Hello!
Thank you very much for the many reviews, follows and favorites. I didn't think arouse such enthusiasm so quickly and with only one short chapter OO
Thank you!
Being particularly inspired, I've looked at the second chapter and I'm really happy to give it to you today.
I forgot to specify, in the previous chapter, that this story was also inspired by a fandom video on YouTube : Jon & Daenerys/ Say something (7x06)
So...
Another chapter with Jon again. Longer and hopefully equally enjoyable to read for you.
Next one will be Daenerys POV.
Happy reading!
I DIDN'T GIVE YOU THE PERMISSION TO LEAVE
Jon clung to this grip as if his life depended on it.
Which was the case, in itself.
His life depended on this precarious grip around his sword. If he loosened, even for a moment, his fingers around it, death would win.
The Night King would win.
Longclaw's finally wrought guard squealed slowly against the frozen ground as he spun its end to dig it into the snow in front of him. A makeshift grip that, with a bit of luck, would allow him to live a little longer than in the middle of this freezing water.
The whole body numbed by the cold that pierce his skin so easily, Jon quickly approached the edge, a resolute grunt letting out from his blued lips. He continued to dig his fingers from his left hand in the ground while using his makeshift grip to drag himself out of this liquid freezing jail. Inch by inch, Longclaw's guard deeply dug in the ground, Jon began to get back to dry land. He used the little strength he still had in him to drag his lower body, much heavier than before owing to his soaked clothes, far from this lonely death.
He let out another grunt, his face drawn by effort, as he dug more the guard of his sword in the icefield, pulling his body forward.
Out of water.
Out of Death.
Towards Life.
Exhausted, water copiously dripping on the thin snow coat covering the ground, Jon collapsed, running out of steam. The stuffy mass of water which had hitherto surrounded him no longer protected his body from the outside bad weather. A much more brutal cold than that lived in the depths assaulted the skin of his face and his trembling limbs, the thick fur covering his whole body being as useless as a thin sheet of paper.
Cold.
He was cold.
It was even beyond that.
Jon knew the cold. More than Southern or the Lords living in the North. He had gone beyond the Wall, surviving extreme temperatures that would have killed a lot of people. He had survived for three days on this rock, surrounded by the dead, with his companions.
Jon Snow knew the cold.
The real Winter.
This Winter that was now inside him.
Strong, brutal, lethal. Seizing every inch of his body, each fragment of his mind with an impressive ease. Whispering to his ears to remain so, his face buried in the snow, unmoving and helpless.
Staying like this.
A moment.
Just a moment.
There was nothing wrong to stay down, wasn't it?
Jon was tired.
So tired...
He no longer felt the northern wind lashing his neck and his hair, turning water into ice pearls along his pale skin and scalp, muzzling his weakened senses in favor of a heavy torpor. Jon frowned, a fragment of his consciousness fighting against the strong numbing that assaulted the rest of his body. A tiny fragment trying to get the upper hand on the whistling tune of the wind around him.
A voice whispering faintly in his ear, to his paralyzed mind.
" I didn't give you the permission to leave. "
Jon frowned more, a spasm crossing his face as he raised it only from a few inches. The northern wind rushed under his throat and under his stiff coat, scratching his epidermis and making him shiver violently against the frozen ground.
Why?
Why her voice? Why these words? Why her face, this imperative intonation did suddenly cross his mind?
Slowly, Jon tightened his numbed fingers around Longclaw's handle, finding into this touch a tie, a link that kept him from driving off into a blissful oblivion brought by the blizzard all around him. The handle squealed once more against the icefield, the young King slowly bringing it before him. Shivering with cold from head to foot, he leant on his left hand, lifting his chest from the frozen ground, which destined him to an expected death. He froze for a moment, dizzy as his breath increased more with this simple movement. The shivers along his limbs got stronger, Jon nearly collapsing once more on the white ground.
" Stand up...Stand up, Jon"
He took a deep breath, bringing his sword before him with trembling gestures. He dug the blade as firmly as possible into the solid snow, squeezing his gloved hand – covered with a thin layer of ice – around the dark handle. He put his left hand on the wolf-shaped pommel, leaning on it to get back on his feet.
" Come on...Stand up..."
Jon let out an enraged grunt. To himself. To the cold. To his weakness, which didn't seem to want to release his numbed limbs. His face drawn by this rage, this fierce resolution, the King in the North pushed more on his legs, firmly standing his feet in the ground. Finally standing up, staggering but nevertheless getting back on his feet, he looked around him. The snowstorm had gained in intensity, preventing him from seeing anything past ten steps. He couldn't tell if the blurry edges of the rocks and bodies around him were due to this bad weather or to his deep exhaustion. Probably both. Two things which could easily bring him down, despite his best efforts to stay alive.
He couldn't help shivering violently, his breath also being punctuated by his serious hypothermia. The storm had swept away every trace of the powerful flames blown by the Queen's dragons, only a few black heats on the frozen lake betraying their presence beyond the Wall.
They were gone, now.
Jon was alone in this storm, the only representative of the human race in this bleak place. He wasn't afraid, though. Knowing the others out of danger...hoping that they were, anyway...muzzled this fear.
They were fine.
She was safe and sound. She had to be safe and sound.
Jon removed his sword from the ground, holding it with his right hand, and put his left arm round his waist. The fur frozen by the cold crackled softly, this noise mingling with the windy tumult around him, as well as his gasping breath. A sharp pain stabbed at his right side, just where his body had hit the ice before sinking. He most likely had some broken ribs. With his left hand on his wounded side, he began a tottering step in the snow. Tiny snowflakes lashed his numbed face, blocking his already severely limited vision.
It was an odd and contradictory sensation.
Jon felt each snowflake against his skin like a white-hot needle. And yet...this painful sensation caused a lack of sense at this level. A kind of numbing pain. Reviving and muzzling his senses simultaneously.
Every step was horribly slow, Jon struggling to – even at this low pace – stand up. He could only rely on his will. A meager resource. He barely noticed the unmoving corpses on the ground, passing them with his unsteady gait without lingering more than necessary. His entire mind was focused on his legs and his shivering breathing. Breathing in, even a tiny part of freezing air, became almost impossible, the muscles of his torso oddly paralyzed by the tenacious cold which assaulted him from everywhere.
" Move...Keep...m-moving..."
Keep moving.
He had to keep moving.
Getting to Eastwatch.
A part of his mind, more realistic than the rest, whispered to him this obvious impossibility.
Impossible or not, Jon had to try.
He didn't want to die here.
Gasping for air, he felt his left leg collapsing under his weight, the rest of his body leaning abruptly forward. The King in the North fell on his knees on the snowy ground, his left hand stretched before him to prevent him from collapsing once and for all. He knew deep down that if he collapsed face down, now...He would never get back on his feet again.
And he couldn't allow such a thing.
Jon heard a particular sound not far from him. Not a strong gust brought by this snowstorm. Something more threatening than that. Filthy gurgling noises and hasty steps in his direction. He turned his head and saw a swarming dark mass converging slowly first, then faster, towards him.
The army of the dead.
A part of it, at least.
The young King dug his blade into the ground, using it once more to stand up. He couldn't run. Neither fighting. Jon wasn't stupid. There was no way to defeat this unrelenting troop of putrid corpses. Do nothing, do not struggling wasn't an option. He took a few steps, squeezing his both hands around the handle, the sword trembling from time to time according to his jerky movements.
He waited for death to face him, shivering, but resolute to take as many corpses as possible with him.
They were heading now towards him at a redoubled speed, a hundred meters left between him and this last battle. Their greedy progress reminded him of the migratory flight of the birds before the first temperature drop announcing each new Winter. A fatal flight much less pleasant to watch at this moment. Their nightmarish vociferations became clearer and Jon strengthened his wobbly grip around Longclaw, trying to control the slightest bit the strong tremors along his body.
Fifty meters left.
Fifty meters before the end.
Jon avoided a death to welcome another.
How ironic...
A black horse split the swarming mass of the dead, crushing under its hooves the skull of some under Jon's blankly gaze. The latter saw the dead being thrown to the ground by the belligerent mount, the man sitting astride it sharing this emotion with the same intensity. Galloping quickly and passing the non-coordinated lines of the dead, this hooded person hit tirelessly and nimbly any creature near him thanks to a burning lantern. Every thump going in large luminous circles in the storm before striking even more violently its skeletal and putrid assailants.
Jon felt his last strengths gradually leave him, his vision becoming blurred for a moment as he loosened his grip around his sword, the latter almost touching the ground. He shook his head gently, breathless and watched the mount moving quickly towards him to then pass him. He turned around, unsteady, and stared without a word at this unexpected savior dismounting his horse and quickly walking towards him. The young King tried to step back, on his guards. He lost his balance, staggering back briefly and barely holding Longclaw with one hand.
The man lowering his hood, Jon discovered surprisingly, his uncle's emaciated whitish face, this same uncle presumed dead for years.
How?
— Uncle Benjen?! he exclaimed before staggering further, Benjen wrapping his arm round his shoulders to hold him. H-How...?
Jon felt his body surrender, his legs barely supporting him as his uncle dragged him quickly to his docile mount. He was chattering more violently in reply to the cold that tortured his body.
He could no longer think, move or even talk.
Jon was cold.
So cold...
In an instant, he ended up on the mount, his legs nevertheless refusing to move against the rough sides of the horse. He grabbed the leather strap with his left hand, his chest against the body of the mount, his other hand grabbing as firmly as possible his sword against the saddle. He turned his trembling face to his uncle, the atrocious vociferations of the dead coming closer, while the grave and reassuring voice of the latter barely reached him:
— I'll clear you a path.
Path?
But...
No!
If he stayed here, he...
— C-come...with...m-me... he managed to say, refusing to let his uncle face death for him.
They could run away together.
They could...
Benjen shook his head, refusing his offer by quickly replying:
— There's no time!
Jon tried to hold him back but his uncle immediately moved away from him, preventing him from exchanging other words. He knocked sharply the croup of the mount, which made it rear with a piercing neigh as its body became tight under the King in the North's numbed limbs.
— Go! cried Benjen beyond the freezing blast of air around them, bringing the dead in its wake.
Jon then had no choice but holding on tightly to the saddle to not fall. He clenched his fingers as hard as possible around the strap, the edge of his sword resting against the frozen fur that covered his chest. The body shaken by the mad stampede of the horse, his vision becoming more and more blurry, the young King couldn't help looking one last time behind him.
Watching this hazy and definitive view.
This burning dance flooring the dead one last time, soon buried in its turn by the Long Night. Looking at the First Patroller's last watch beyond the Wall.
" My watch is ended..."
Jon felt his eyes close, against his will or not. Covering up the cold and the pain.
Covering up this latest vision.
He let himself go against the strong body of the mount, its rough hair against his freezing cheek being the last thing he felt before succumb, too.
Finally welcoming the Long Night.
Thanks again for reading me. You can let a review: it's really appreciated and it motivates me!
Next chapter will probably come later. I have other stories to write for Lucifer first. I have seen the last episode so...much chapters for this stories XD
Bye!