Hollow Crown ↬ Daenerys Targaryen

27

The castle is eerily quiet as Daenerys and Percy make their way toward the war room. There's not an unarmed soul roaming the halls, the citizens having long since retreated to the crypts. Neither have ever seen Winterfell this empty, only amplifying the sense of dread lingering in the night air.

A handful of Dothraki and Unsullied follow alertly behind them, weapons at the ready though the danger isn't yet present. Daenerys would say they could sense it before it comes, like their horses could sense a storm. Even the Unsullied walk with an air of caution, an unusual sight given their usual neutrality.

But with the threat on it's way, it's not surprising that even the calmest of warriors move with vigilance.

Percy eyes the outside of the castle as they pass each window, scanning their defenses with an inquisitive eye. Dozens of trenches had been built outside of the walls in hopes that the front line of dead would charge right into them. Oil was spilt across the ground in and around them, which - if all goes according to plan - would be lit when enough of them fall in to make an impact on their numbers.

That task alone is an arrow shot in the dark.

Past the trenches, closer to the castle itself, smaller fences had been reconstructed with spears protruding from every inch possible. Jon had made the suggestion, considering that the army are nothing but mindless beasts with only the intent to kill and wouldn't know better than to avoid them. They had all but charged off of a cliff beyond the wall just to get to a handful of the living.

Barrels of oil had been loaded into catapults inside of the wall, acting as one of the manned forms of defense once the army breaks the first line. One final attempt to knock down their numbers before they reach their final obstacle before hell breaks loose: the soldiers.

Warriors from various Kingdoms line the front of the castle, all prepared to fight and likely give their lives in the battle. It had been made evident to every one of them fighting that this would be their last. Not because there's not hope for a victory, but because it's much easier to expect it than to be blindsided by the carnage of a war against the dead.

Percy's chest had constricted as he stood in front of them all only hours before. Thousands of people - thousands of brave, selfless people who would give their lives so that others might live. All marching to a near imminent death with only words and hope to encourage them.

Daenerys had been just as affected by the sight, the fire in her eyes being washed out by unshed tears, as well as Jon, who's hope had all but flickered away amongst the dread and guilt. Percy can only hope, for everyone's sake, that words and hope are enough for them.

He subconsciously reaches back, hand gripping the handle of the spear - his spear - with an iron tight hold. Upon arrival back at Winterfell, he had the weapon examined by the blacksmiths, concluding that it had been forged centuries before with ice - oddly enough - that had somehow been crystallized. It also bears multiple different markings on the hilt that no one could recall ever seeing, only adding to the mystery of what's so special about the blade.

Of course, Percy hasn't been oblivious to the odd glances he's received from numerous people around him. Daenerys and Jon in particular had been more curious of it's origin, having recognized it as one wielded by the Night King. Something he had also failed to disclose to them thus far is his encounter with said immortal, but he figures he'll save that story for a time when they're not in perilous danger.

He's broken out of his thoughts by Daenerys, eyes moving away from the passing windows to focus on her. She speaks with a neutral tone as to not throw off the following guards, but her eyes glaze over with emotion. "We should have done more. The defenses aren't going to keep them at bay for long, and when they break through...we've just sentences thousands of people to death."