This one is a bit of a long one, just to say THANK YOU for all your kind words and support on this so far!
Also, quick question! Would you guys prefer one big long story, or would you guys rather it be broken into two parts? Let me know how you feel! Thanks! Enjoy :)
The pounding on the door woke Jon first, his bleary eyes taking their time to clear. He ran a hand over them, the canopy of his bed coming into view. Enrin lay across his chest, her breathing still steady with sleep, her hair tousled over her face. Jon smoothed it away, tucking it behind her ear. She looked younger somehow in sleep, more vulnerable. He could not help himself but to place a kiss on her forehead.
The door was knocked on again, more urgent this time, and Davos called out to him from behind the thick wood.
"Your Grace, I hate to disturb you," he called as the handle on the door began to turn.
Jon shot up, pulling the blankets to Enrin's chin, jostling her awake.
"A moment, Davos!"
She gazed at him with reproach, her eyes unfocused, as Jon leaped from the bed. He retrieved his shirt from the floor, tossing it at her, a small grin playing on his lips. She pulled it over her head, arranging the blankets so that they covered her waist. Jon pulled on his pants, leaving them unlaced, pulling his jerkin over his shoulders. "Come," he called, and the door opened immediately.
Davos strode through the door, his face his usual mask of malcontent, straight to Jon.
"Your Grace, I -oh..."
The old man's cheeks reddened above his beard. Enrin flashed him a smile, and said, "Hello, Ser Davos. Lovely to see you again."
"My lady...My Queen, I am so sorry for the intrusion," he said, his eyes downcast, flashing to Jon for a moment, "I had not thought..."
"There was something you needed, ser," Jon said, his ears reddening. He tied his hair back quickly with a leather strap, and Enrin could not help but let her eyes travel down his body as he stretched. Their eyes met and she cleared her throat, looking away and grinning.
"A raven came this morning, Your Grace," Davos said, his eyes wary, "from Dragonstone."
In an instant, Jon's tranquility transformed into alarm. His back straightened and his shoulders tended, reaching out with steady fingers for the scroll Davos had offered him. Enrin's heart dropped to her feet, his panic seeping into her veins. She was frozen as he cracked the red wax seal; a dragon with three heads.
"Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Firs of Her Name, wishes to invite you to Dragonstone. We have forces in Dorne, the Tyrell army, a fleet of Ironborn soldiers, a horde of Dothraki screamers and three dragons at our backs. My sister must be stopped. I ask the bastard of Winterfell to listen to the dwarf of Casterly Rock only once more, and I do look forward to meeting with him again.
Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen."
Jon rolled the scroll into a tight ball, his hands steadier than they felt. "Tyrion Lannister invites me to Dragonstone, to treat with Daenerys Targaryen. He is hand of the Queen," Jon handed the scroll to Davos, running a hand over his eyes as he often did when plagued with stress. Davos' eyes scanned the scroll, before he looked up at Jon, his mouth ajar. He made to throw the scroll into the fire but Jon stopped him with a hand on his arm and a shake of his head. Enrin's brow knit together.
"A Lannister," she said, tasting the words on her tongue slowly, "a Lannister invites you to Dragonstone? But I thought the Lannisters were our enemies?"
"Aye," Jon said, twirling the scroll between deft fingers, "they are. But this Lannister doesn't serve the others."
Enrin shook her head.
"And who is this Daenerys Targaryen? What right does she have to command you to do anything? You are the King in the North."
Jon sighed, closing his eyes for a moment in a long blink. "She hasn't commanded me to do anything," he said, not looking at her, "she invited me to treat with her. There is a difference."
Enrin looked at him for a long moment, her eyes narrowed.
"So then you can refuse," she said, her tone feigning nonchalance, "and there can be no repercussions. Is that what invited means, Your Grace?"
She threw the blankets from her legs, rising purposely from the bed. Davos averted his eyes immediately, rolling them to the ceiling and rocking back on his heels. Jon rounded on her, nostrils flared.
His shirt fell to her mid thigh, almost to her knees. She padded on bare feet to him, gooseflesh rising on her skin. She snatched the scroll from his fingers as Davos looked on, almost in respect.
Enrin had taught herself to read long ago, from books her father had pillaged from raiding villages below the wall. She would steal away with them in the early hours of the morning, before the others could tear them up to use as kindling for their fires.
Her eyes scanned the words quickly, dancing over the elegant curvature of his writing. It was clear that this Tyrion Lannister was of noble birth and taught well.
"Dragons?" She said, her lips parting in surprise, "this woman has dragons?"
Jon swallowed the panicked lump in his throat, only nodding. Davos rocked on his heels again, and Enrin thought passively that it must be a nervous habit.
"We'll send a raven, respectfully declining," he said, reaching to take the scroll from Enrin's hands. Jon plucked it from between them, pacing to the window, gazing out along the snow covered battlements.
"Send a raven," he said, his voice quiet, "tell her I will sail for Dragonstone on the morrow."
Davos' mouth opened and closed in surprise, like a fish on land. "Your Grace," he sputtered, "forgive me if I overstep my bounds, but her father was The Mad King. Aerys burnt your grandfather and uncle alive-"
"I am aware of my familial history, Davos, thank you," Jon said calmly, turning to watch the snow again. Davos gave a disgruntled sigh, but said nothing.
Enrin's eyes were incredulous, her mouth agape. "And you're just going to go?" She gasped, gripping his forearm to turn him to face her, "just like that? No question of your own safety? You'll just pick up and go at this dragon queen's word?" Rage filled her chest, seeping from her every pore like a Black Plague. Jon did not look at her, his eyes focusing somewhere above her head. She turned to Davos, her eyes a plea for help.
"Davos, tell him."
The man before her looked torn; he wanted to agree with Enrin, but his king stood before him, and only a fool told a king he was wrong.
Enrin was a fool.
"This is a horrible idea," was all she said, crossing her arms against her chest like a stubborn child. Anger showed on her face, but her heart was gripped with terror.
"Davos will accompany me, and you will be safe here," he said, his eyes still on the wall above her, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Davos only nodded once, holding his hands behind his back.
Enrin arched an eyebrow at him, pursing her lips. "You won't leave me here," she said, a laugh bubbling behind her words, "you're mad if you think I'll stay behind. We all leave on the morrow, or no one."
Jon's eyes flickered down to her this time, fire burning behind them.
"You'll do as I say when it comes to this matter," he spat through gritted teeth, as if trying to keep his anger inside of him. Enrin almost snorted.
"I will do no such thing. You've heard me, Jon Snow. Either we all go, or no one."
Jon's eyes bore into hers, hard as stone. They glared at each other for a long moment, their jaws square. Davos cleared his throat, a small sound, and murmured, "Your Grace, I'll take my leave. We will discuss this at a later time."
The door swung closed behind him, and Jon threw up his hands, spinning away from her to pace to the fireplace.
"You undermined me in front of my most trusted advisor," Jon said, his words like ice, "and what does that make me look like?"
Enrin placed her hands on her hips, ire flaring inside her chest. "It makes you look like you need to be taught how to listen to reason," Enrin fired back at him, reaching down to snatch her discarded leggings from the stone floor. She pulled them on, hastily lacing them at the waist.
Jon whipped around and strode purposely to her, his hands balled into fists at his side.
"You will never undermine me like that again, not in front of anyone in the North," his words were low, his jaw clenched. Enrin squared her shoulders, her gaze meeting him full in the face.
"And you," she said, poking a finger hard into his collarbone, "you will never presume to think that I am a weeping southern lady that will meekly stay at home while you ride off to get yourself killed. Out there," she gestured wildly to the door, "out there you are a king. But here, in this room you are my husband, first and foremost. I would be lost if something..."
Enrin yanked her boots on, half lacing them to her knee. She felt a telltale lump forming in her throat, her lip quivering dangerously. She turned her face down, hiding behind the curtain of her hair. Confusion mixed with her fear and alarm, so unused to her emotions overtaking her so quickly. What had this man done to her?
Jon's face softened and he reached for her, meaning to take her hand. Before he could reach her, Enrin turned and quickly strode from the room, unable to look back as Jon called her name.
Enrin burst through the doors of the castle, the wind chilling her bones. She had left her cloak in her haste, Jon's thin shirt her only armor against the cold. As she strode across the courtyard, the people bowed, inclining their heads to her as she hurried past them. She reached out to Night in her mind, her lips too frigid to form a whistle.
The great black wolf appeared in an instant, her yellow eyes disapproving. The pups followed behind her, milling about her feet, and she reached down to scoop one of them up, burying her fingers in his thick fur. He pressed his head into the hollow of her throat, sharing his warmth.
Enrin almost ran into the godswood, the darkness enveloping her like a comforting blanket. She fled through the trees, deeper and deeper into the forest, tears spilling down her cheeks. What she had done had been hasty; but she valued her pride too much to let this man see her cry for him.
She ran for what seemed like hours, the icy air biting into her flesh. The wolves kept pace with her, brushing against her, attempting to add friction into her tired limbs.
Enrin's eyes blurred with tears again and again, and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. The snow had begun to fall quickly, the flakes soaking her hair. She stumbled, her legs too weak to carry her further. Jutting stones rushed up to meet her, and suddenly the world was dark.
Jon flung his cloak about his shoulders, his mouth set in a grim line. He had searched the castle for hours; every nook and cranny in the great stone place had been scoured by him. Tormund watched him from across the table scattered with maps, his eyes crinkled with worry. Sansa sat with them both, long having given up her placating words. Dusk was beginning in the late afternoon, the snow whirling past the glass windows. Jon's eyes followed each flake, his foreboding mounting with every second.
"It's been too long," he said finally, pulling his gloves over his fingers, "I'm going to find her." Neither Sansa nor Tormund complained, only reached for torches from the sconces on the walls. Jon gathered a host of guards and began the trek into the field, his gut in torment.
Enrin's footprints had long been covered by the snow; it was up to Jon's knees by the time he had reached the edge of the trees. Tormund was beside him, his eyes wide. "We should split up, Jon Snow," he said, walking west. Jon sent the guards to the east as he went straight ahead, north.
The forest was darker than he ever remembered it, his torch providing little light in he blackness. The air felt oddly hushed, as he turned in a circle, shouting Enrin's name.
Far into the distance, a wolf howled.
Jon spun toward the sound, his feet carrying him as fast as he could manage through the snowdrifts. He stopped, and turned again, unsure of which direction he should be running. The howl abated, echoing from the trees, coming from every direction. Jon slammed his fist into a tree, his frustration and fear peaking. Panic made him reckless as he spun this way and that, trying to find his sense of direction in the night.
He closed his eyes, letting his mind search. The familiar sensation began again, easier each time he tried, and he slipped into Ghost almost easily, like a well worn jacket.
Suddenly he was at he edge of the trees looking in, his panting breath forming a cloud in front of him. He broke into a lope, his mammoth feet pulling him easily through the snow as it soaked the fur up to his belly. Together they lifted their noses to take a long drag of the wind.
Jon could taste her scent on the back of his tongue, as Ghost turned sharply and bound toward the smell. He weaved through the trees nimbly, his nose scouring the air again, the trail becoming clearer and clearer as he neared.
Jon's eyes snapped open as he spun, his legs carrying him like wings through the snow. He could feel Ghost rather than see him as he got closer, his breath coming in sharp gasps.
The white wolf stood over them, his nose pressed to the ground. Snow had piled over them like a great white blanket, and as they closed in, Night's eyes opened and she met them with a snarl. She stood and shook the snow from all of them, her body still half curled around Enrin as she lay on the ground. The pups had piled atop her body, nose to nose with each other. Jon propped his torch against a rocky outcropping and fell to the ground beside her, his hands shaking.
"Enrin?" He said, pulling her into his lap. Her body was limp and cold to the touch, her lips blue as frost. Blood matter her hair on the temple of her head, but her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm that brought tears of relief to Jon's eyes. Night watched him warily, her yellow eyes boring in to his. Ghost stood beside her, his nose against her neck, woofing softly. Jon snapped he silver chain of his cloak, pulling it from his back and encasing Enrin in it, pulling the furs up over her head. He hoisted her into his arms, turning to the wolves.
"Take us home, please, take us home."
All seven of the wolves turned at once, bounding across the mounds of snow like spirits, and Jon followed behind them as fast as his legs would carry him. He clutched Enrin to his chest, tears of fear stinging his eyes.
Winterfell came into view then, the light of the torches flickering in the night. "Tormund!" Jon shouted as he broke through the trees, "help me!"
Enrin's father was upon them in an instant, pulling his furs from his back and piling over Jon's cloak. "We must get her inside," he shouted over the roaring wind, taking Jon's arm and supporting some of his weight. Sansa threw open the doors to the castle as they neared, Jon rushing straight through. The winding hall to their chambers seemed ever longer as he ran, holding her head steady against his chest. "Fetch Maester Wolken!" He shouted as the guards prowling the halls rushed to assist him, the bowed their heads and sprinted off, not daring to give him question.
Tormund threw the doors to their chambers open and Jon all but fell inside, throwing the furs aside so he could lay her down gently on the bed. He pulled off his gloves, his hands weak and shaking, his fingers fluttering over he matting of blood on her hairline. Night pushed her way into the room, melted snow dripping from her fur. She shook herself twice before leaping onto the bed, her nose nuzzling Enrin's cheek. A soft whine escaped her as she lay her massive head on Enrin's leg, closing her marillion eyes with a sigh.
Sansa placed a hand softly on his back and he flinched, eyes wide, turning to gaze at her.
"Jon," she said, her hand resting on his shoulder, "you've got to calm down. Breathe."
He hadn't realized his breaths were coming in short, sporadic gasps. He looked down at Enrin, cold and lifeless beneath him, her skin pale and lips still blue. He took her hand in his, resting his forehead over her stomach, a silent prayer on his lips.
Maester Wolken appeared in the doorway, his chain hastily strewn about his neck. He rushed to Enrin's side, almost shouldering Tormund out of the way.
"We must get her out of these freezing clothes," he said, pausing with his hands poised over her, "Your Grace, if I may."
Jon could only nod, raising his head, his eyes wet. He stood, swaying, and Sansa caught his arm.
"Come, the both of you," she said, grip hard on his elbow, "we must let Maester Wolken work if we're to have any hope. Into the hall, I'll find some hot wine. Jon, you're like ice."
He slumped against the wall outside he chamber, sliding to the floor. Tormund paced beside him.
"I'm sorry," Jon murmured, his eyes closed, ears listening to the shuffling inside their chambers. Tormund stopped long enough to give him a withering look, before he continued to wear a hole in the floor. After a beat, he said, "Its not your fault."
He slid down the wall beside Jon, their shoulders almost touching.
"Ever since she was a little girl," Tormund began, "any time she is angry, or scared, she runs. She takes that damned wolf of hers and runs into the trees and you won't see her for hours."
He ran a hand over his beard, exasperated.
"She always came back hours or days later in better mind, but she would scare the life from me each time she took off somewhere she didn't want to be followed. You could not have known. She could not have known. The snows were too deep for her to see where she was going..."
Tormund broke off, covering his eyes with his hand. Jon watched him, numb, sharing in his grief the only way he knew how.
"What did you do that made her run this time?" Tormund turned to him then, a tear dripping from his severe nose. Jon opened his mouth to speak once, twice, before heaving a sigh.
"Daenerys Targaryen summoned me to Dragonstone," he said finally, his voice barely a whisper, "and I told her she had to stay here, to keep her safe."
Tormund laughed, a choked sound. "And you thought she was going to listen to you? You may be a king, but you are a stupid husband," Tormund laughed again, slapping his knee.
"Something you need to know about my girl, Jon Snow," Tormund said, "is that she will go with you whether you like it or not, and you shall never hear the end of it. Do you know how many times I tried to keep her at camp while I went out hunting and raiding?" Tormund's eyes were far away, in the past. "More times than I can count, Jon. And she always found her own way to come with me. To protect me, she said. You are hers to protect now," he clapped Jon on the shoulder, not roughly, "so you had better just let her."
"Your Grace," Maester Wolken interrupted them then, his eyes grave. Jon pushed himself up, his brain in a fog.
Enrin lay wrapped in his cloak once more, her skin still pale as milk by her lips no longer blue. Maester Wolken had cleaned the wound on her head, and pushed her hair back to reveal several stitches of white silk, holding the edges of her scalp together.
"Her temperature is very low," Maester Wolken said, his eyes distressed, "and she had lost so much blood by the time you had found her. She is breathing good, strong breaths. But..." the Maester trailed off, his eyes traveling from Tormund to Jon, flickering back and forth. "But I'm afraid we will not know the extent of the damage until she wakes...if she wakes."
Jon fell to his knees beside the bed, hollow. She looked so small there beneath all of the furs, her chest rising and falling deeply. Maester Wolken and Tormund hovered, unsure, as Sansa returned with steaming cups of wine. She forced one into Jon's hands, saying, "drink."
He lifted the cups to his lips, wine sloshing over the sides of the goblet from his tremors. He hadn't realized how cold he had become, even though the fire roared behind him.
"Leave me," he said, crawling into the bed beside his wife, "for a moment. Please."
The rest shuffled out from the room then, Tormund placing a kiss on his daughter's forehead as he went.
Jon watched her for so many moments, his breathing slowing to match hers. He spoke then, finally, after hours of watching her remain unchanged.
"Enrin...you have to come back to me. Please, you can't leave now. We haven't had time. Enrin...I...I love you."
"I...I love you."
It sounded so far away, his voice. She felt him next to her, felt his breathing slow. The fire crackled around them, slowly adding life to her frozen limbs.
"I...I love you."
Oh how she wanted to wake, to touch him, to shout at him yes, yes I'm here with you, but her body betrayed her. Her hands lay dormant when they longed to be in his.
"We haven't had time."
Of course, she wanted to shout, of course we haven't had time, it's too soon. Please, I'm trying.
She sank below the wave of sleep again, her dreams frightful.
"...she still sleeps..."
I AM HERE, she screamed, but her voice failed her.
"...Grace, you were meant to leave days ago..."
"Send a raven, I won't go without her..."
Her head throbbed, her stomach roiling.
"...been several days, Your Grace, you need rest..."
A crash echoed across the room, a goblet raining wine against the stone.
Her legs ached. Her toes felt stiff as she flexed them, but gods be good, they were still there. Her fingers shook as she balled her hands into fists, beneath a mountain of furs. Her body burned under them, after days of remaining still, she longed to move.
Enrin's eyes fluttered open, the light pouring from the window assaulting her. She blinked once, twice, her eyes coming into focus.
He stood at the fireplace, throwing a fresh log into the smoking maw. He fanned it, turning quickly, stopping short when he saw her looking at him.
"Oh gods," he breathed, shouting for the Maester, sprinting to her side, "Enrin, please, can you hear me?"
She swallowed, her throat like razors. Jon poured a cup of water for her, holding it to her lips. She drank, the cool liquid bringing life back into her.
"Yes," she rasped, "I can hear you. Not so loud, please." She moved to sit, her arms shaking under her weight. Jon placed a hand on her back, pulling her up. He propped her against him, tucking his cloak closer around her shoulders to hide her nakedness. Her head swam so much that it turned her stomach, and she reached for the water again, hoping it would calm her gut.
Maester Wolken burst into the room, followed closely by her father. She gave him a weak smile, but simply sitting had made her so tired that she could not wave.
"My Queen," Maester Wolken said, sinking to the bed beside her, "may I?"
She only nodded, wanting to object to being called his Queen but finding no strength, and Maester Wolken cupped her face. He turned her head this way and that, made her follow his finger with only her eyes. He checked the wound on her head, his finger feather light.
"It is healing well," he said, leaning away from her, "do you remember anything at all?"
"Yes," she said, her voice paper thin, "I...ran. I was running, with the wolves. I stumbled," she nestled her head closer to Jon, who tightened around her. "I'm sorry," she began again, "I had not meant..."
"Shh," Jon hushed her, resting his cheek gently on the top of her head, "no more of that. You're awake now. How do you feel?"
She swallowed with difficulty, sipping what remained in her cup. Maester Wolken filled it for her again.
"I feel tired. My body aches," she shifted, every inch of her skin on pins and needles, "but I feel well."
Maester Wolken stood, his hands rifling in the pockets of his robes. He produced a small bottle filled with a milky, white liquid.
"Milk of the poppy, for the pain," he said, leaving it on the stool beside the bed. He made his leave, making her promise to call on him if the pain worsened.
Her father gripped her hand, kissing her knuckles. "Never scare me that way again, girl," he said, his voice trying to be stern. He kissed her again before inclining his head to Jon and slipping from the room, closing the door behind him. Enrin reached for Night with her mind, feeling the wolf pacing below her window. Calmness flooded her as Night heaved a sigh of relief.
Enrin tucked her head into Jon's neck again, sighing lightly. "I am sorry," she whispered against his skin, reveling in the feel of him against her. Jon said nothing. She rested her head on him once more, listening to his breathing heave. She craned her head to look at him as a tear rolled down his cheek.
"Jon," she pleaded, pushing herself up to look at him. He tried to pull away, to hide his face, but she dug her fingers into his arms, holding him still. Their eyes met, and she could feel the torment of the last several days radiating from him. She stroked his face, pushing his hair away, wiping the tears with her thumbs. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice thick as oil, "I'm so sorry."
Jon pulled her to him, handling her as if she would break. He pressed his lips to hers, their kiss deepening, as their mouths ravaged each other. He pulled away when she winced, pain lacing through her head. He reached for the glass bottle, forcing her to drink a few drops before he would touch her again. When she complied he wrapped her in his arms again, closing his eyes, peaceful for the first time in days.
"Oh, Enrin," he said, "what will I do with you? I won't try to leave you behind again."
She couldn't help but smile, kissing his throat.
"I wish it hadn't taken all of this to get you to learn that lesson."
He pulled his cloak closer around her, kissing her once more.
"Sleep, wife, we have a long journey soon ahead of us."
She closed her eyes, a distant memory tugging at her heart.
"I'm afraid I love you too," she murmured, sleep claiming her once more.