Hollow Crown ↬ Daenerys Targaryen

30

The three dragons escape the ground just as the last of the dead are risen, and Percy stares back in horror as the newly turned wights chase their trail. He's never seen anything like that before, not even in his worst depictions of the Night King. Such power - the power to raise the dead - should not be held by anyone but the gods.

If they even exist, at this point.

Yet, he's just seen the Night King do it. He's just seen people he knew, people who had fallen in battle and died for their country, come alive again - though not - to fight against it. Shock and grief pump in his veins, and the only thing he can do now is mournfully look away from the dead.

Perhaps, he thinks, they were chasing us in hopes that we would save them. Maybe their souls weren't yet lost, and they've just watched their last hope fly away.

It's a foolish thing to think, he knows. For every trace of their soul must have been ripped away by the dark magic that brought them back. But his guilt ridden mind can't help but come to the conclusion that he could have saved them. And that this is somehow his fault.

The short ride back to the castle is filled with silence, with Percy not removing his eyes from Viserion's back. Almost as if the dragon can sense his rider's pain, he rumbles gently with a soft screech. He can't find it in himself to smile at Viserion, but he does run a soothing hand down his side, assuring him through touch.

Chaos isn't easily escaped, however. As soon as the castle is in their sight, a small gasp escapes Daenerys' lips, and Jon bites back an angry shout. Parts of Winterfell lay in ruin, with the walls nearly entirely collapsed and sections caved in from the pressure of the dead.

It's clear that the battle has made it's way inside, glimpses of living and dead battling being seen through the damage. Jon quickly orders Rhaegal's descent, spewing fire on the perimeter of the walls as Percy and Daenerys do the same to the parts of the castle that have been overrun.

They try not to think about how many of the living may have been mixed up in the huddles of dead, and they ignore the thoughts that perhaps they've just burned those closest to them.

Flying past one of the towers of the castle that remains mostly untouched, Percy manages a brief glance into one of the windows higher up. Immediately catching the cold, emotionless eyes of Bran Stark, whom watches the war with the same blank expression he's always worn in the time Percy's known him.

Though, now, the Stark boy's eyes aren't a stoic brown as they usually are, but instead a familiar misty white. Percy watches him for the briefest of moments in passing. Still disturbed by the boy despite knowing his consciousness is elsewhere.

He hopes, perhaps rudely, that he'll never have to see Bran in this - or any - form again after the battle. Which is unlikely, given they still have to plan the seige of Kings Landing with the help of the North.

Percy's eyes drift away from the piercing ones of the Stark boy, glancing down at the battle around him. Bodies scatter the ground to the point that he can't tell which fought for his side, hardly any of the actual stone or dirt being seen. Even if it could, it would without a doubt be stained by endless amounts of blood.

He can't bare to look at it for much longer, tearing his eyes away from the scene and back to the tower in hopes of gaining his sanity back. Instead, his eyes catch those of Melisandre, the Red Priestess staring holes into his skin. Her orbs could rival Bran's, he thinks in the moment. But her stare isn't disturbing or cold, it's more...all knowing and encouraging.