, like they're in dire need of a motivational speech to get them moving."
"So I've heard. None of us have ever encountered an enemy such as the undead before. But if we don't stop them here at Winterfell, it'll only get much worse."
KNOCK, KNOCK!
Both Daveth and Yohn Royce turn to see Daenerys knocking on the open door, making her presence known to them.
"I was hoping we could speak alone," Daenerys refers to Daveth.
Yohn looks at the Young Stag who gives a brief nod, granting him leave. The Bronze Royce walks towards the Dragon Queen, bows and then exits—leaving the rival claimants for the Iron Throne alone in the room once more. Now that there is a moment of privacy, Daenerys turns back to Daveth and approaches him.
"I take it you're well enough for the battle after that flying lesson," she inquires.
Daveth scoffs. "If you're suggesting that I plan on sitting this out, you're gravely mistaken."
"Good. Everyone knows the risks."
"All it takes is a simple reminder of what fate lies in store for them if we fall short."
"A sentiment your advisors seem to share."
"There are only a few seasoned war veterans left from the War of the Ninepenny Kings," he mentioned. "Their counsel has proved valuable these past six years."
"You faced your first battle then?"
"The Stag Sedition, the maesters call it. It was the first time I ever fought in a war. It's also where I got this," he points to the vertical scar along his eye. "When it first started, we were outnumbered two-to-one. But it mattered little in the end. Victory in battle is not always won through superior numbers."
Daenerys finally got close enough. "And here I thought I knew my family. Families are a complicated bunch."
"Ours certainly have been," he agrees. They both sit down in the seats both Daveth and Yohn were previously occupying. "Terrible thing to admit, but no one is perfect. Life would be too easy if they were."
"And yet most people still aren't inclined to accept a woman's rule ever since my ancestor Rhaenerya led the Blacks to reclaim her rightful place on the Iron Throne in the Dance of Dragons a century and a half ago. Now? From what I can tell, I've done a damn good job at what I did with mine."
Daveth raises an eyebrow.
"And yet, I can't help but feel we're still at odds with one another," she continues.
"Are you surprised by that?"
"All my life, I've known one goal: the Iron Throne. Taking it back from the people who destroyed my family. My war was against them."
Daveth again felt agitated.
"And yet here we are," Daenerys looks around the room. "Targaryen and Baratheon are fighting alongside each other as Aegon the Conqueror and Orys Baratheon did three centuries ago. If Jaehaegon hadn't convinced me otherwise, we'd still be at each other's throats."
So that's the turncoat's name, he put the pieces together. "The Lord of the Tides'...?"
"Lord Monford's cousin," Daenerys corrected. "I'm here because I love him and I trust him. He's the only second man in my life I can say that about."
"My wife said the same thing about me when we first met here in this exact same place years ago," he reminisced slightly, being careful not to reveal too much. "Still... there's much to be done when we defeat the dead and there will be casualties. Funeral rites to oversee, ruined lives and homes to rebuild, all of it." He then posed a big serious question. "That's what I'll be doing afterwards. To help them heal, keep them safe. But what about you? What will you do then?"
"We can negotiate a peaceful transition of the Iron Throne," Daenerys suggested.
Daveth frowned; the conversation went exactly as he expected it would. You say one thing, but you actually mean another. "I see you've learned nothing from our last conversation about the topic. So let me remind you," he stood up and looked down at her. "After the people rose up and overthrew the Mad King, we said we'd never bow to a Targaryen ever again. The fact that you're even mentioning the Iron Throne tells me you still plan on taking it. Your desire for control of the throne makes you even more dangerous than your father and my mother. The greater the power, the greater the temptation to misuse it," he leans in close to her face. "To seize control over all people and ultimately to destroy all life unless it perfectly obeys—which is a vision of total. Global. Slavery."
Daenerys frowned deeply at that accusation, feeling an insult to the comparison to what she stood against and rose up to meet his eyes despite the height difference. Both leaders continued staring each other down until Maester Luwin pushed the door open, stopping slightly when he felt the tension in the room.
"Oh. Uh, my apologies, Your Graces," he apologized.
"What is it now?" they said, both equally agitated.
Winterfell — The Godswood...
Jon stared down at the godswood, a blank expression clearly written on his face. He looked rather despondent, unsure of what to believe what was true or not. Having learned of his true parentage, Jon shook his head at the thoughts. But the more he scanned through the pages of High Septon Maynard's old diary, the more Jon felt sick to his stomach. His exhale shook and lowered his shoulders.
"I wondered where you were, Jon," Robb broke his concentration. "We're about to go over the final stages for the war."
Jon turned to look at his half-brother... no, his cousin he reminded himself. "Oh. Robb. Sorry. I didn't... hear you," he said quietly.
Robb noticed something was wrong. "What's bothering you?" he inquired.
Damn it, Sam, I wish you never told me. "It's just... I learned a horrible truth."
"Jon, if it's about the upcoming battle we can just—"
"No, Robb. That's not it at all."
"Then what is it? We're family. The six of us. You, me, Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon."
"I'M NOT A STARK, ROBB!" Jon unexpectedly yelled. After realizing he raised his voice, he looked away.
Robb, although taken aback by Jon's outburst, simply didn't budge.
"You remember Lyanna Stark?" he continued.
"Our aunt," the Young Wolf confirmed. "We all heard that Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped her and raped her. Our uncle and grandfather demanded justice and got murdered for it."
"He didn't kidnap her or rape her," Jon shook his head, still clutching the diary in his hand.
Now Robb was growing very confused. "What are—"
"Go ask the man we once called father, Robb! All I've ever known to be true is a lie! I'm not a Stark. I never was one to begin with..." He shows him the diary. "Rhaegar annulled his marriage to Elia Martell so he could marry Lyanna in secret. After he fell in battle against King Robert on the Trident, Lyanna had a son. Robert would have murdered the baby if he ever found out, and Lyanna knew it. So, the last thing she did before she died, bleeding to death on her birthing bed, was give the boy to her brother, Ned Stark, to raise as his own bastard son."
Robb listened closely before raising his eyebrows in shock as Jon explained what was on his mind, what bothered him so much.
"My name isn't Jon Snow," he finalized. "My name—my real name—is... is Aegon Targaryen, last surviving son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. We were never brothers. We are cousins."
"How... how is it possible?" Robb scans through the diary to find the transcribe, unable to comprehend what is being told to him.
Jon still remained doubtful. "I wish none of this was real, but it is. It's all there in that diary. Samwell read about their marriage at the Citadel without even knowing what it is. Ned Stark lied to your mother... to protect me."
Robb shook his head. "Does anyone else know?" he asked.
"You, me, Bran, Sam and your mother," he confessed. "But you have to swear you'll never tell another soul. I'll tell them the truth when this is over."
As Jon and Robb continued their conversation, little did they know was that Jaehaegon was peering around the corner—eavesdropping on the whole thing. His violet eyes widened with concerned and shook his head with disgust. Having learned what he had just recently discovered, he disappeared from the Godswood to seek out his lover.
During such, a messenger arrived. "Lord Stark! Snow. Pardon me, but we have people coming back from Last Hearth."
Winterfell — The courtyard...
"ALL of them?! You mean to tell me all of the scouts are dead?!" Daveth said with a booming voice.
Eddison nodded with the remaining Night's Watch rangers. Tormund and Beric acknowledged their findings as the last remaining scout they found eventually succumbed to his wounds. Despite holding out for as long as he did, the cold winter proved too much to handle. Samwell turned the corner and flinched at the sound of the Young Stag's voice getting seemingly louder by the second. Robb and Jon hurried to the courtyard to see what the ruckus was about, but judging by the look on Daveth's face both young men knew that the news wasn't good. Daveth turned and noticed both of them starting at him.
"Tell them everything you just told me! Robb, I have to get my armies into position. Son of a bitch!"
Robb didn't get a chance to ask before Daveth quickly turned on his heels and ran off. The Young Wolf followed closely behind, leaving Jon alone to deal with the new arrivals. He quickly heads over and sees a couple of old friends from the Night's Watch, but before Jon can embrace Eddison – Tormund roughly hugs him first.
"Little crow," he laughed.
"I thought we lost you," Jon said with a sense of relief.
"Almost."
"How did you find each other?"
Eddison stepped forward. "We met up at the Last Hearth," he said.
"The dead got there first. The scouts your southern King and the Dragon Queen has been yelling at us about are all dead," Tormund revealed.
Jon's face dropped with horror. "And Lord Umber?" he asks, having noticed his absence.
"He's fighting for the Night King now, as are whoever remained trapped there," replied Beric.
Tormund nodded. "We had to travel around the entire fucking Army of the Dead to get here. Whoever's not here now is with them."
"How long do we have?" Jon asks.
"Before the sun comes up tomorrow."
With that, every abled-body in Winterfell immediately began scrambling. Tonight was going to be possibly their last night. It was going to a long, cold and dark one...