Jon hunched close to Rhaegal's spiny neck, gripping with all his might even as the abuse his body had suffered began to make itself manifest as the sheer of rush of pure adrenaline had begun to fade. The great beast's wings beat the air to submission as dragon and rider raced after the shrinking shape of Viserion.
To Jon's surprise, the Night King and his wight dragon were moving away from the Godswood. But to Jon's thinking, it was the one stroke of luck they'd seen this entire night. He was more than happy to take the win in the midst of so much death and destruction.
Heading safely away from Bran and the legions of dead, Jon felt a slight surge of relief needling through his exhaustion. In that moment, he felt something akin to hope. Maybe, just maybe, he stood a chance of overcoming the Night King.
And if he somehow managed to slay the Night King? What then? Would another White Walker take up the mantle? He didn't know. Perhaps they would be just as fucked as they were now, but if the gods were kind perhaps it would be the advantage they needed to win the night.
He kept his gaze on the spot of greater darkens ahead that was Viserion. He kept his focus on the task hand. He couldn't afford any distractions. Couldn't allow his thoughts to stray back to Winterfell, the home of his youth, the place he'd always longed to belong but never truly felt like he did until he spent his first night in the Lord's chambers with his lady-wife. He couldn't let himself be distracted by he thought of those old walls crumbling as their carefully crafted defenses crumbled.
Neither couldn't allow his concern to stray to Daenerys and Drogon. Perhaps he didn't love his queen as he ought, but he loved her the best he was able. He saw the potential for greatness in her. He saw someone who could be a great ruler. But his white-haired queen would have come to his aid by now if she was able. She hadn't, so she wasn't able and that meant… he didn't want to think about what that meant.
He couldn't afford to let his focus stray to his loved ones in the Godwood either. The brother he no longer recognized as the boy he'd left broken and unconscious and the sister who'd always held a place close to his heart. Not brother and sister in truth, but he loved them no less for the distance in their blood.
He didn't dare let his thoughts wander freely to the caravan. He couldn't allow himself to think of the horrors their relatively undefended women and children had encountered. He couldn't think of Sam and Gilly and Little Sam and the danger that had come for them.
And most of all, he couldn't afford to think of Sansa… his lovely Sansa… but he did anyway. He couldn't block the image of her hair, red as blood, fanned across trampled earth. Her face as white as snow. Her pale eyes wide and unseeing, staring blankly up at the black sky above. If her light went out, he couldn't see how it would matter if the dawn ever came.
If he succeeded. If he brought down the Night King, it would mean nothing to him if he lost her.
But bringing an end to the army of the dead wasn't about him or what he wanted or needed. His people hadn't named him King in the North to pursue his own selfish desires. No, they named him King because they knew at the end of the day he would do what he believed to be right and honorable, no matter the personal cost. Even though he'd surrendered the title of king when he bent the knee to Daenerys, he still held fast to the same idealistic principles that had driven him to the Wall to take the black in the first place.
It didn't matter if Sansa was his world because in the end, his own needs didn't matter. He was one man. In the face of humanities survival, his own survival mattered little. And though it was everything to him, Sansa's survival mattered little as well.
If they won the war but he lost her… Then he'd do what he'd done before when he'd lost more than he thought he could bare. He'd soldier on. He'd give everything he had to the best cause he could find for as long as breath remained in his lungs. And when his final breath expired, he just hoped someone would take his bones back to their true home, back to Sansa.
Viserion made a sharp turn and suddenly the ice dragon was coming straight for them. Jon leaned into Rhaegal, guiding his true father's namesake into a steep dive.
Ice blue flames lit up the night, missing Rhaegal's left wing by a breath.
Realizing this was a fight they could not outrun, Jon and Rhaegal turned to face their pursuer.
"Dracarus." Jon yelled into the night and fire met ice in a blinding explosion.
As the flames faded, the dragons collided. They spiraled down in a tangle of claws and teeth.
Jon clung on for dear life, his hands frozen and stiff and aching in protest, but still he did not let go. He squinted into the dark, spiraling madness for a glimpse of the Night King upon Viserion's back, but he saw no glint of glowing blue eyes.
In that moment, he knew in his bones that no matter how long and hard he looked he would not find his enemy. He had been mislead.
The Night King had not been upon Viserion's back when the Wight Dragon had lead them so far away from the Godswood. No… When Jon was not lured away to the caravan, his enemy devised another plan. A wild goose chase.
And now Jon was a league away from Bran.
Gods, he was a fool to think that he alone could bring down this great threat.
By the seven, he prayed that he had not abandoned Sansa for nothing.
As the dragons crashed into the snowy field, Jon was thrown from Rhaegal's back, not such a great height as the last one, but he slammed into a tree with enough force to leave him jarred and dazed.
The dragons recovered more quickly. They circled one another in a tense dance of hisses and roars and bursts of flame.
There was no way back to the fray, so long as Viserion blocked the way. No way to protect Bran or find his way back to Sansa. No way to do his part.
Big men fall just as quickly as little ones if you put a sword through their hearts, Jon. Ned's words rang as true in his head as they had when first he'd heard them all those years ago. But could the same be said for a dragon? They bled the same as any other beast. Surely they died the same?
Jon staggered to his feet and drew Longclaw from it's sheath. It was foolhardy, he had no doubt of that, but in the darkest hour when hope was dwindling, what did caution matter? What was it to him if he survived now but failed those he loved most.
Fear roiled inside him, but he pushed it down. He would not be paralyzed when his inaction could cost him all he held dear. He closed his eyes and conjured the faces most dear to him.
He saw Bran, older and changed, but still in there beneath the remote exterior. Almost a man.
He saw Arya, the formidable woman, but also the little girl she'd been when he'd given her first sword to her. First lesson: stick them with the pointy end.
And Sansa… When he thought of her, he saw it all. The baby girl Ned had told him to always watch over. The young girl with a head full of songs. The woman who'd turned from porcelain to iron. His winter love. His red wolf. Don't you dare be a hero. If only she could see him not. She wouldn't be surprised, he didn't think. She knew him to well to expect any different.
He let out a slow, steadying breath, opened his eyes and took in the scene before him.
The dragons were still circling one another, gauging the others strengths and looking for weaknesses. Distracted, but on high alert. One wrong move on his part and Viserion would roast him.
He had exactly one shot at this, so he had to make it count.
He licked his lips as he gathered his resolve, tightening his resolve.
He waited until Viserion's back was to him and he made a run for it.
Rhaegal let loose a blast of flame into the sky. Jon wasn't sure if it was intentional or blessed timing, but it bought him the seconds he desperately needed to roll under Viserion. Once in place, with all his might, he drove Longclaw up into Viserion's chest.
The Wight dragon reared back from the sudden pain.
Jon closed his eyes, waiting to be trampled or incinerated. Instead he heard the sound of shattering ice and an explosions of icy shards rained down upon him.