Jon slowly ran his fingers over her pale flesh, pale as moonlight on fresh snow, luxuriating in the sensation of love itself within his grasp. She was flawless save for the marks left on her by her past abusers. He counted each mark, evidence of each time she'd cried for the heroes from her sweet songs and none came to her rescue. Each time she'd needed him and he'd been half a world away.
He looked up and found her pale, intelligent eyes studying him.
Sansa…
He kissed up her bare stomach, burying his face in the tender pillow of her breasts.
He wondered what might have been if he'd never know her as a sister. If she'd been cousin Sansa and he hadn't been her father's bastard. What might have been?
For that matter, if he'd never been a bastard at all. If one or both of his parents had survived Robert's Rebellion and the Targaryen's reign endured. What sort of man might he have been? Would there have been peace? Would his Northern love's heart have been his to claim from the very start? Or would the Starks have remained safe in Winterfell while he came of age in Kings Landing, never knowing what it was to love the red wolf that the gods themselves seemed to have made for him alone?
They couldn't start again and all his musings, for good or ill, were impossibilities, but he could love her now and try to love away the broken parts. To protect this love.
"We should have stayed in that cave." He whispered, remembering the last words of another love. Was this love, like the one before it, doomed?
"What are you doing, Jon?" Sansa murmured, her voice as soft as a kiss.
He closed his eyes to bask in the tones. She seemed to be the balm for all the harsh and ugly sights and sounds he'd faced before she found her way back to him.
"Jon." She said, her tone a little more firm.
He opened his eyes and looked at her, the lovely curve of her cheek, the way her hair fanned out around her.
"What are you doing?"
"Loving you." He said, pressing kisses tenderly across the soft flesh of her stomach. His love. His beautiful love. But so much more than beautiful. She was everything that his formative years had denied him. She was family. She was love. She was hope. And if the gods granted him mercy, she was his future.
"Then love me better." She commanded, taking his face in her hand and gently guiding his gazed to her own. "Fight, Jon. For us."
He frowned, confused by her words.
"Come back to me." She said firmly, pulling him into a hard kiss.
He woke gasping, flashes of blue and orange lighting his blurry vision.
With a groan of pain, he forced himself up to sitting. He had sunk deep into a snow bank. It had broken his fall and no doubt saved his life, but it was far from a soft landing.
He didn't know how high up he'd been when he'd been thrown from Rhaegal's back nor did he know how long he'd been unconscious. It could have been hours or minutes. It seemed an eternity when he was in Sansa's arms but his perfect eternity ended in a heartbeat.
He clawed his way out of the bank, not bothering to take stock of his injuries. It was easier to assume the damage wasn't so bad if he didn't look too close. And it was easier to push through the pain when he could believe that the damage wasn't so bad.
He had no sense of direction at first, but the glow of Winterfell in the distance oriented him.
Above him, the dragons continued their battle. But the Night King… where what he? Surely he'd been dislodged in the dizzying fall as well.
Jon drew Longclaw and limped forward. He didn't know where he was going, so he figured straight ahead, toward Winterfell and the Godswood seemed as good a choice as any.
If Bran was right, that was where the Night King would be headed as well.
The sing of a sword being drawn from it's scabbard was his only warning of attack. He whirled around, raising Longclaw barely in time to block the blade.
"Fuck." He cursed in surprise as the blow rattled through his bones.
The glowing eyes of the Night King gazed down at him with that utter lack of malice or feeling of any kind that had haunted them since last they'd crossed paths. There was something so incredibly unnerving about facing an enemy who showed not emotion. There was always something driving a soldier, something at their core that pushed them onward. For Jon that force had always been family and honor. Now those and so many other hopes were now bundled up and embodied in his heart and mind in the image of Sansa.
But this creature… it was not hate nor love nor anything else that Jon could understand driving the Night King. And how could he hope to beat an opponent when he couldn't understand it's weakness?
They crossed blades again and again, each blow rattling Jon to the bone.
The Night King was far stronger. He was faster and not wearied by injury. And, Jon realized, he was toying with him. He could sense it. The monster was simply beating him down until he ran out of fight. After all, only one of them would tire out.
Backing away from the battery of blows, Jon stumbled over a fallen soldier and fell to the ground, Longclaw skittering from his grasp.
The Night King raise his sword over his head to deliver the death blow, when a surge of blistering heat rushed over Jon, engulfing the monstrous figure.
Jon rolled over, burrowing as deep as he could into the snow.
He felt as though his insides were boiling, as though he would burst into flame and be devoured by the unimaginable heat.
Then, as quick as it started, the heat dissipated. Jon scrambled to Longclaw, the pommel searing into his palm, and rolled over, looking back.
He didn't know what he'd expected to find, but certainly not the Night King untouched by dragon fire, mounting Viserion.
Jon struggled to his feet, ignoring the blistering pain on his back, and stumbling after the Night King.
He bellowed a wordless cry at his enemy.
The Night King looked down at him from the back of the wight dragon.
There was no change in his expression, but Jon felt as though the leader of the dead was amused.
Then, slowly, the Night King turned his gaze to the West.
Jon didn't follow the Night King's gaze, didn't need to understand it's meaning. He understood the Night King as clearly as if they'd spoken man to man and it turned his insides to ice. He might not understand what drove his enemy, but his enemy understood him perfectly. He knew without a doubt that the dead had out maneuvered them and the caravan was under attack. That Sansa… Sansa was in danger.
Gods preserve her. He prayed desperately to any god that might be listening, old or new, that someone would protect her.
The Night King raised his hands and as he did so, the fallen bodies surrounding them rose. In that moment, Jon realized the Night King didn't need words to tell him he was beaten.
But Jon had never bowed to impossible odds before and he didn't intend to start. He heft Longclaw higher, preparing to defend against the onslaught as Viserion took to the air with his enemy.
As the first wight closed in, burning heat filled the air once more as Rhaegal landed beside Jon, swiping the dead away with his tale.
Jon scrambled up onto Rhaegal's black and the dragon took to the air.
Both rider and dragon hesitated for a moment as Jon looked to the West, to Sansa and his future. A future that was dwindling, if not lost, even now.
His heart urged him to the West, but duty called him home.
"Let's end this." Jon said, urging Rhaegal back to Winterfell and the Godswood.
Sorry for the wait, but I hope you enjoyed! And I hope this chapter finds you all safe and healthy in this crazy world.
Please review, it really does keep me going!
