36-Courage and Duty

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the Harry Potter and A Song of Ice and Fire universes. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of Joanne K. Rowling and George R.R. Martin, respectively. I make no claim to ownership.

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Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki and Old man of the mountain. I also want to thank my beta-readers nicknm and Bub3loka for helping me bounce ideas around.

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If you're feeling generous and want to support me, you can find me on P*T*E*N under the same name to read three chapters ahead of discord.

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Shireen Baratheon

She tucked a winter rose in her hair and absentmindedly ran a hand through Ghost's silky fur as they left the glass gardens and headed towards the godswood. Jyanna Snow was trailing a few paces behind her and her ladies-in-waiting.

"I thought you were raised in the Faith of the Seven?" Alys asked as they trudged through the snow. Even Myrcella's perked up in interest at the question.

"I was, until my Lady Mother got beguiled by the Red Witch from Asshai. They tried to convert me to the Red God, but…" the memory brought a frown to her face. "I am a Stark now, and the Starks follow the Old Gods."

The small sept in Winterfell had long been demolished, and she was never truly a devout believer in the Seven. There was something… powerful in the ancient godswood that she had never felt in a sept before, and Shireen had realised that praying at the heart tree managed to soothe her otherwise worried heart. And the Old Gods were not as strict, nor did they require any gold and worship, unlike the Seven and R'hllor.

She kneeled in the snow in front of the heart tree and silently prayed for her husband's success and safe return from the south. The crimson leaves of the tree shook slightly, despite the lack of wind. Alys joined her in her prayer.

After a few minutes, they both stood up, and the young Queen felt far more peaceful.

"Where to now?" Alys asked.

"To the Great Keep," she responded. "My good-sister has begun weaving a tapestry on her own, and we should assist her."

"What is she going to depict?" The golden-haired girl asked curiously.

"The Battle for Winterfell."

Shireen had stayed back in the camps, yet Sansa had watched the battle in person from a hill nearby. The Queen was very interested in seeing the depiction of the fight that had become nearly legendary - one where giants, dragons, men, and direwolves fought for the first time in known history.

They fell into a comfortable silence as they trudged through the snow.

"Winterfell would be perfect if it weren't for the cold," Myrcella said with a sigh and shivered even under her thick fur cloak.

"You will get used to it, " Alys smirked. "Winterfell's the warmest castle in the whole North. Hot water from the springs below runs in pipes through the stone walls, warming them. Karhold is far colder than this. And with so much snow, we can build a snow snark!"

"A snow snark?" Cella asked curiously.

"A sculpture made out of snow! My brothers and I used to make those as children when it snowed a lot back at Karhold." Shireen noticed how her companion's expression wilted a bit at the mention of her brothers. She knew the Kingslayer slew Torrhen and Eddard Karstark in the Battle in the Whispering Woods. The northern maiden was cold towards Myrcella at the start but managed to warm up to her slowly.

"Why don't we make one now?" The Queen proposed. Besides Edric, she hadn't truly played with anyone, and this idea sounded fun. At that moment, she looked to Ghost, only to find him gone. The white direwolf could scarcely be seen in the snow and probably ran deeper into the godswood.

"I suppose we can," a smile bloomed on Alys' face, and even Myrcella looked interested.

"How do we go about this?" The golden-haired girl inquired.

"First, you…"

Twenty minutes later, they were standing in front of two big snowballs stacked on top of each other with great effort. They were about to make a third one when Alys formed a small one in her gloved hand and threw it at Myrcella, hitting the girl straight in the face.

The Karstark lady burst out in merry laughter while Cella angrily cleared the snow from her reddened face. Her friend stood still in speechless indignation for a few moments before scooping up some snow, balling it up and throwing it back at Alys. When her shot missed, Alys began laughing even harder, and Myrcella once again made another snowball, and this time, she managed to hit her target in the face.

Snowballs started flying around, and when one struck Shireen, she got furious for a short moment before scooping up some snow and joining in the fight too. Who knew that throwing snow around was so exciting? Before the Queen knew it, they were all gasping with exhaustion, faces red, and cloaks covered with snow.

"Oh no!" Myrcella groaned in despair when looking at something behind Shireen. The Queen turned around, only to see a purple tail sweeping, and before she could even blink, all of them were showered in snow.

She heard a low rumbling sound as she was gingerly removing the snow from her hair and face. Stormstrider had raised his snout in the air and shook his head in amusement. Gods, her dragon was so unruly sometimes!

At that moment, something white moved through the snow, and before Shireen could blink, Ghost had leapt in the air with a thick stick in his mouth. She watched with amazement as the direwolf managed to smack the snout of the purple dragon with it.

Stormstrider immediately lowered his head and glared balefully at the direwolf as smoke wafted out of his nostrils. He swung his tail, trying to hurl a sweep full of snow at Ghost, but the direwolf avoided it by quickly darting between the snow-covered trees. After an annoyed growl, the purple dragon flapped his wings and followed above the treeline. Within a few moments, neither of them could be seen anymore.

"Ghost is such a sweet companion," Cella said with a tired giggle, and Alys also smiled after cleaning her face free of snow. "I wish I could have a direwolf of my own!"

Oh, how she had changed her tune. Shireen still remembered how her friend would become deathly pale as soon as Ghost neared her. The white direwolf had his way of sneaking into your heart.

At that moment, she saw Lord Manderly's page quickly running toward them.

"Your Grace, a letter arrived for you from the Wall, and the Lord Hand is gathering the council urgently!"

"Go assist Princess Sansa," Shireen ordered her ladies-in-waiting before turning to the young boy. "Lead the way, Alyn."

The Queen and her sworn shield quickly followed the page, who seemed to be rushing towards the council chambers. Shireen didn't know what the letter from the Watch contained to make Lord Manderly so worried, but it came in the most inopportune moment-precisely when Jon Stark had flown south to deal with the Targaryens.

When they arrived, the first thing that greeted them was the grim faces of the council. A large map of the Wall and the Gift was unfurled on the large table.

"What is the urgency, Lord Manderly?" Shireen asked with trepidation after going to her seat.

"A raven has come from the Shadow Tower," the Lord of White Harbour wiped the beads of sweat that were forming on his brow and emptied his cup of wine in one breath. "The Bridge of Skulls at Westwatch is under attack by wights! Or at least it was two days ago or so."

Her insides twisted into knots. She was well aware of the army of the dead, but it was a distant, unseen threat that was far away. But this news shattered that illusion painfully.

"What can we do?" Shireen asked worriedly. "Is there any information about the numbers of the enemy?"

"Denys Mallister, the Commander of the Shadow Tower, should have arrived to aid Westwatch. He has also sent riders to request aid from the nearby wildlings and to inform Lords Umber and Wull whose forces should be near Greyguard," Glover sighed and ran a hand through his greying hair. "Only the mountain Clansmen and the Mormonts are close enough to arrive. While the Mormonts can probably get there under a sennight, the mountain clansmen will take at least half a moon before their closest forces arrive at Westwatch. We can only pray Westwatch can hold until the King…succeeds quickly in the South and returns."

The grim doubt in Galbart's voice was audible. Did the Lord of Deepwood Motte think the king would fail or take a long time? She couldn't blame him, especially since Shireen's fears that Jon would be killed in the south grew in her chest and festered like a bad wound. Without him, the North would be lost and at the mercy of the Targaryens, who probably hated both the Starks and the Baratheons with a burning passion. She felt so small and lost at this moment; the enormous weight of the situation felt both suffocating and crushing.

"Didn't my husband order the Lords closest to the Gift to be prepared to call their banners on short notice? Call their banners," Shireen barely managed to find her voice and order with far more confidence than she felt.

"It will be done, Your Grace," Manderly bobbed his head tiredly.

"Is this Bridge of Skulls man-made or natural?" Edwyle asked and ran his finger over the map.

"Manmade. I saw it once when I visited the Shadow Tower," Glover grimly said.

"Can't they just… collapse this bridge of skulls?" the spymaster ran his finger over the map. "If they do that, the dead will not be able to pass anymore."

"'Tis a sturdy thing; demolishing it would be hard when it's swarming with enemies," Galbart grimly explained. "And according to a black brother named Qhorin Halfhand, the Gorge below is dangerous but not unpassable. The Bridge of Skulls is supposed to allow the Night's Watch a path directly over the Frostfangs and further west towards the Frozen Shore."

"Doesn't the Milkwater flow through that Gorge?" Lord Manderly asked and took a big gulp from his newly filled cup. "If the dead can cross the waters, what stops them from going around the Wall at Eastwatch?"

"If they could have gone around Eastwatch, they would have done that long ago," Glover sighed. Shireen silently thanked the gods for the small mercies. "No, the Milkwater flows beneath rock and stone there. Wildling raiders oft brave the Gorge, and they sometimes manage to sneak into the Gift."

"Doesn't that mean that these wights can do so too?" Edwyle fearfully asked.

Grave silence followed this chilling question. If the Free Folk could cross the Gorge below, what was indeed stopping the dead from doing so too?

The Night's Watch needed all the help it could get. But there was nobody else that could help…

'Great or small, we must all do our duty.'

Her father's voice echoed like thunder across her mind. The King might not be here, but there was another dragonrider in the North. Was not that why they married? Fear, bone-chilling fear, froze her for a short moment. Could she do it? Could she fly north to fight and burn?

Nobody knew when Jon would return.

'Or if he would return at all.'

An insidious thought once again wormed itself into her mind. She gritted her teeth and banished it angrily. Jon would return after slaying the Targaryens! If Shireen didn't go north, nobody would say anything. She was young, not even at the age of majority, and nobody would expect her to fight or lead. She could feel her hands trembling under the table.

No! Shireen Stark would not shirk her duty to the North! Her father did not raise her to be a coward.

"I will go," she uttered heavily.

"Go where, Your Grace?" The confusion on Edwyle's face would look amusing if things didn't feel so dire.

"To Westwatch," Shireen raised her voice and balled her hands under the table. "I will fly north and assist the Night's Watch!"

"We cannot afford to lose you too, Your Grace," Glover objected immediately.

"My husband is not lost in the south, Lord Glover," she said frostily. "He will return victoriously after dealing with the Targaryens, and until then, I will aid the Night's Watch in his stead!"

Galbart's shoulders sagged, but he didn't seem to give up.

"If anything happens to you, the King will be most wroth with us," the Lord of Deepwood Motte stubbornly said, and he threw a pleading expression at Manderly. Face grim, the Lord of White Harbour paid no heed and fell into deep contemplation.

"Her Grace is right, Galbart," Wyman sighed tiredly after a minute. Those words seemed to age the old lord another ten years in an instant. "We simply cannot risk wights spilling into the Gift. The castles along the Wall have no defences facing south and would be quickly overrun. Afterwards, the keeps and the villages in the North would be picked off one by one until we're all drowned in walking corpses. But if you go into battle, we must first fit you with armour, Your Grace. And you will take your sworn shield with you!"

She frowned for a moment but nodded. Stormstrider could now fly for more than three hours before getting tired. Hopefully, he could carry both her and Jyanna for a long flight.

"Call for the armourer, then. Every moment is precious."

There were no more objections, and Lord Manderly quickly sent his page to fetch the smith.

The next hour passed in a blur, and with the assistance of Jyanna, Shireen was finally fitted with an arming doublet and grey brigandine. It was one of the few that fit her, yet it still felt a little tight across the chest. Throwing her thick fur-lined cloak over her shoulders, she headed towards Stormstrider's haunt near the glass gardens.

As she walked through the empty yard, the Queen realised that nobody had notified her good-sisters or ladies in waiting, as only Lord Manderly, Glover, and the Blackfish were sending her off. But she couldn't turn back and wait now.

"From now on, Princess Sansa is in charge of Winterfell," Shireen ordered just before they saw the purple dragon lazily napping in the snow without a single care in the world. Thankfully, he had stopped chasing Ghost around the godswood. "And inform Myrcella and Alys of what happened too."

Stormstirder roused from his slumber as soon as they approached and looked curiously at the big group with his purple eyes. Shireen approached and rubbed his snout soothingly while Jyanna was quickly placing the saddle.

The Queen mounted the purple dragon as quickly as always, but when Jyanna attempted to join her on the saddle, she was pushed into the snow by his leathery wing. Stormstrider twisted his head and looked at Shireen questioningly.

She groaned in annoyance - of course, things would not be that simple.

"Calm down-Jyanna is only here to protect me," she tried to soothe him and rubbed his scaly snout again. That seemed to do the trick, as the next time her sworn shield attempted to join her on the saddle, he did not resist beyond a low, warning guttural growl.

With a jump, Stormstrider took off, and Shireen steered him northwards. He seemed to struggle with the additional weight because they flew slower than usual.

On the ground beneath them, a white direwolf was effortlessly running through the snow, unseen by anyone else.

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Asha Greyjoy

Asha's left leg was getting numb, so she instinctively shifted some of her weight onto the right one but quickly winced in pain. Out of her many injuries, this one was the worst, and she would have probably died if Theon hadn't managed to pull her into the cabins. Her body had been bruised black and blue, her left arm broken, and her right ankle smashed during the hail. While the maester on Harlaw treated the former, he couldn't do anything to mend the latter, and now she couldn't put much weight on her foot without feeling crippling pain. The grey fool had even suggested cutting it off in case it would rot. Now, she could only walk with the help of a cane. With the passing days, she had started to seriously consider having the bad limb removed and replaced with a peg leg.

"There are too few drowned men," she said with a frown as they walked towards Naga's Hill. Before, there were scores of them. Now, there were not even two dozen of them. The beating of their driftwood cudgels sounded weak in comparison to before. This kingsmoot scarcely had a fourth of the men compared to the previous one. Her nuncle's folly had cost the isles greatly.

"They say that your uncle Euron hunted down most of the priests when Damphair went missing," Qarl smirked. "Too bad he didn't manage to get all of them. I still don't know why anyone listens to the mad fuckers when all they do is talk."

"Lower your voice, fool," she hissed as she looked around the Naga's bones. Thankfully it looked like nobody besides her far smaller crew heard him among the kettledrums and warhorns. "If others hear my champion insulting the priests of the Drowned God, my support will dwindle greatly."

Rus raised his hand at that moment, and the hill slowly grew silent. The man did not command even half the respect her nuncle did. Too bad Aeron Greyjoy was not seen again since Euron became king. Asha suspected that the Crow's Eye had killed him too. The news of Euron's death had brought immense relief to her heart, and she had hoped that she could claim her rightful place as the Lady Reaper of Pyke without a hitch. But no, the thrice-damned drowned priests had called a kingsmoot once more, bringing her a headache.

"Euron is dead! The Iron king is dead!"

"The king is dead!" the handful of drowned men left shouted.

"What is dead may never die, yet rises again, harder and stronger!" Rus reminded them with his low, rumbling voice. "Euron has fallen. The Crow's Eye, they called him, yet he honoured the old ways and paid the iron price. Euron is dead, but an iron king shall rise again, to sit upon the Seastone Chair and rule the isles!"

"A king shall rise!" Asha stayed silent but heard Qarl join in the loud response and sighed inwardly. Her lover was a foolish man. "He shall rise!"

"He shall," Rus nodded and ran his bony hand through his long black beard. "But who? Who shall sit in Euron's place? Who shall rule these holy isles? Who shall be king among us?!

The priest nearly screamed in the end, and the people on the hill started measuring each other with uncertainty. Asha patiently waited. Nobody wanted to be first, as few ironmen would deign to choose someone at the very start when they would not have heard something that had struck their liking.

The silence stretched, and not even Gylbert Farwynd was foolish enough to come forth first again. Only the winds and crashing waves could be heard. Not even seagulls could be seen in the sky – a bad omen. Asha looked at the sun that was slowly crawling toward the west.

Rus stepped forth to ask again.

"Me!" A shout boomed from below and stopped the Drowned Priest in his steps.

"Andrik! Andrick king!" cries bellowed as a giant figure ascended towards the Grey King's Hall. Clad in steel like a knight, with a red cloak billowing in the wind behind him. Only a babe remained from House Drumm, and it seemed that Andrick no longer served them. Asha frowned – the Unsmiling was a dangerous foe, and she carefully looked to see who his champions were.

Her face soured at the sight of Jon Myre, who saw her and sent her an infuriatingly condescending smirk. The second one was the young Lord of Volmark, who had yet to reach six and ten name days. Asha did not recognise the last champion, but he was tall, second only to Andrick himself, and had a fierce scar across his face.

"Me! Who better to lead the Ironmen than the strongest warrior!?" the giant man's voice boomed, yet the gathering remained impassive. "I have slain many a Greenlander, and if you follow me, there will be more blood to be shed and spoils to be taken." A handful of men brought up three large oak chests and upended them on the base of the steps. Torrents of steel, silver, and bronze spilt forth; swords, daggers, dirks, axes, rings, and even necklaces. Asha frowned as many of the Ironborn helped themselves and cheered Andrick's name. The fierce man seemed to have earned plenty of spoils during Euron's campaign along the Reach. But just as much was not moved, and it was not enough. The shouts of support waned, and the giant of a man walked back down the hill.

"Who shall rule the Ironborn?!" Rus' voice rumbled in the clearing again. "Who shall rule over us?"

Once again, minutes passed, and the silence grew heavy. She still wondered if the Ironmen could be convinced to bend the knee to the dragons without fighting. Asha gritted her teeth while waiting for someone else to step up again. A good part of the ironborn died in the cold North, and after Euron's campaign in the Reach, very few remained. Most Houses were down to either greybeards or babes. Then, she looked at her uncle, Rodrick Harlaw, who met her gaze, and he sighed tiredly. When she was young, she remembered a dozen Greyjoys and twice as much from her mother's House, but now there was only Theon, her, Rodrick, and a young Harlaw girl of a branch line left. And Theon was nought but a shell of his former self, now shadowing behind her aimlessly.

"I say we bend the knee to the dragons again," his voice was met with a short moment of silence before angry shouts burst forward.

"Traitor!"

"Craven!"

"You dare call yourself an Ironman!?"

"Did your books addle your brains, old man?!"

Rodrick sombrely climbed the stone steps, and the commotion slowly subsided.

"Baelor Hightower has taken most of Euron's fleet and is hunting the Ironmen like dogs in the Sunset Sea!" his voice gained strength. "But forget about the flowery Reachlord. Everyone who stayed in the North to hold lands has been butchered mercilessly. We have little to show for all those wars and now scarcely have anything else left but green boys and greybeards! We've made many enemies and no friends, yet we're weaker than ever! Daenerys and Aegon Targaryen now command dragons once again. If we bend the knee to the dragons, the Greenlanders would be forced to keep their King's Peace, and in ten, fifteen years, we can prosper again!"

Whispers and murmurs filled Naga's Hill. Rus banged his driftwood cudgel on a rock nearby, and everything went silent.

"This is a kingsmoot, Harlaw. If a Greenlander king wants to rule the Iron Isles, he should come here and put forth his claim or pay the iron price" the priest raised his hands, and she watched with a heavy heart as nearly all the ironmen roared in approval. Those words had seemed to age her uncle another ten years in an instant. "Either put forth your claim or leave!"

Rodrick Harlaw's shoulders sagged as he descended the steps, accompanied by jeering and insults. Asha scowled. With a broken arm and a crippled leg, she would be hard-pressed to get much to follow her, let alone to follow her in bending the knee to a Greenlander. A few of her captains and crew were lost in the storm. More left when she could not rise from the bed for a fortnight.

'What kind of an Ironborn barely survives a storm?!'

Did every move that the Ironmen made have to be paid in blood? Could she do anything to salvage this farce anymore? How many would have to die for nought just because they didn't want to be beholden to a Greenlander who would most probably leave them to their own devices as long as they did not reave in Westeros? Why did they have to cling to the Old Ways with such fervour when it brought nothing but enemies? The glory days when the Ironborn could rule the Sunset Sea from the Arbour to the Frozen Shore were long gone, left behind in the bloody pages of history.

"Who shall rule the Ironborn? Who shall be king over us?!"

At that moment, a terrifying roar reverberated through the sky and hope arose in her chest. If Daenerys came here to support her, mayhaps this foolishness would end!? After seeing them in person, few would be daring enough to resist the dragons.

"A dragon!" Fearful shouts tore through the Grey King's Hall, and she could see many men grip their weapons harder.

But she ignored them and gazed at the skies. The heavy flap of the mighty wings was music to her ears as an enormous dragon descended towards Naga's Hill. She would finally get to sit on the Seastone Chair and could lead her people to a better, more prosperous future.

The gathering watched with uneasy fascination as the dragon was nearing. The monster opened its maw and belched a mighty torrent of black flame, streaked with blue, right towards the gathering, and terror tore through Asha's breast. Did Daenerys betray her after ferrying her men from Slaver's Bay to Westeros? Dark blue scales glinted in the waning sunlight, and she froze.

None of the Dragon Queen's dragons was blue! Were there other dragons in the world?! Qarl had already run away, and she would have joined him if not for her bad leg. As the Ironmen tried fleeing, rings of ominous purple fire burst outside and cut off any path of retreat. A few men bravely attempted to jump through the violet flames, only to turn to ash in seconds. The screams of the dying and the smell of charred meat, shit and piss struck her like a hammer, and she heaved forward to retch. Pain wracked her leg as her crippled ankle gave out, and she fell face first, as her arm couldn't even grasp the cane anymore.

As her stomach emptied, she could feel the blistering heat in the air. Her eyes had started to tear up from the sour smoke. The screams quickly started dying out as she had nothing else to puke out. A pair of hands managed to help her up with great effort, and she tiredly turned around only to see Theon handing her back her cane. His gaunt face looked hollow yet undisturbed by the surrounding fire. In the end, everyone else that followed her ran, and only he stayed back to help her. But would he truly have done so if he had not longed to end his agonising existence for a long time? She looked around, only to see everything around them was burning, yet for some reason, neither did the surrounding fire spread towards them, nor the dragon belched fire in their direction.

Suddenly the fires were snuffed out, and the monster descended. Smoke rose from the blackened ground, and charred corpses littered the place. The smell of burnt flesh made her heave forward, despite her empty stomach. Theon managed to hold her, and once Asha regained her bearing, she saw that her brother's chalky face had paled even further. She fearfully traced his gaze only to see that the dragon had landed and was looming quietly a few yards away. The surrounding smoke had suddenly stopped. But that was not what Theon was looking at. A tall figure clad in black armour jumped off the dragon's back and approached them. A white snarling direwolf head proudly adorned his breastplate. He took off his helmet, only to reveal a sharp, long face with long curly hair that looked so impossibly soft that it would not have been out of place if it had belonged to a maiden and a pair of savage purple eyes. There was a piece of silk tied to his wrist, and she could see a direwolf head, and the crowned black stag of House Baratheon embroidered with great detail.

"Imagine my surprise when I heard that every single Ironborn of note had gathered in one place." The man's icy voice sent chills across her sweaty back. "I just had to visit, you see. And mayhaps I'd get to find you here, Theon."

"J-Jon? Is that you?" her brother croaked out weakly before wincing in pain. One of his many scars flaring up, no doubt.

"Aye, it's me." Fuck! How did a Stark have a dragon?! "Tell me, oh, self-proclaimed Prince of Winterfell, did you feel mighty when you joined the pirates in reaving and raping across the lands that took you and raised you as your own? Did you enjoy sacking the Keep of a man that raised you as his son?" Theon remained silent and lowered his head even more than usual. "No, I see that the Bolton bastard has finally beaten the arrogance out of you, and your eyes are finally filled with regret. Yet that doesn't change what you did. Rickon, Bran, and quite possibly Robb are dead because of you. Yet you helped my sweet sister escape from her terrible prison in her darkest hour when nobody else would. For that, I will show you one mercy; you can choose how you go."

Asha tried to speak out in protest, but only a raspy cough came out of her sore throat. Oh, how she cursed her broken arm and shattered ankle at this very moment!

"The Old Way," Theon rasped out. Under her disbelieving eyes, his spine straightened up, and his head rose for the first time since he had escaped the Boltons. Her brother proudly stepped forth, and approval shone in the savage purple eyes of the dragonrider.

"Words?"

Theon shook his head quietly.

Asha attempted to move, to protest, do something, anything, yet her limbs felt as heavy as lead and refused to listen to her commands. Her second try at speaking once more produced a painful raspy cough. But neither Theon nor this Jon paid her any heed. The dragonrider stepped forward and unsheathed a bronze sword covered with blackened veins that screamed danger. She watched on with trepidation for something to happen, yet nothing moved for a few impossibly long heartbeats. Then, Asha's eyes widened as Theon's head slid from his shoulders and slumped on the ground alongside his body. She had not even seen him move!

The sword returned to the scabbard, the man turned around and headed back towards his dragon, and for a short moment, Asha thought that he had forgotten about her. But then a maw full of razor-sharp teeth opened, and the last thing she saw was the black flames streaked with blue.