He had been the thirteenth man to lead the Night's Watch, she said; a warrior who knew no fear. "And that was the fault in him," she would add, "for all men must know fear." A woman was his downfall; a woman glimpsed from atop the Wall, with skin as white as the moon and eyes like blue stars.

A Storm of Swords, Chapter 56, Bran IV

Chapter 16

Dragonflight back to Winterfell had been fairly uneventful, as such things went, though Jon had taken some small pleasure in watching Jaime Lannister trying his best to control his gorge. Perhaps that was uncharitable of him, Jon thought, but he knew he had to ally with this man. He didn't have to like him.

Jon was still unclear what Lannister and Bran had discussed – only that Lannister had emerged from that private meeting pale and shaken. Bran hadn't wanted to divulge anything, and had been his new cryptic self, simply saying that they all would play their part in defeating the Night King.

Jon had only been told that Lady Brienne would accompany them to King's Landing once they set out to fight their final battle. Even as he protested, Jaime shook his head, indicating that he had tried and failed. Once Lannister left the room, Bran had beckoned to Jon to bend down, and had whispered something in his ear. Jon had been too shaken by his words to say much else. Even now, days later, Bran's words still chilled him to the bone.

The day will not be lost if Lady Brienne doesn't go to King's Landing. But Ser Jaime will be.

Clearly, Lannister was under a different impression, that Lady Brienne was needed in the fight against the dead. Jon shook his head in reluctant admiration. Bran had become someone who could move people around like pieces on a board of cyvasse. What happened to the boy, to make him so?

Sometimes Jon missed the cheerful lad he remembered, he mused, as he went down to the crypts to look for Tormund. He needed to give some last instructions before they all left on Viserion, and wasn't that a joy to look forward to. A long trip on dragonback. He clattered down the stone stairs, shadowed by Ghost, who somehow sensed that he would be left behind soon, and wasn't leaving Jon's side.

Tormund was a motionless shape at the end of one winding path of crypts, not even looking up when Jon drew near. Jon winced when he realized what was so fascinating to the man – the horn of Joramun.

"So that was the missing part that Arya found beyond the collapsed wall."

Tormund looked up, met Jon's eyes for a heartbeat, then looked away. "Aye. The two parts joined with ease. Almost as though there was nothing broken about the thing."

Jon nodded, wondering at his friend. Then Tormund spoke and Jon understood.

"This horn was the death of Joramun." The words were spoken without inflection, so calm that Jon didn't understand his meaning at first. Then it hit him.

"This is not something you must do, Tormund!"

"No? Then who, King crow?" On Tormund's face was the familiar smirk, much better than the stark expression which had greeted him before. "Are you going to ask your little cousin to do this? Or Lady Bear? She roars loud enough!"

Jon felt Tormund's words like separate stabs to the chest. No, of course not, he thought, and then burned with shame. Had he become like one of those Targaryen kings of old, treating other men like weapons to be wielded? Tormund smiled.

"It belonged to a King Beyond the Wall, my friend. There is only one who can use it, here."

Jon's eyes stung, and he blinked rapidly. "Calling yourself a king, now? Thought you said the free folk didn't want none?"

Tormund bellowed one of his hearty laughs, and slapped Jon on the back, hard. "That's more like it! Come, let's get some drinking in before you leave. I'm told you have good beer here!"

When they left the crypts, Karsi and her spearwives were waiting. They had a fur which they used to wrap the horn, and, through an exchange of nods, something was decided.

Tormund noticed Jon's curious gaze. "They will keep it safe until it is time, Jon Snow."

Jon nodded, rubbing his forehead. "You will need to set up some kind of fortification here," he added. "Best ask Ser Davos and Lord Royce to advise you in that. Not that I don't think you can-"

Tormund snorted. "Of course I don't know anything about that, king crow! I'll leave that to them as know about it. I'll do what I do best – fight and stay alive."

Nothing more was said after that, and Jon, to his regret, was unable to spend much more time with Tormund before their departure. He had goodbyes to say, and some ravens to send, hoping that at least one of them would come through. Bran had given him a precise time and a date, promising that he would guide the birds as best he could.

Jon realised that he'd been avoiding Sansa when he saw her walking towards him, eyes narrowed, and his first instinct was to flee. She, on the other hand, walked faster, grabbed his arm, and pulled him into a small room which, thank the gods, was empty.

"Tell me you weren't about to leave without saying goodbye, Jon!" Her hair was like a cloud of flame around her head, her eyes shooting sparks at him, he was dazzled.

"Jon!"

Instead of trying to force words out of his mouth, he kissed her instead. At first, he thought it would enrage her even further. That thought left him when she deepened the kiss, slamming him against the wall, burying her body in his, face wet with tears.

"Don't cry, my sweet." Jon tried to dry her cheeks, but she shook him off.

Sansa sniffed, eyes glistening. "You must come back, you must! I insist on it."

"As my lady commands," Jon answered, feeling a little choked up himself.

As he walked towards Viserion, crouched outside the main gate like a huge bat, Jon tried not to look up, at Sansa and Arya on the battlements. Tormund was waiting for him outside, with Ghost and the Dothraki and Unsullied leaders. Jon sighed, hoping that there wasn't going to be another argument about taking at least one of them with him. Bran had been clear - only he, Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne would go, or would even be needed. Perhaps the three of them were the most expendable, Jon thought, a sudden wave of bitterness washing over him.

After their encounter in that little room, he hadn't managed to spend any more time alone with Sansa. In a way, it was for the best. What was the point of leaving her with a child to bring up alone, if he never returned? If he managed to defeat the Night King, and did return, there would be time enough for that.

Viserion lowered a great wing for him to climb up, and he helped Ser Jaime, who, in turn, pulled Brienne up. While Ser Jaime looked resentful, no doubt remembering his previous experience, the lady just looked excited, more like a girl than he had ever seen her.

Jon dared to look up, bracing himself, only to see Sansa covering her mouth, visibly close to tears. Then Arya grasped her shoulder, and he saw Sansa pull herself up, shoulders squared, giving him a regal nod. Jon smiled, and glanced down at Tormund and Ghost, who gave a low whine.

"Take care of my wife when I'm gone, will you?"

Tormund grinned. "Are you talking to me or the wolf?"

Jon shook his head, unable to resist smiling back. "Both of you, I think. Don't try to take care of Arya, or Lady Mormont, though."

"Aye," Tormund answered. "I like my balls where they are, King Crow."

The Dothraki gave a short bark of laughter. His common is getting better, Jon thought.

"Vrelo will take care of Khaleesi too, my King!" he said, shaking Black Dog's shoulder as he spoke. "And so will this one."

Black Dog nodded in agreement, though the worried look on his face was unchanged. They don't like it, Jon thought, but they must bear it. Without Bran, they wouldn't have any idea what was going on, and so they had to follow his instructions. He didn't like it any better than they did, but he was sure - he hoped - Bran knew what he was doing. If he was a pawn in this game - well then, so be it. He would be a pawn. Mayhaps he'd never been anything else.

They flew over the frozen land, too high to really see anything below. It was a mostly featureless white expanse, with some towns and villages to break up the monotony. After the first time a spear was aimed at them from below, Viserion chose to fly over the sea, only landing on the coast when they needed to rest for a few hours. One of the reasons why no more people could accompany them was that they needed to load food for the dragon - there was no guarantee they would find anything in the frozen wasteland the North had become. So, even though Viserion seemed slightly annoyed at being reduced to a pack animal, that was what they did - tied huge amounts of larded pork and mutton to him, so that when they made their stops, the dragon could eat and drink.

Bran had told them it would take about three days to reach Winterfell, as the crow flies. No doubt a dragon could fly faster than a crow, but with mortals on its back, it would be doubtful if they'd survive the journey. Besides, Viserion would need his strength to fight whatever they faced in King's Landing. Bran couldn't - or wouldn't - answer when Jon asked if speed was of the essence. He only said that three days would be sufficient and then said no more. Still, Jon felt a prickling at the back of his neck, whenever they stopped to rest. It seemed that the dragon felt the same, only pausing to wolf down some meat as soon as they landed, impatient to leave.

They managed to tie themselves together and to the dragon to get a few hours of sleep, with Viserion seemingly not needing any. Soon, too soon almost, they passed over the Neck and the Twins, finding themselves soaring over the Crownlands. They didn't talk much, usually, as it was too much of an effort to shout over the wind as they flew, but on looking down, Jon couldn't resist.

"How long since it last snowed in the Crownlands, d'you reckon?" he shouted, as Ser Jaime and Brienne marvelled at the snowy expanse beneath them.

Jaime simply shook his head, while Brienne gnawed at her lower lip, her gauntleted hand tightening on the hilt of Oathkeeper.

Jon looked ahead once more, and just like that, there was a looming city where none had been before. There was something wrong, though. There were no guards on the walls. The gates were open, but there was no steady flow of people in and out, no line of carts waiting to be inspected, nothing.

Viserion slowed down for a few heartbeats, almost indecisive, then picked up speed, soaring over the walls and the city proper. Jon looked down, his blood turning to ice. The White Walkers and wights below no longer needed the blizzard to hide in. Every lane was packed with wights, all screeching and banging at doors, presumably to butcher the last people left alive. But Viserion didn't slow down or stop, just kept flying until they reached an enormous ruin. There was a wide empty space, and a huge toppled statue, as well as a bell, all now covered with snow.

Still, what really drew the eye was the enormous motionless body of a large green dragon, and the shriek of pain and rage in his head was so loud, Jon's vision blurred. Viserion reared up in mid-air, fire spewing out of his mouth, and if they hadn't been tied to his back, they would have fallen into the huge pit underneath them. Transfixed as he had been by Rhaegal's body, Jon hadn't noticed that Drogon was there too, but he was, with Daenerys on his back.

Jon had to ignore them, though, as he desperately tried to soothe his enraged dragon. Viserion screeched, and right ahead, Drogon's head snapped to the side. Daenerys screamed something but Jon could not make it out. Then both Brienne and Jaime gasped in horror, Brienne pointing a shaking finger at the landscape below.

Behind the body of the fallen dragon, there was a White Walker. But no, Jon thought - that was clearly a woman, and her hair was short, shorter than any of the Others he had seen so far. Besides, who had ever heard of a female White Walker? Now, come to think of it, though, she was holding a long white spear which looked like it was made of frost and ice, and she was wearing the strange breastplate he'd seen on the Others, the gown underneath ragged, and black. He didn't understand what had shocked his companions so, until Jaime's pained whisper reached his ears.

"Cersei . . . " It was almost a groan, rather than a name. Lannister's eyes shone with unshed tears. "By the gods, Cersei . . ."

Viserion reared and shrieked, breaking the spell they were under. So, was this why Lannister had been brought there? Because that was his sister, his lover, the mother of his children down there, a mummery of what he must remember. To be sure, she was a murderous evil being, even before she became a White Walker, Jon thought. He gritted his teeth, wishing he didn't have to do this. But he knew now that his battle was not here, not with this Queen. He looked back over his shoulder, and Brienne met his eyes. She nodded, grasping Lannister's arm.

"Come, my lord."

Lannister looked at her, astounded. "Will you do this, with me?"

Brienne smiled. "I made vows, or have you forgotten?"

Lannister smiled, a boyish smile that made him look a decade younger. He cupped the back of Brienne's head, bringing her in for a deep kiss. Jon felt his cheeks heat up, and looked down.

"Then let us go, my lady," Jaime said, adding, "I beg your pardon, your majesty."

Jon simply waved a hand, and gave Viserion a mental command. The big dragon descended until he hovered a few feet off the ground, letting the two jump off easily. The last he saw was how they unsheathed their swords in one swift movement, running easily towards the frozen queen, who simply grinned. Jon was convinced he would see that face in his nightmares if he even survived that day.

Jon looked up at the Red Keep, an edifice which was as imposing in reality as it had been in the various descriptions he'd heard and read. It dominated the city - had been built for that purpose - and he was sure that his quarry must be there. Viserion seemed to have the same idea, flapping his wings to gain height, flying with one destination in mind: the throne room of the Red Keep. All his life, Jon had been told about the Iron Throne, made up of all the swords of Aegon's enemies, welded together. Aegon the Conqueror, his ancestor. But all Aegon's defeated enemies were Jon's ancestors, too. He wondered what he would see, once he entered the Throne room. Would he be greeted by the dead? No, not the wights. The Red Keep, the Iron Throne: they did not need wights. It should be haunted by all the ghosts of those who had died because of that bloody chair, Jon thought.

His grandfather, his uncle - would they greet him in the room where they'd been tortured to death? What about Elia Martell and her children, what about all the victims of hundreds of years of Targaryen rule? Not only the Targaryens, he thought, as Viserion approached Maegor's Holdfast. It wasn't like the Kings in the North had been gentle souls. Would he also become a tyrant, holding on to his throne with an iron first? Well, a gentle voice in his head answered, it's not like you even have a throne. Jon swallowed. Gods, he missed Sansa. It was a feeling like a sword through his chest, missing Sansa.

He cleared his throat and gripped Viserion's throat spikes tighter, glad no-one was there to witness his lapse. When they'd planned this assault, he hadn't thought to ask for a map of the Red Keep - not that he believed Winterfell would have such a thing. Viserion circled the keep slowly, and though Jon braced himself on the dragon's back, there was no barrage of arrows to greet them. All the towers were dark and silent, the battlements were empty, the gardens were deserted. It was late afternoon, but no lights could be seen through any windows. Still, he could see which building must house the throne room. As he flew past, he saw a great circular opening where glass and wrought iron must have been. But it was too narrow for a dragon. There was no direct entrance to the Throne Room from the outside – he was sure that was some defensive architecture – and he felt that entering the keep and walking through a darkened passage was a bad idea.

Even though he'd seen no wights while flying overhead, he still wasn't willing to enter a darkened building with the dead seemingly around every corner. Besides, he wanted to surprise the enemy. Viserion too seemed happy with the idea. Jon had a sudden image of a falcon descending for a killing strike, and the huge joy he felt showed that the dragon approved.

Viserion suddenly dropped from the sky, and Jon felt the shock of his landing, claws first, on the roof of the Great Hall, aiming all his considerable weight onto one spot. With a creaking, grinding noise, they broke through, Viserion landing heavily on the pile of broken rubble which was once the roof, and immediately releasing a torrent of fire in all directions, moving his head side to side, covering the room and all its inhabitants in dragonfire.

Not that the room was full. Just one figure was on fire, right in front of him, a huge mountain of a man. Despite the flames, the wight was charging at him, lumbering towards him inexorably, until Viserion snapped at him, once, twice, reducing the wight to burning halves.

But where was the famous throne? The only light in the room came from the pieces of burning wight. Jon squinted into the dark, staring at the end of the room, where the Iron Throne was meant to stand, with a staircase leading to it, so that all would look up to the King, and the King would be above all. As Jon approached, he saw that the Iron Throne was no longer iron. The King sitting in it was no mortal, either.

The Night King stood up. Jon felt the creature's eyes on him. He drew his sword, and the Night King did the same. He was about to walk towards the throne when Viserion, with an impatient snort, spewed out dragonfire all over the Other. The throne of ice and snow immediately melted into a puddle. But the Night King was untouched. Even though his expression didn't change, Jon felt that the creature was smirking at him.

Jon had enough. He would finish this today or be finished himself. He ran up the stairs, sword in hand, and the Night King strode towards him, eagerness in his every movement. When their swords met, Jon felt the clang in his bones. The Other didn't seem surprised at the resilience of Valyrian steel, and he ignored Viserion entirely. Jon knew that all he had to do was nick the creature at a vulnerable spot. However, finding that spot would be the problem. The Night King was fast, faster than any of his creations had been. Jon felt as though he was being played with, he felt it in his gut.

As though he'd summoned it with a stray thought, a windstorm formed in the Throne Room. Snow drifted through the hole they'd made in the roof, first lazily, then speeding up until a blizzard encircled him and the Night King. Far, far away, he heard Viserion screeching in rage, and occasional flashes of dragonfire burst through the snowstorm. But all he could see was the Night King, feinting and drawing back, seemingly drawing him closer. Jon could only wonder why.

After some minutes which seemed like hours, Jon found out. He parried a slow strike, only to find that he could no longer move his sword-arm. When he looked down, he saw that the Night King was gripping it, mailed fist clenched, holding his arm in a vice-like grip. Jon pulled with all his might, but it was for naught. As the ice spread through his veins like despair, he lifted his head and looked into the Night King's frost-blue gaze.

.

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Notes

This story will have four more chapters, and they're all written! YAY!