It's a long one ;) enjoy!
They awoke to the sound of silence.
The island hadn't been so quiet in the time that they had been there. The air whistled bleakly across the beaches. Even the sea was quiet; slowly rolling up and down the sand in a soft rhythm. Erin walked alone, her quiver slung over her back. Her hair whipped about her face as she looked out at the sea, seven wolves stalking behind her like shadows. The pups were almost as big as their mother by now, their fur growing gray and white, like their father's before them.
Enrin squinted into the waves as a long boat appeared around the corner of the cliffs. She knocked an arrow.
The boat was filled with men who wore sea creatures on their mail that Enrin had never seen. One stood and looked on as the boat docked, sliding up onto the sand. He leaped out, his arms held at an awkward angle.
"Who are you?" He asked, his tone wary as he strode up the beach toward her. She half raised her bow, and the wolves snarled.
"Who are you?" She fired back, the arrow aimed at his navel. She heard Jon curse from far behind her.
The boy's eyes were blue as the sea, but they were watery and fearful. His men milled around him, unsure. One of the pups, a big male, snapped as they drew closer. Ghost paced behind them, his teeth sheathed.
"Enrin, seven hells-"
Jon reached them then, slightly out of breath like he had run the rest of the way down the stairs to meet them at the water. As his eyes found the boy in front of her, he stopped short, his breath catching.
"Jon?" The blue eyed boy asked, his tone surprised, "I didn't know you were here."
Davos had appeared with Jon, and he stood on Enrin's other side, his nose twitching nervously. In a single movement, Jon stalked forward and gripped the boy by the front of his shirt. Enrin raised her arrow higher.
"What you did for Sansa," Jon spat, his face an inch from the boy's, "is the only reason I'm not killing you. Right here, right now."
"You can lower that arrow, Your Grace," Davos whispered to her, leaning down to reach her, "they've long known each other."
Enrin's brow furrowed, and she dropped her arrow, but left it knocked.
"I've come to ask the queen to help me get my sister back," the fearful boy said, his lip twitching, "where is she?"
Enrin stepped forward then, placing her hand over Jon's where it gripped at the neck of the other man's throat. He released him, however reluctantly. "She's not here," Enrin said, standing shoulder with Jon again, blue eyes meeting blue eyes, "you may wait for her within, if you know her so well."
They regarded each other, both dubious. "I'm Theon Greyjoy," he said finally, his tone insolent, "are you so important to give me orders?"
Jon gripped him again in a moment, pushing himself between Enrin and Theon, his hand pulling skin now along with his shirt.
"Speak to my wife like that again," he snarled, a challenge on his lips.
"Jon, please," Enrin pleaded, pulling them apart again, "stop it, the both of you. Bloody pissing contest." She thought she heard Davos laugh.
"Go and await Queen Daenerys' return, Theon Greyjoy," she said, "and take your men with you."
They began to move up the beach then, wary eyes watching her as they slunk away.
Jon heaved a sigh, pulling his cloak about him as the wind howled. "You left before I woke this morning," he said, his words bordering on accusatory. She nodded. "I've spent far too much time inside in the last fortnight," she said, her smile apologetic. He took her hand in his. "I've sent a raven home. Your father is to lead a host of the free-folk to Eastwatch-By-The-Sea. I wanted to tell you before I sent it, but..."
Enrin bit her lip, but touched his face gently. "I'm sorry I left," she said, her gut roiling with apprehension at his words, "come and walk with me. I can't stay still."
Jon smiled, because he knew.
They faced the cliffs, their cloaks billowing about them as they watched the waves roll in and out. Their silence was comfortable as they leaned against each other.
It was broken as quickly as it had come.
They heard the great flap of the wings before they saw it, and then the great black beast came into view. It circled once before landing on the cliff, its weight shaking the stone and sending pebbles tumbling into the sea. It came toward them, its mouth open in a great roar, and for the first time Enrin was afraid.
Jon pressed her behind him as the dragon advanced. It stopped inches from him, snarling into his face. Fear gripped him as he stared at the teeth, bigger than his palm. What does one do when faced with a mythical beast?
Jon stripped off his glove and held his hand up for the dragon to sniff.
Enrin looked out from behind him, eyes wild, ready to rip his hand away. But the beast only took a long drag of his scent, and she swore its eyes softened. It stretched its gaping maw toward him and pressed its nose into his hand.
The moment lasted forever, between man and dragon. They regarded each other in mutual respect, as Jon stroked his nose. Enrin's eyes were wide with alarm as she watched; suddenly she felt as if she were intruding.
Daenerys walked off Drogon's wing and as she did, the great beast turned and took to the sky. His brothers screeched in greeting to him as he joined them in circling above the castle, their wing strokes like heartbeats in the air.
"They're beautiful aren't they?" She asked, and they only nodded, not daring to disagree.
"You weren't gone long," Jon remarked as they began their trek back to the castle. They walked three abreast, Enrin in the middle of them, somewhat of a buffer.
"And I have fewer enemies today than I did yesterday." Daenerys said, turning to Enrin, who avoided her gaze. "That troubles you."
Enrin all but shrugged. "I can't say I blame you...for doing it," Enrin replied, "but it wasn't exactly what we meant. We said weaken, not wipe out."
Daenerys regarded her coolly. "Would you not take the chance on wiping out your enemies army if you could?"
Enrin slung her bow higher on her shoulder. "I would," she replied, "but the dead are not an army you can negotiate with."
"It's Lord Tyrion's place to advise you," Jon added as they neared the castle, "not ours."
"And yet," Daenerys said, "I have grown to value your council, along with his."
A host of Dothraki met them at the keep, and one spoke in that guttural tongue again. Daenerys looked confused, until a man stepped out from behind the hulking guard.
"He is my friend," she said, as the man knelt in front of her. Enrin sensed something else between them then, and she could place it as more than friendship, but she remained silent beside Jon, who looked on doubtfully.
He asked to return to her service, to which Daenerys immediately agreed. She embraced him then, like two old friends, and Enrin knew there was something there between them that neither wanted to admit.
"Jon, Enrin," Daenerys said, her eyes never leaving the man in front of her, "this is Ser Jorah Mormont. Ser Jorah, the King and Queen in the North."
Jon's eyes widened a fraction. "I served with your father at Castle Black," he said, stepping forward to shake Jorah Mormont's hand, "he was a good man. My wife, Enrin," Jon said, and Enrin stepped forward.
Jorah looked confused, but hid it well for a moment, he took Enrin's hand in his and kissed it, ever the gentleman.
"Come," Daenerys said, sliding her arm through Jorah's. Jon and Enrin followed as the two walked close together, heads bent, whispering.
"What was that?" Enrin asked, elbowing Jon in his ribs gently. His eyes stayed forward as they followed Daenerys and Jorah into the darkness of the keep. Enrin's hair fell in a disarray about her shoulders as the wind disappeared, and Jon reached over to gently tug it back into place. "With the dragon," she said, searching what she could see of his face in the darkness. He looked just as perturbed as she did. "I don't know," was all he replied, as they entered the war room where Tyrion, Missandei and Davos were waiting. They greeted each other with warm smiles and firm handshakes, and Enrin and Jon stood apart, ever the outsiders. Daenerys rounded the table, stripping away lion figurines as she did.
"Cersei will likely form a counter attack," Tyrion began as Enrin and Jon joined them around the table. Jorah stood, calm and collected, by Daenerys' right shoulder. "Then we should form our own," Daenerys replied, her eyes scanning the map in front of them.
"Forgive me," Jon spoke out then, his voice loud in an otherwise quiet chamber, "but there's no time for this. The dead advance farther each day. You gave us your word that you would help us in the Great War, Daenerys," her name sounded foreign in his tongue as he said it aloud, "if you do not intend, Enrin and I would like to leave."
Daenerys cocked one of her eyebrows, folding her arms. "For all we know, Jon, the dead are no closer than they were a fortnight ago."
His eyes found Enrin's then, and it alarmed her. There was an apology there, silent and true. He produced a raven scroll from the inside of his sleeve, and she wondered how long it had been there. Her eyes narrowed.
"What is that?" She asked, nearly rising from the table. Jon chewed on the inside of his lip, and he looked almost afraid.
"My brother," he said, his voice so quiet they strained to hear him over the crackling of the flames, "my brother is alive. Bran. He's returned home to Winterfell. He says the dead are marching and have been for some time. He saw this in a vision." Jon looked around at them all, as Enrin plucked the scroll from his fingers. "Eastwatch," she said, her words almost a gasp, "my father is on his way to Eastwatch." She rounded on him, and even Daenerys leaned away from them. "Jon," she said, doing everything she could to keep her voice steady, "when did you get this? Was it before or after you sent my father there?" He was silent, but his eyes were sad. He reached for her hand and she yanked it away from him. "Answer me."
He sighed. The expression on his face was all the answer she needed. Her nostrils flared, but she turned from him, to face the party around them. She would not fight with him, not here, in front of these people who were still strangers.
"It is more imperative now than ever that we convince Cersei Lannister that the dead are real," she began, pausing as if waiting for someone to disagree. When none did, she raged on. "Invite her here to see the drawings in the cave," she offered, and each eye that was on her looked doubtful. "I know my sister better than anyone here," Tyrion said, shaking his mane of shaggy blonde hair, "she will not leave King's Landing." Frustration mounted in Enrin as she stared at the man, watching an idea from behind his eyes. "If there was only a way..." he started, but trailed away, his eyes in the distance.
"A way to bring the dead to her?" Jon finished for him, as Davos shifted uncomfortably at his elbow. Daenerys' silver brows knit together. "I thought we were trying to avoid bringing the army of the dead south of the wall," she almost exclaimed, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. "We wouldn't need the army," Tyrion offered, casting his eyes warily about him, "we would only need one."
"Aye," she heard Jon speak behind her, "one would be enough."
She turned to face him, anger flashing behind her eyes like lightning. "No."
Jon's face was torn, and this time when he reached for her, she let him.
"With the Queen's permission," Jorah spoke from behind them all, "I will go north and take one."
"No," she whispered, and Enrin spoke with her.
"I returned so that I could serve you," Jorah said, his words almost a plea, "let me serve you." They watched each other for a beat, time stretching forever in the long moment. Finally, Daenerys nodded.
Enrin turned to face Jon, and when she did, his eyes were sad.
"You know the free folk won't follow Ser Jorah alone," he said, only to her, everyone else in the room evaporated. "Then I'll go, too," she said, and continued before Jon could overspeak her, "they're our people, but they were mine first."
"While you squabble over who walks first to their death," Tyrion said, standing from his chair, "I would kindly ask Ser Davos to smuggle me into King's Landing to treat with my brother." Their eyes moved to the man seated, who only nodded once.
"I won't have my hand murdered," Daenerys spat, her words like ice. Tyrion turned to her.
"What other choice is there?"
They looked at each other then, silent, their eyes meeting in turn.
"I think you're all mad," Missandei spoke suddenly, and they laughed, but it did not touch their eyes.
Tyrion and Davos departed that night, saying their farewells in the cover of darkness. Enrin and Jon watched the boat from their window, long until it disappeared in the night. She had words for him, but none that could convey exactly what she felt. She had never been good with words.
She slammed her cup of wine down onto the table and it spilled over her fingers, sticky and red.
"I won't allow it," she said, leaning there, unable to meet his eyes. She felt him sigh from by the window.
"I'm not asking you."
She whipped about, her chest heaving. "If you think I'm going to just let you go north of the wall on this suicide mission, you are sorely mistaken," she growled, and his face reflected none of her ire. It was concealed well, behind his calm mask.
"I've said it a hundred times, and I'll say it again," his words were measured, as if she didn't understand, "I am not asking you."
She felt as if she could rip her hair out, or dig her fingers into him so deep that she touched his bones. Her hands balled into fists. His serenity only made it that much worse.
"Then I should best start packing," she said, and turned from him again. She began to rummage in their chest of things, not knowing what she was looking for.
"Enrin."
She pulled out some of his shirts, laying them aside on the bed.
"Enrin."
She dug for her second quiver of arrows, hidden deep beneath the rest of their things.
"ENRIN, SEVEN FUCKING HELLS!"
Her breath caught as he gripped her arm, yanking her away from the chest. His grip was gentle as he pulled her around to face him, but his eyes were not.
"You are not coming north of the Wall. Not now. Not during this," his words were ice, biting at her as she could only stare at him. "If you're there, the only person who won't be coming home, is me. I can't keep them safe, keep your father safe, if I'm too busy protecting you." She pulled her arm from his grip, and they stood toe to toe, both formidable in their anger. "I don't need protecting," she said, and even to herself she sounded like an errant child. "Aye," Jon said, "I believe that, but that doesn't mean that I won't be doing it anyway." They squared up again, and she searched his face. She had every line of it memorized by now.
"I can't," Jon said, and his words were tired, his soul heavy. He couldn't have her there, in the face of that danger. His mind rejected even the passing thought. What he felt for her trumped everything; himself, his honor, everything. He knew the risks of going, he knew what it meant. He wanted to stay with her more than anything. They both knew that if she asked him, he would.
But she couldn't.
"You'll...you'll take the wolves with you, then," she whispered, her voice choked, "the grown wolves. You'll take them both. And you'll come back to me."
His hands found the shirt she wore as he ripped it over her head. She made quick work of his leathers as they both kicked their boots from their feet. He tore the ties to her pants, barely feeling them beneath his fingers. In one swift motion he pushed her onto the bed, and then he was in her, moving quick and hard. She met him for every thrust, their breath coming in short gasps. She felt herself beginning to quicken beneath him, and her lips found his ear. "Promise me," she whispered as she tightened around him. He stilled deep inside her, his head tucked into the curve of her neck. "I promise," he groaned, "I will always come back to you." And his lips found hers again.
He had said that they would depart when Davos and Tyrion returned, and not before. "Only then," he said as they lay together, "not before. Another week, perhaps."
They returned four days later.
Enrin watched the boat slide onto the sand with ice in her veins. She greeted Davos warmly, clasping his hand in hers. She had grown very fond of this man, she realized.
Another body was in the boat, younger than the rest, his black hair close cropped to his head. She raised an eyebrow at Davos in question. "You left as two and picked up a stray?"
The boy marched toward Jon, his shoulders stiff with purpose.
"Names Gendry, Your Graces," he said immediately, "Robert Baratheon's son. Bastard son."
Jon's eyes widened as he turned to stare at Davos for a moment. "Our fathers were honest friends," Gendry said, his light eyes casting around him, "why shouldn't we be?"
"Aye," Jon said, reaching out to shake his hand, "and we could use the help."
He wanted to accompany them north of the wall, and Jon didn't refuse him. Enrin breathed a sigh of relief; it meant one more weapon that would be there to save Jon's life.
Jorah appeared with them then, a pack slung across his shoulder. Daenerys followed close behind. Enrin's gut twisted.
"We had better head off," Jorah said as they neared, "before the high tide."
He strode toward the boat, Davos and Gendry close on his heels. Daenerys and Jorah stood for a moment, their hands clasped together. They stared into each other's eyes, before Jorah bent to kiss her hands in his.
The wolves stalked down the beach, looking solemn. Enrin fell to one knee as they neared, and Night pressed her forehead to Enrin's as they both closed their eyes. She and Ghost together stalked toward one of the longboats, leaping inside to sit and wait impatiently. The pups whined at Enrin's hip.
She felt Jon's arm brush her shoulder as he turned to face her. He wore Longclaw at his waist, his fur cloak piled high over his shoulders. His eyes echoed her own fear. She reached out to touch his face, her fingers twirling a stray curl that had fallen loose. "Don't forget your promise," she said, trying for lightheartedness but she only succeeded in sounding like she was being strangled.
"I won't," he said, and then his lips were on hers. Every time was like the first time, but this was different. They were desperate, clinging to each other, each pouring everything they had into their kiss. Too soon, it was over, and too soon Jon was striding quickly for the boat, for if he did not go now, he would stay behind with her.
She watched them push away from shore, as he sat with the wolves on either side of him, his cloak billowing about him. She waited until the boat had disappeared behind the cliffs, and then she watched still, long into the night.
As much as he hated to admit it, Jon had missed the snow.
It was frigid as they trudged into Eastwatch, and not much warmer as they entered the keep. He was almost lifted off his feet by Tormund as the red headed man rushed him, enveloping him in a rib cracking hug that left Jon breathless. His eyes searched behind Jon as the rest of the small band filed inside, the wolves bringing up the rear.
"Did you manage to leave her behind?" Tormund asked, his hand on Jon's shoulder. He thought of her then, standing on the beach, her hair billowing behind her like a black cape, five wolves around her looking for guidance. His breath caught, and he only nodded.
"Good," was all Tormund managed to say, before he rounded on Davos. "Isn't it your job to stop him from making fucking stupid decisions like this?"
Davos only shrugged. "I'm not very good at my job." Tormund huffed. "You really want to go out there again?" Once more Jon nodded, taking a long drag of the ale Davos had poured into his cup. One thing he did not miss was the Night's Watch excuse for beer. Tormund almost laughed. "Well," he said, "seems you're not the only ones."
He led them back across the hallways, deep into where the keep had been dug into the ice of the Wall. Water trickled down in a dulcet rhythm where the torches lit their way. In a cell sat three men, huddled closer to each other for warmth. As they approached, the largest of the men sat up. His face was scarred on one side, his hair hanging over it in lanky strands. Jon knew him immediately. "I remember you," he said, as the man turned his glare on him, "you're The Hound. I saw you once, at Winterfell. You were Joffrey's sworn shield." The Hound spat. "Fuck Joffrey," he said, his voice a deep growl.
"It's best not to speak ill of the dead, Clegane."
Gendry leaned into the cell, his eyes wide and wary. "That's Beric Dondarrion," he said, pointing, "and Thoros of Myr."
"You know them?" Tormund asked. "Aye, I know them," Gendry said, his voice full of contempt, "they sold me to the red witch for twenty gold dragons. You know she wanted to kill me?"
"Ah," Thoros of Myr said, the gap in his tooth visible as he smiled, "and yet here you are."
He rattled the bars of the cell. "Leave them in there to rot, for all I care," Gendry said, leaning away into the shadows.
"You're going north of the Wall," Beric said, and it wasn't a question, "allow us to come with you."
"It's no place for you," Jon dismissed. He was antsy, itching to be on his way. The faster they started the damn trek, the faster he was home to his wife. "And what makes you say that it's a place for you?" Beric watched him with his single eye, a small smile playing beneath his beard. Each man here had a reason to hate the other, a reason for wanting the other dead. Jon thought of the trouble it would cause to release them from the cell. "We're all on the same side," he said, taking the keys from Tormund's hand.
"How do you figure?" Gendry asked, distrust clear in his tone.
"We're all breathing."
The wind whistled across the plains as they walked. It felt like they had been there for days, but it had only been hours since they had raised the tunnel's gate. The sun rose over the mountains, coloring the sky with blood reds and golds. The ice was a strange color here; it was so blue, almost white, and the color reminded Jon of Enrin's eyes.
As they walked, he told Jorah stories of his father. How he had been hard, but kind, with words of gruff advice. "We avenged him," Jon said, "I want you to know that. Every mutineer met justice, I made sure of it."
"He was a good man," Jorah agreed, "he deserved a better son." Jon had drawn Longclaw from his hip, but Jorah refused it. "May it serve you well," be said, "and your children after you."
Jon hiked in silence for a while after that, his mind elsewhere. He had never thought about children before; as a bastard, he hadn't wanted them, for who would want a child with no name? As a brother of the Night's Watch, he had long given up the thought of holding a newborn in his arms that was all his own. He had held Gilly's baby, once, and she had remarked that it came naturally to him. He had never asked Enrin her thoughts; war time did not allow them the luxury. He thought it may be nice, when the war was over and the country was at peace, to see her be a mother. Provided that they both survived.
He shuddered, pushing the thought far back into his mind, as Beric appeared beside him, ever silent. "You don't look like him," he remarked, and when Jon looked confused, he said, "your father. You must favor your mother." Jon shrugged. "I wouldn't know to tell you," be replied, "I never knew her."
"We serve the same God, you know," Beric said suddenly, after a long while of silence. Jon regarded him coolly. "The Lord of Light never spoke to me," he murmured finally, "I don't know why he brought me back. I don't know what I'm meant to do here."
Beric shrugged. "The Gods work in mysterious ways, Jon Snow, but there is always a reason. Have faith in that, and let it light the way," he said, and looked up to the morning, squinting his eye.
Night and Ghost padded on either side of him, their eyes scanning across the horizon. Suddenly, the Hound stopped to point.
"There," he exclaimed, pointing with a gloved hand, "the mountain that looks like an arrowhead. That's what I saw in the flames."
"We're getting close," Tormund said, and his words put a chill down Jon's spine.
"Enrin?"
The sound of the soft voice pulled her back into herself. She blinked once, twice, her eyes coming into focus. It was long after dark, and the moon shone down like a great seeing eye. The freezing waters lapped at her feet as she sat in the sand, her arms around her knees.
Daenerys stood at her shoulder, a torch in hand. She reached down to shake her again.
"Enrin, come inside," she said, her voice edging on gentle, "have some hot wine. You must be frozen."
Enrin stood slowly, her legs and hands like lead. The pups rose around her, trailing after them as they wound the high mountain stairs.
She cupped her hands around the goblet of steaming wine, letting the fire bring life back into her frozen limbs. They sat in the war room, by the roaring fire, Daenerys across from her. They regarded each other slowly.
"I know you must be worried," Enrin said finally, after her lips had returned to their pink color from blue, "about Jorah."
Daenerys scoffed. "Of course I'm worried, he is my dearest and oldest friend."
"Your...friend, is it?" Enrin said, and she smirked. Daenerys' eyes rounded on her. "My friend," she said, stressing the word, but as she looked into the fire, Enrin saw something flash behind her eyes.
"I'm sure it is no match for what you feel," Daenerys said, and her voice had that gentleness to it one used when talking to a sick person abed.
Enrin tensed, draining her wine. "He promised me," she said, her words only above a whisper, "he promised me that he would come back. He will. I know that he will."
Daenerys only nodded. They sat for a long while, until the dawn turned to dusk, needing no words, just the comfort of another person.
Quick footsteps sounded down the hall, and Tyrion burst into the room like a madman, his breath coming in deep huffs. "Your Graces," he said, and Enrin leaped from her chair. With shaking fingers he gave to Daenerys a raven scroll, hastily rolled and written. Her eyes scanned it quickly before she stood, her hands knotted.
"They're in trouble," was all she said, before she took to the window and called for her dragons before either of them could advise against it. Drogon landed on the balcony without, as best he could, and she crawled on to his back before Enrin's breath had left her lips. Tyrion glanced at her, his eyes hard with panic.
Her eyes clouded and rolled back.
Night snarled, pacing across the rock, Ghost at her side. The wight at her feet raged, its teeth gnashing against the bag covering its head. Every instinct told her to put her teeth in it, to gnaw its head off, but Jon had reprimanded her when she had gotten too close. Even she knew they needed this thing moving.
They surrounded them on all sides, a hundred thousand at least, the sounds of their hunger making a raucous rhythm around them. The frozen lake of ice was the only protection between them and the army of the dead. The men sat, sleeping fitfully, huddling for warmth in the long night. The one called Gendry had run for Eastwatch hours ago; and the men did not know when their plea for help would be answered.
The big one stood, the scars on his face hidden by the oncoming darkness. The body they burned still crackled below them. Thoros of Myr had not made it through the night.
He picked up a rock, weighing it in his hands, before he launched it across the ice. It connected with a particularly decayed wight, knocking it's jaw clean off. He reached for another rock, heavier this time, and before Night could snarl a warning at him, he threw it.
The rock skidded across the ice, stopping in front of the wights like an invitation.
They came slowly at first, one by one, wary of the water below them. The Hound cut them down first with Gendry's hammer, smashing them through the ice into the blackness below.
And as quickly as it began, they all rushed toward them.
Jon hacked with his sword, taking out two and three at a time. Night closed her jaws around an arm, ripping it clean off. She went for the throat of every wight that dared come near, backing against Jon like a buffer. Ghost had his other side as they ripped and tore at the dead around them, black congealed blood spraying the air. The taste as foul, but she powered on, her claws thick with blood and skin.
"Fall back!" Jon shouted as the dead came ever closer, rushing them like a great gray wave. The climbed higher on the rock, reaching the middle of the lake. The dead came from behind them now too, thousands upon thousands of them at once. Night ripped a skeleton from Ghost's back, crunching its skull between her teeth.
Fire rained from the sky, splitting the ice and sending the flaming dead down into its depths. The dragon queen wheeled her mount, the fire burning from its throat. It's brothers followed, lighting up the night sky with their hot breath. Thousands and thousands of wights took flame, the bones splitting from bones in a macabre shower. He ice around them bad all but melted as Daenerys landed, her hand reaching for Jorah. He climbed onto the back of the dragon, spearing their stolen wight on one of its spikes. It writhed, screeching. Jon stood below them, cutting down the wights who had managed to escape the flames. Night and Ghost both snarled a warning at him. They were too busy paying attention to each other, none of them noticed the Night King throw his spear.
It struck the golden dragon in the throat, and his flames died in his mouth. He screeched, red blood spraying across the sky. Daenerys clutched to Drogon as he reared, screaming his fury.
His brother fell, skidding across the ice.
The light left Viserion's eyes as he sank below the water, the inky blackness swallowing him whole.
"Go!" Jon screamed, whirling around and making his way back to them, cutting down wights as he went. "Go, now! Leave!"
Daenerys hesitated as the Night King raised another spear, aimed at Drogon. Rhaegal whirled, and fled, his winds beating the air and taking him higher and higher, away from the danger. Drogon took to the air clumsily, as Jon made his way to them.
Two dead men catapulted from the water, their bony hands catching his jacket.
They brought Jon down with him into the ice, and he sank far below the surface. Night skidded to a halt.
Go, go, go, a part of her said, Night, save him. And she almost walked to the edge of the water.
The great black she wolf shook her head. Ghost howled.
She took his scruff in her mouth and dragged him away, pulling him along as he stumbled. Drogon sailed away from them in the sky, for a wolf cannot hold onto a dragon; and so they ran.