The Protector: Part 20
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Imagine hiding in the crypts with Sansa since you’re not fully recovered from the Battle of the Bastards.
When Jon had insisted you hide in the crypts, you had protested. You weren’t as strong as you had once been, but every sword would be needed above to fight the Night King. Sparring with Arya had helped you regain some of your old abilities, enough to help kill at least a few wights. If tonight was the night you died, you wanted it to be with a sword in your hand, not hiding in the dark.
Jon remained patient and rested a hand on your shoulder, even as you tensed under his touch. “Your place is by Sansa’s side. And the smallfolk trust you. They’ll be less frightened if you’re with them.”
You ground your teeth.
Jon let out a sigh through his nose, saying your name to draw your attention back to him, “I trust you to protect Sansa. So that’s where I need you to be.”
And so that’s how you ended up hidden away in the crypts of Winterfell, sword at your side and armour strapped to your shoulders while the battle raged on above. You had awful memories of Maegor’s Holdfast during the Battle of Blackwater Bay, watching the Queen drink her anxieties away. Faces peered at you from the darkness, lit by the flickering lights of the candles scattered through the stony tomb. Flesh and stone looked eerily alike. You could only tell the statues from the smallfolk by their expressions. Stern or fear. Jon had been right. The smallfolk looked to you and to Sansa, sometimes even to Tyrion, desperate for any inkling of certainty in their fear.
Your frustration was palpable. You could sense it mirrored in Tyrion too. The helplessness was unbearable. All you could do was wait and listen and dread what might force its way through the doors above.
“You might be surprised at the lengths I’d go to before joining the army of the dead,” Tyrion pointed out, wine skin in hand as he moved to sit by Sansa. “I can think of no organization less suited to my talents.”
“Witty remarks won’t make a difference,” Sansa whispered, her gaze drifting across the faces of those gathered in the darkness around her. “That’s why we’re down here, we can’t do anything.”
Your jaw tensed at her words, your grip on the hilt of your sword tightening.
“It’s the truth,” Sansa continued softly. “It’s the most heroic thing we can do now. Look the truth in the face.”
Tyrion seemed almost amused at that. “Maybe we should have stayed married.”
Sansa’s eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment before going back to Tyrion, something neither of you failed to notice. “You were the best of them.”
He laughed at that, a nervous sound, “What a terrifying thought.”
“It would never have worked between us.”
Tyrion looked to the stone over his head, a small slightly sad smile tugging at his lips as his own eyes drifted towards you, “I could never compete with a direwolf, could I?”
You looked away, feigning as though you hadn’t been listening as you fiddled with your sword and purposefully moved off a few paces. You didn’t hear Sansa’s response. For a moment you were so wrapped up in your own thoughts, you almost forgot about the undead army raging above.
Almost.
They hadn’t forgotten about you.
You weren’t sure how much time had passed when you heard the screams. You stepped towards the entrance of the crypt, one hand on your sword. Your heart was in your throat. There were men pounding on the door above, screaming, crying and begging to be let in amid snarls and chaos. Then, abruptly, there was silence.
It didn’t last long.
Scratching and muffled snarls slowly filled the crypt just as dread filled your stomach. You drew your sword. Somewhere, a baby began to cry. The snarling grew louder.
“Get behind me,” you ordered Sansa as the smallfolk began to scream. “Now!”
The wights were inside the crypt.
You shoved Sansa and Tyrion behind an outcropping. “Stay down.” Sansa’s eyes were wide, her fear raw and palpable. Her hand clutched yours, unwilling to let go, her gaze begging you not to leave her alone in the dark. Your breath hitched.
It was dark, far too dark, but you could see those creatures moving in the blackness, could hear their snarls as they tore apart women, children, and old men. One ran at you. You let go of Sansa’s hand and swung your sword, cleaving one of her skeletal ancestors from shoulder to hip. They were unlike anything you had ever seen. Your hands shook, not from weakness but from fear. You were supposed to defend these people. You were supposed to protect Sansa. What good were you against the undead? The smallfolk had looked to you. You were their direwolf. Now you could hear them screaming in the dark. You could hear the sounds of their flesh being torn apart by monsters. You had to help them.
You looked down and Sansa’s gaze met yours. You swallowed hard, hating to see so much fear and despair in those blue eyes. Her expression tore your heart to pieces. Your chances of making it through the night were becoming less and less likely. Hell, your chances of making it through the next few minutes were dwindling. You both knew it and it was fucking terrifying.
You did the only thing you could think to do. You kissed her. The kiss was hard and desperate and all too brief, filled with grief and despair and pent-up emotion. Your hand curled around the back of her neck, your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to memorize the taste of her lips, since they could be the last good thing you ever touched in the world that had turned into hell. You broke away for air, letting your forehead linger where it pressed against hers for a moment longer. And then you were gone.
Jon had been right. You weren’t as skilled or as strong as you had once been. But these creatures weren’t knights. They came at you haphazardly, skeletal arms ready to tear at you. You met them with your blade, the pain in your side like a ghost nipping at your heels. Being strong was the only choice you had. Forcing yourself to endure was the only thing that stood between you and death. Not just your death, but Sansa’s too. You slashed a wight off of a dying little girl. Another jumped onto your back, clawing and scrabbling at you with half-skeletal hands, scraps of leathery flesh barely clinging to its fingers. Rotted teeth sank into your ear and you screamed, staggering as you flipped it forwards over your back. Blood poured down your neck as you stabbed your sword down through its skull, panting heavily.
Five more wights took its place, advancing as pain and exhaustion began to take its toll. You were vaguely aware of a dozen small wounds, blood clouding your vision from a cut along your brow and slicking your palms. You held your sword with both hands, struggling to ignore the burning in your muscles as you raised it again. How many had you already killed? How many were there? Your back was against the wall of the crypt. You had nowhere left to run as you fought to deflect their blows.
You weren’t the fighter you had once been. It was only a matter of time before one got through. Your movements were turning sluggish as the blows continued to rain down. A rusted sword bit deep into your leg. You fell to one knee, a curse on your lips. Your arms shook as you raised your blade to block a blow that would have cleaved your head from your shoulders. You wondered dully which on Sansa’s ancestors would be the one to kill you as the wights swarmed over you.
You never got your answer.
As quickly as their boney fingers began to claw and their teeth began to tear, the wights collapsed in a heap on top of you, limp and lifeless. You lay beneath them, bleeding and struggling to breathe, feeling weak as a kitten.
Then someone was there, pulling the wights off of you, calling your name in the darkness. You coughed, face filthy and blood-stained, confused until your gaze found blue eyes in the failing candlelight. Sansa’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a sitting position as she held to you for dear life.
“Am I dead?” you croaked out.
Sansa’s answer was to hug you tighter.
Finally, she pulled away just far enough to let her hands cup your face. There were tears in her eyes and a watery smile on her lips. “We made it,” she breathed out in a rush.
You gave a breathless nod, head spinning from pain and a fast-ebbing tide of adrenaline. It was only when Sansa and Tyrion had helped you to your feet that you saw the true carnage that had taken place. Your moment of victory faded at the sight of the butchered smallfolk scattered across the crypt. You sheathed your sword with shaking hands, leaning heavily on Sansa’s shoulder as you looked away. Just because you had survived didn’t mean everyone had. How many more dead lay waiting above? How many of your friends had perished before the battle was won?
You held tighter to Sansa and let her help you limp towards the entrance, only now realizing just how lucky you had really been.
Gif Credit: Sansa