The Crippled Wolf-Stark SI: Ch.93

Chapter 93

JON STARK

War was here, and so was their King. Despite the weather and roads, Cregan had ridden day and night to make it in time for the final battle, and now he was here at the wall leading the gathering of men and women into battle.

Yet he had not come alone. The Targaryen Princess had ridden with him, intrigued by the whispers of white walkers and family. She had come to him, seeking kin and advice, only for Cregan to remind her that there was yet one more Targaryen still alive in the world.

It was a name they had long forgotten, and as they sat beside him, his misty eyes remained rooted on the wall in front of him, as his calloused hands reached for their faces.

“I never thought that I would see the day,” he whispered in his aged and raspy voice, and neither of them knew how to react to that, for the old man in front of them was a Targaryen.

Aemon Targaryen, son of Maekar, had fate been kind to him, he could have one day sat on the Iron Throne.

“I had thought myself the last of our line, yet I was wrong,” and there was a genuine joy in his voice, as the Princess and Jon sat down beside the aged man, whose body trembled with age and cold.

The warmth of the fire was now long gone, and only the last embers remained as the castles all prepared themselves for battle.

“I am not a Targaryen,” Jon argued, for he had forsaken that part of himself years ago.

“Aye, I know yet names matter so little, my boy. Dragon blood runs through your veins, and that makes you a Targaryen no matter what you may choose to call yourself,” and he shook his head.

“I am Stark,” he argued.

“You are that as well, but you are a Targaryen as well,” he added a bit tersely, and now it was the Targaryen Princess who chimed in, her voice barely above a whisper as thick white furs wrapped her body keeping her warm.

“Why did you do it?” she asked, looking at him, and he had never been asked that question before.

“Your brother, the King,” and the words were spoken strangely as she looked him in the eye.

“He told me that he offered you a chance to take the throne. To reclaim our family’s legacy, and yet you refused. Why?” she asked, and it was a choice that would beguile any man, yet for Jon it had been easy.

“Because I did not desire to be a Targaryen, or a King,” and perhaps if he had not been a Stark, he would have desired that name for himself, but he had always felt himself a Stark.

“Because I did not know what it meant to be a Targaryen,” and the young Princess frowned.

“Then you could have learned. You could have ruled over the Seven Kingdoms,” she insisted, and he shook his head.

“I did not desire the throne. I was not worthy of it,” for he was certain that had he been the one sitting on the Iron Throne, he would not have been able to do half of what his brother had accomplished.

Jon had not sat idle during the past five years, yet his brother had toiled endlessly all in the service of the realm. He had brought them peace and prosperity like never before. He had prepared them for wars which few men could foresee, and if there was a semblance of hope amidst the men and women gathered in the castles around them, it was all because of his brother.

“I had only ever wished to be a Stark, and that is what I chose,” he answered resolutely, to put away the matter.

“And I did not choose wrong,” he said, and she still remained conflicted.

“Do you think your brother was worthy?” the aged Maester asked, and Jon nodded.

“Aye, for he bore the Crown not for greed and power but for duty, and I can think of no man who could have prepared us for this coming war as well as him,” and even the Maester nodded.

“I know not whether your decision was right or wrong,” the aged Maester began.

“It just gives me solace that our name shall not die with me,” and with that, he shifted slightly towards his Aunt, and it was strange to think of her in that way, for they were near equal in their age.

“I know nothing of what you have suffered, but the throne matters very little....”

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CREGAN STARK

It was time.

Fate had finally come calling, and as he stared at the dying embers of the pyre, he knew that the Battle for Dawn was upon them. In the distance, he could feel a pair of cold, icy orbs peering straight at him as the army of the living gathered behind him.

An army nearly eighty thousand strong, with giants and wargs, and weapons of all kinds. It was as good an army as he could assemble through his efforts, he had given them any and all the edge he could, yet still he could feel the doubt and fear lingering in the hearts of men behind him.

He himself was no different, though. His own hands trembled under his thick furs as he gazed at the storm of white and blue readying itself to rage against them. Still, he had to cling to the embers of bravery and sanity, not for himself but for the millions upon millions of lives that were now dependent upon him.

“You don’t have to do this,” his own father whispered as he stood beside him.

“Let me lead the charge,” he whispered, and Cregan shook his head.

“We ride against death itself,” he answered as he turned to look at the man who had been his most significant pillar of support in these years.

“If their hearts falter for but a second, then Death shall win. No, the men must see their King leading them,” for he could not have their hearts falter. Not now.

His father disapproved of his choice, yet he was the King.

“You never listen to me,” he complained as he shook his head.

“Sansa was ever the only one who could tame you,” and he was thankful that she was not here.

“Then let me promise you,” he answered back, as his father raised a brow.

“After this war, I will start listening to you,” and his father chuckled amidst the cold, as he turned around and took his place behind him.

“I will hold you to your word then, your grace,” and with that, the white storm began to shift, as the last embers of green fire keeping them away died in the cold winds, and with that, a hush fell on the men as he turned around and climbed onto the wooden boxes that had been put there.

“THE DEAD HAVE BEGUN THEIR MARCH AGAINST US, AND NOW WE FACE THE SAME ENEMY THAT OUR ANCESTORS ONCE PUSHED BACK! AN ENEMY WHO WISHES NOT TO RULE BUT DEVOUR ALL THAT LIES BEHIND US!” he shouted, and his voice could reach but a few thousand, yet the men did not care.

They needed their King to lead them into battle, and that was what he would do.

He held onto his blade and let the warmth from Melisandre’s dying red stone fill him as he continued.

“THOUSANDS WILL DIE HERE TONIGHT! BUT MAKE NO MISTAKE, THEY WILL DIE AS HEROES! THEY WILL DIE AS LEGENDS! THEY WILL BE REMEMBERED!” and his voice rose.

“FOR TOMMOROW THE SUN SHALL DAWN ONCE AGAIN AND WHEN IT DOES IT SHALL BE THE LIVING THAT SHALL STAND VICTORIOUS!” and the man roared with him, as they brandished their blades, and he jumped onto his horse, as the army began to trod behind him.

“CLING TO LIFE! DO NOT FALTER! FIGHT!” he implored, as the army began its advance, a cavalry laced with shields and spears, laced with dark obsidian shaped by the castle’s smiths.

“FIGHT UNTIL YOU CAN NO MORE!” he implored, and prayed himself as the two armies rushed at one another, a mere yard away from each other as his eyes searched for those deep blue orbs that had been eyeing him for so long.

“IT IS TIME FOR WARRR!”

CLASH!

Miles away as swords in the Red Keep, the Queen knelt on the floor as she prayed to her Gods, before the sound of Aurora’s howl tore through the stillness.

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The Second Battle for Dawn was not a battle. It was a war. One that was waged over the course of five years. Many wonder when the Quiet Wolf learn of this great enemy, and question if it was this knowledge that made him earn that moniker.

The young King had spent five years preparing the realm as best as he could against this foreign enemy and assembled an army of over a hundred thousand men and women through his efforts.

He then led them into battle himself, leading the charge along with his fabled cavalry.

Details of the battle remain lost to chaos, yet it is documented that of every ten men that rode into the battle, nine died during it. And even those who made it back saw their numbers cut in half within a few days as men and women succumbed to their injuries.

Five thousand. That was the entirety of the men and women who survived the battle.

The battle itself lasted no more than a day, and it took them three days to sift through the dead to separate the injured and living. The King’s body was found a day into the efforts by none other than the greatest challenger to his rule, the Princess Daenerys Targaryen.

The battle had taken an entire lung from him, and it was only the cold that kept him alive for two more days. No Stark beside him survived the battle, as the army of the dead swallowed both his brothers and his father.

He would spend his last days with the Princess of Summerhall, as they mourned together—Him the loss of his brothers and father. Her the loss of the only family she had known.

Yet despite the pain and the lingering death, the King spent his last moments dictating letters to the Princess who had once tried to wage a war against him. Some of them were for his council, and his lords carrying in them warnings, and reminders about their loyalties.

Others were addressed to his family, to his wife, and siblings as he professed to them his love and devotion with his dying breaths.

It is said that the Princess shed tears as she scribed for the dying King, and in her own last moments, years later, spoke the following words.

“I have seen over half a dozen Kings in my life, and yet to this day I have seen no man more worthy of the Iron Throne than him. He was a man married to his duty, and is the very reason that you and I draw breath to this day. He was not the King we deserved, but the one we needed the Most.”
                                                   The Second Coming of Dawn

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1 more chapter and then epilogues.....