Chapter Eleven: Battle of the Eyrie (Part Three)
The Eyrie
Jon Snow
The world was ending, and, in the midst of it all, Jon could only think one thing. I should have given Longclaw to the Hound. It hung uselessly by his hip, digging into his side as he directed Rhaegal forward. He should have sent it to the fight, let it be used for something more than a mummer's prop. Here, high in the sky, it was nothing. In the Hound's hands, it could have killed a Walker.
He had thought it as he flew off. Had seen the Cerwyn boy wandering about without a sword, and he'd considered handing it to him, but he couldn't bring himself to part with it. The Old Bear had given him that sword. He hadn't meant it for some Cerwyn boy; he'd meant it for Ned Stark's bastard boy, the boy who would someday become the leader of the Watch. The man who would help topple the wall.
It was time to repay that debt. His second chance, his third chance, his last chance. For Bran. For Sam. For Edd. For Tormund. For Ygritte, who had only pushed South because of them. For Dany. For Drogon. For Viserion. For the Northerners, the dothraki, the unsullied, the ones dying below him today. For all the living, and all the dead, and all those who might someday be.
"Now," he told the dragon, and it answered him with a roar, like the bellow of a horn in the Watch. But only one. Only a single blow.
Twice more, he thought. This isn't a ranger or a wildling. Twice more.
But the dragon's roar did not again ring through the valley. Instead, a great burst of red-hot flames erupted from the creature's mouth. A great wave of heat splashed over Jon like a sudden burst of rainfall. It didn't hurt – not like ordinary fire did. Instead, it felt like stepping into a warm bath. He was bathing in Winterfell above the hot springs again, or perhaps clinging to a fiery woman in a cave beyond the Wall.
But those happy memories were behind him. In their place was dragonfire and a sea of ice below.
His dragon cut swaths through the horde of the dead. The reek of burning flesh came to claim the land about as much as the smoke claimed his sight, and the screams of the living his hearing. It had always been strange what battle did to the senses. Everything was as much the whole as it was the parts. Before the fight, he could see the strategy – tens of thousands of men lined up in order of experience and strength, while archers and pyromancers readied themselves for the fight.
And then, when he reached the battle, all his knowledge slipped away. There was only feel of hot scales on his fingers. The musky smell of his own sweat. The taste of salt and ash on his face.
As his senses were flooded, he could do no more than push forward. On the ground, he would have been slashing everywhere, his sword in danger of biting friend and foe alike. A series of single combats, waiting for him to emerge the victor. Jon against a knight. Jon against a Bolton. Jon against another Bolton. Jon against a wight. It was always the same. One fight and then another. One slash and then another. On and on, until the battle was done, and he could breathe again.
But, on a dragon's back, the fight was different. He could not lose himself as easily. There was no sword to swing, nor slash to dodge. There was no enemy to stare in the eyes as he cut the man down; no sword to swing as he passed his sentence.
No, on a dragon's back, all that didn't matter. The dragon was the executioner, and Jon the coward who could not swing his own sword. He could only watch and direct, as the hordes burned below.
Lord Stark would be disappointed, he thought. He was honorable. He was good. He was always just and kind, and he never went too far when the battle could be won without needless suffering, where Jon always pushed and pressed and lost.
But then, Lord Stark had faced men. Men with fears and minds of their own. He had never faced the Walkers. Even a Stark needed dishonor when his people were dead and gone.
And besides, Jon thought, clinging to the spines of his dragon as it let loose another torrent of flames, I am not a Stark.
He did not know the word that Dany used to order the fire, but he didn't seem to need it. Rhaegal knew on his own. When they passed over the knights of the Vale, his fire stayed in his throat. But, as they crossed over the grey sea, the flames claimed the world again, and Jon flew above them all.
It was easy, up there, not to feel the true stakes of the battle. The Night King was coming, and the world was set to die, but what did it matter when he could fly? What did any of that matter compared to the feel of wind in his hair and the sight of human ants down below?
He finally understood why Torrhen Stark had knelt. The rest were fools. It was right to kneel. This was what happened to those who didn't.
But all too soon, the joy of flying and burning ended. There was a blizzard in the distance, more devastating than this hail. It was difficult to see through, but, if he squinted, he could make out shadows dancing on the horizon. Ice spiders, giants, frozen wolves, and Walkers riding decaying horses. The spiders were the size of hounds, tall and unruly and lapping at the Walkers' feet. The wolves trailed them, some as big as ponies – direwolves, surely.
He wondered if Ghost was in that pack. He couldn't feel him anymore, not the way he used to. Even Rhaegar couldn't fill the hole he'd left behind. One that seared deep in his heart, like no fire ever could.
Ghost should never have been in the field at all. He should have been in the crypts protecting Sansa. He should have been safe.
Now, he was a wight. Now, he walked the world alone, just as he had when Jon had abandoned him behind the Wall. Jon had failed him then, and failed him again. Now, Jon needed to lay the beast to rest, the way he had never wanted to.
I was supposed to die with him. The world felt bleaker all of a sudden. Like the air had been sucked from his lungs and frozen. I was supposed to die with his fur under my fingers and his heart beating besides mine.
It was a wrong that needed to be set right. He could not stop until Ghost was freed from the Night King's grip, and the living could go on, unaccosted by the forces of ice and cold and death.
If that was his role, then he would fulfill it. There was still fire burning through his mouth from his rebirth, dripping ash and heat whenever he so much as flicked his tongue. He would use that fire. He would burn the Night King himself. He had to.
If he squinted enough, he could see the creature. A mere dot against a pitch black sky, but Viserion's bright scales stood out against the dark snow. As he grew closer, Jon could make out more of the beast's look. The giant wings, the blue fire bursting in its throat like flames from a forge, and the bright blue eyes that were colder than ice.
The Arryns wore blue, too. Robin Arryn had called it a sign from the gods. A message to the living that their victory would soon be at hand.
"Blue defeats blue," Arryn had said, "Mother always said I was stronger than the usurpers!"
"They have a dragon," Jon had reminded him, but the boy waved him off all the same.
"I do not fear dragons," he said with a smile. "My father helped kill them all!"
It was not so.
As Jon took further to the sky, and Rhaegal's blooms of fire came to an abrupt halt, Viserion reached the battle.
He was just as decrepit as he had been when Jon saw him last. Scales torn and missing, slashes cut through his throat, and fire bursting out from the wounds. His wings had sprouted pits and cuts, making its flight ragged and frenzied, but the creature flew on nonetheless. The Night King sat on his back, the creature's bright eyes tracking Jon's every movement. His thin lips had spread into a shadow of a smile, another arrogant jab in the midst of another certain victory. A look of triumph, though he had not yet even reached the fighting.
Jon screamed into the wind, but neither the beast nor his rider heard. He was a whisp of wind amidst a great storm. A single fleck of warm air in a blizzard. Had he not been riding on the back of a creature of magic and R'hllor, the Night King might have never noticed him at all.
Or, perhaps, he would. It had been Jon that had slayed a Walker beyond the Wall, and Jon who had chased the Night King into the godswood. It was Jon that the creature had studied twice before, as it raised an army from the corpses of its enemy. It knew as well as he did that they were mortal foes.
Jon just hoped that he would be the last foe that creature could face. If he wasn't, there were terrible times to come for all the realms of man. He was its shield. He was its sword in the darkness. Its watcher on the walls, except the true Wall had come crumbling down, and all that was left was a scorched hole in the earth.
As he watched, Viserion let loose a flood of flame, mindless of the damage he caused to his own army. His fire burned brighter than any Jon had ever seen. Blue flames that licked and burned hotter than red. Its bursts were focused in a forced stream, where Rhaegal preferred a scattered blast of flame. Its every breath brought with him the death that he had been reborn from, like a gift to the Walkers for returning it to life.
Dany would have been devastated to see it. She must have been just as hurt in Winterfell, though she had taken great care not to show it. She had borne the pain as best as any could have in her place. Better than Jon would have, had it been Ghost devastating their armies and tearing Jon's heart to shreds.
Thankfully, Jon didn't know Viserion as Dany had. It was not his dragon, not his child, and not his wolf. And, if Rhaegal cared, he showed no sign of it, for he flew without reluctance as Jon drove him forward.
They needed to get to the Eyrie, where they might cut off the dragon before he could use the castle as target practice. The castle was bright in the distance – lit by the oils being thrust out from the castle windows. It would protect them from the wights, surely, but not a dragon. Fire could not burn a dragon.
Fire could, however, destroy a castle. As Viserion drew closer, a great burst of fire erupted from its tongue. Within an instant, the stream had already devastated the castle walls. Great stacks of stone exploded into rubble. Windows melted, stone melted. The castle shook and trembled under the beast's mighty blow. Too many men fell and died from windows, from rooves, from ramparts. Even hundreds of feet away, Jon could hear their screams as they fell.
The scent of burning flesh filled the air. He might have choked on it, if not for the fact that it had been etched into his nostrils for weeks. No amount of washing could erase that stench, and he had hardly had the chance. Bathing was a foreign dream with the fate of the world on his shoulders.
He was leaning forward, in the hopes of shifting to some better view, when a passing thought struck him like dragonfire.
Sansa was in that castle. Sansa was burning.
He kicked his feet, as if his steed were naught more than a horse. "Go!" he screamed, over the din.
Thankfully, he needn't have even shouted. He understood him like Ghost did, without needing words or gestures to make himself known. But he's not Ghost, Jon reminded himself. Ghost was blood as much as he was friend. And now, the wolf was dead, and only the dragon remained.
But he could not mourn long. A dragon was needed in this fight. If he sent a wolf out again, the Night King would crush it with naught more than his hands. A dragon couldn't be crushed. A dragon took what it wanted with fire and blood, and he wanted Sansa.
I am not a dragon, he thought. But I can be. If I can ride one, I can be one.
So, with the ferocity of Balerion the Black Dread, the wildness of Sheepstealer, and the grief of Silverwing, Jon pushed forward. He and Rhaegal met Viseron against the castle walls. The dragon hadn't reacted to them yet, though the Night King's eyes had met Jon's own.
For once, he had the advantage. He could not waste it.
Someday, someone would ask him what it was like to fight a dragon. They would ask if it felt like his heart was beating again, if it felt like the life had returned to his bones for the first time since the knives on the Wall.
He would say that it hadn't.
He would lie. Because, as his dragon crashed into Viserion, he had never felt more alive.
For only the second time since the betrayal on the Wall, he felt like he was still an ordinary man again. Like there were no scars on his chest. Like his hands were clean. Like he hadn't died and come back, only to hang a little boy from the gallows.
This was what he was born for. To ride on the back of a dragon. To slay the enemies of the dawn until he fell from its back.
Rhaegal's claws raked through Viserion's spine, missing the Night King by only a few feet. Its claws – sharper than Longclaw – tore through scale and wing alike. A normal dragon might have bled blood or viscera, but only heat burst from beneath Viserion's torn scales. The blood had frozen, it seemed, or perhaps burned. Jon didn't care either way. It made no matter. Whether by fire or ice, this creature would die. He had to.
Rhaegal let loose a burst of flames, hot enough that it might have burnt Jon's hands if he was not already frozen to the core. For once, the blizzard beating at his back was more a help than a hindrance.
Viserion spun to meet them, but Rhaegal was ready. He slashed again with his claws, this time cutting slashes across Viserion's once-mighty wings. It was not enough to completely tear through the flesh, but the slight holes they left would make it difficult enough to fly, and that was more than Jon could ask for.
As Rhaegal slashed, Viserion let loose another bolt of flames. The fires licked off of the Eyrie, but did nothing against Rhaegal's scales. Even Jon, clinging to the creature's back, felt nothing. His skin didn't scorch, his clothes weren't singed, and even his hair didn't catch alight as the blue flames streaked by. Rhaegal was a better shield than any castle wall.
The Night King watched Jon the whole way, his eyes never darting down to its dragon or studying Jon's. No, his blindingly bright gaze remained on Jon. Once, and only once, his eyes flicked away. They passed over Jon's belt so quick that, had Jon so much as blinked, he never would have seen it at all.
Still, it was enough to set him thinking.
The dragon was covered in scratches and wounds. Scales had been flaked away, and his wings were slashed in so many places that he struggled to stay in the air. It would be awkward for the rest of his existence. He was just a wight, and wights didn't heal.
The Night King had not looked for more than a second, but the gaze felt like it still burned through Jon's side. It burned through his scabbard, and he was almost afraid that Longclaw would fall from his hip if he looked any longer.
Viserion made no sound as Rhaegal slit a claw clear off of his leg. He was just a wight. They didn't feel pain.
He fought on, striking madly at Rhaegal and sending useless streams of fire into the air. They collided over and over, slamming into the Eyrie and leaving streaks of blood and scale behind them. Still, the undead dragon did not scream.
And he was just a wight.
The idea came to him faster than any he'd ever had.
"Get me close!" Jon screamed. He needn't have bothered. The dragon understood without words.
The Night King understood before Jon had the chance to move. He scrambled to pull his dragon back, but Rhaegal's claws were sunk too deep in his flesh. As Jon climbed Rhaegal's neck, his hands scrambling on the slick scales, the Night King looked to Jon's belt one last time. And then, his hands loosed, and the Walker slid from his neck and tumbled to the world below.
Jon did not care to watch him fall.
He drew Longclaw from his belt. The ripples on the steel seemed to glow in the light of the dragon's fire. Red and blue flames danced, and, for a second, it seemed to bring light to the world again. But the moment passed, and the light did not stay. It faded with the flames, not yet able to draw its own. If a sword was meant to light the world, it was not Longclaw.
It did, however, have a role to play.
His feet slipped too many times and his hands burned like they hadn't since he touched a torch's flames, but somehow, he didn't fall. Hundreds of feet in the air with only his fingers and his frozen feet holding him up, his grip stayed strong.
By the time he reached the top of Rhaegal's horns, clinging there like reins on a horse, he was slick with sweat. He held Longclaw with both hands, terrified of losing his hold. Only his thighs kept him on the dragon now, as he lashed out with valyrian steel.
The first blow bounced harmlessly off of Viserion's scales. And the next. And the next. Each strike was more desperate than the last. Viserion scrambled back, but Rhaegal drove forward. In all likelihood, this would be his only chance.
He screamed, loud and shrill and scared, and the sword caught the flesh of a wight.
When he looked to meet the dragon's eyes, there was nothing there but a milky stare. The dragonfire that had been spewing from its mouth came to an abrupt end. Wind snuffed by a shut door.
He was just another wight. Another dead wight that toppled from the sky and landed broken on the ground below.
And Longclaw had slain it. Jon Snow had slain it.
A mad laugh ballooned through his chest. He had to shove Longclaw back into his scabbard. He couldn't hold it anymore. He couldn't hold anything anymore! If his legs lost their tension, he would topple to the ground below, just as the Night King had, but he didn't care. The laughter was too strong, and the joy bubbled up like it hadn't since he'd first said his oath.
I am the sword in the darkness, he thought, and it made him laugh all the harder.
He wanted to stop. There was still a war going on below. He wanted to stop laughing and return to the fight, just as he wanted to turn around to the living and the dead, and he wanted to scream "The dragon is dead!" for all the world to hear.
Still, the mad laughter went on. Even if it meant nothing at all, and humanity was still doomed to die, Jon Snow had slain a dragon! Lord Snow, Ned Stark's shame, the bastard of Winterfell – it was him! His sword that slayed an undead dragon! His sword that cut down what even Torrhen Stark couldn't! His sword that gave humanity a fighting chance!
He had proven the Old Bear right to trust him. Finally! He'd repaid his debt to the man, to the Watch, to the realms of men!
But then Rhaegal let loose a cry of pain, of shame, of something that Jon couldn't name, and it shattered Jon's mirth like glass against a sword.
He had lost a brother, just as Jon had, and there Jon was, laughing through a war. The dragon took to the air again before his laughter abated. He had to scramble to renew his hold as the winds claimed him again.
Below them, the death of the dragon had changed little. The living were still falling by the thousands. Blue-eyed giants were tearing through the armies, swinging fallen trees and great swords, and ripping apart their trebuchets. Ice spiders leapt from cliffs, crushing men and horses alike. Direwolves tore through the living the way that Robb's might have once.
Ghost was one of theirs, now, and maybe Grey Wind too. Perhaps they had claimed his brother's bones from the Twins and his wolf with him. Perhaps, somewhere below, the King in the North was taking another bolt to the heart, while Jon did nothing.
When Jon glanced behind him, the Eyrie was a smoking ruin. The walls were scorched, the windows shattered, and much of the stone had melted somewhere during the fight. It teetered dangerously, parts of the castle falling with each sway of the breeze.
There had been a tower in Winterfell like that, he remembered. Smaller, surely, but damaged nonetheless. A raven had fallen from it once, and Jon had seen it fall as he flew away.
Now, as he watched the castle sway, he thought he might see it again.
Sansa was in that castle, he knew. She and Tyrion Lannister, Robin Arryn, Petyr Baelish, and the other noncombatants who had stayed behind in the castle. In safety.
Rhaegal let loose a new blight of flame on the enemy wights, just as the archers in the castle let loose a volley of their own. Their arrows did nothing. Rhaegal's fire did little. Many died, but more came to take their place. There were too many.
He tried to count the living troops remaining, but it was difficult work. Everywhere he looked, another dozen were cut down. If he blinked, there went another ten. Mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, aunts and uncles. There were only a few thousand left of an army that had been ten times that size.
The battle's only been on an hour.
He hung in the air, letting Rhaegal lead them forward while he watched the living fall and die and cry. A dragon was dead, but the war was not won. Just as the War of the Five Kings had not ended when Stannis was defeated on the Blackwater, and the Battle of the Bastards had not died with Rickon, the Long Night would not end with the fall of a dragon.
If they won, this would be a chapter in the histories, perhaps, but not the final one. No, there were still more fights to come. He could see that now.
It never ends, he thought. It only gets worse.
Still, he would fight. He would melt down the wights until all that was left were bones and rocks, and he would ensure that the realms of men would survive. If it meant dying on that field, so be it. He would die with honor, like his father did.
The dragon was dead, and the living had a dragon of their own. Even if each and every man in the Vale was cut down that day, they could still win. They had to.
But, while Jon was bringing Rhaegal back around, a new scream came to join the chorus. A deafening one – louder than any he had ever heard. It shook the ground and the air alike, and set the castle trembling again. His hands leapt to his ears, desperate to block out the sound, but he couldn't. Even a giant didn't have hands big enough to block that din.
It was a scream of death and pain and hate and suffering. It rang in Jon's heart just as loud as in his ears. Because as the world trembled, Jon's collapsed.
Rhaegal fell.
End- Not up to my usual standard, but it's been a bit of a down week for me, so sorry about that. Next chapter should be a lot better, especially since it's a Tyrion POV, which is a lot more fun to write for me.
In other news, I'm trying to hit the resurrection angle a bit harder than the show did, since I always imagined it would play a way bigger role than it did in canon. Jon was resurrected for two reasons (killing Viserion and something else we haven't seen). We'll see more on this later.
Next chapter, we'll have one final scene from the Battle of the Eyrie. And then? Something we've been waiting on for a long, long while.
