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She was suddenly aware that she was screaming.

Tyrion shook her violently as she lay crumbled on the floor of the war room, calling her name as she thrashed. "Enrin," he shouted, "Enrin, please!"

Her eyes flashed open, the world around her a blur. Tears sprang from her eyes, hot and wet, burning her skin as they went. She felt the tracks of them all the way down to her bones, and she covered her face. "What did you see?" Tyrion asked, placing his hand gently on her shoulder. Panic constricted his voice, and his fingers shook. "He promised me," was all she said, her words a desperate gasp, "he promised me."

She dragged air into her lungs, her head spinning, but it was never enough. Her sleeve was torn and her elbow was bloody where she had landed on it after she had fallen. Pain lanced through it, but she did not notice.

She told him what she had seen between her gasping breaths and bouts of dizziness, the air she pulled into her lungs whistled away like someone had stuck them with a thousand holes. "Oh, my lady," was all Tyrion could say, his voice filled with sadness.

"I have to go back," she whispered, as the fire swam in front of her eyes.

Ghost howled again, his voice full of despair. Night had never heard him make such noise. She snarled at him, warning him to keep quiet. The army of the dead retreated back across the ice; the living were all gone, and their time there had come to an end.

Suddenly, Ghost's ears perked, and he stopped at the edge of the lake.

Jon shot up from the water, his lungs burning as he pulled the freezing air into them. He dug his sword into the ice as he hurled himself out of what would have been his grave. He rested his cheek against the freezing ground, every muscle protesting as he tried to push himself up. He could feel his furs freezing around him as he stood, his leg searing in pain. Blood stained the white of his pants, glistening as it froze. He felt he could have slept, right there on the ice, letting the cold take his limbs. But it did not matter. Nothing mattered. He had made a promise to his wife, and he intented to keep it.

He made his way slowly across the ice, and as he neared the edge, the dead began to notice him. One by one they turned, their jaws gnashing together, stumbling toward him in a horde. He breathed heavily, pain surging through his leg with each step. He turned to face them with his sword half raised, and he willed his arms to raise it higher, to fight them off, but he was cold and tired and the world was darkening around the edges. He could only think of Enrin, and perhaps he said her name.

The wolves raced toward him, the ice making their feet slow. Ghost roared in frustration.

The hoofbeats echoed from the mountain side as the black stallion powered through the line of the dead. It's rider swung a flaming chain about him, crushing skulls as the flames ate away at the dead men as they screamed. The horse lashed out with its front legs, rearing, sending a shower of bones in its wake as it galloped toward Jon, overtaking him. The rider leaped off the back of the horse as it still moved, pulling his cloak down from his face.

His skin was blue and dead, his nose long and angular like his cheekbones, but the eyes were the same.

"Uncle Benjen," Jon whispered, his arms falling to his sides like broken limbs of a tree, "how?" Benjen reached him then, his hands gripping the back of his jacket hard as he swung him up into the saddle of his horse.

"You ride for the pass," he said, pushing the reins into Jon's hands. They shook as he balled his hands into fists. "Come with me," he said, not hiding the pleading in his voice. His uncle regarded him, his hand gripping his shoulder for a moment. "There's no time," he said, and slapped the horse's rear. It shot off into the snow as the wolves caught up with him, flanking him on either side as Jon watched his uncle fight. And fight he did, for a moment, while he could, before the dead swarmed over him. Jon had no time to mourn as the black courser heaved beneath him, carrying him into the pass as if wings were there to aid its feet.

Enrin stood on the cliffs, her wolf skin cloak wrapped about her hastily. Each gust of wind almost sent her over the precipice in desperation; but it was never Daenerys, never her husband, never anything more than wind. She cursed it as she waited, Tyrion pacing anxiously beside her.

"They could have sailed," he said, his hands wringing in front of him. "Why would they?" She asked, her eyes never leaving the horizon. Daenerys would never sail home, slowly, so slowly, while Enrin's husband lay sick abed. She hoped for that much.

They heard the dragons before they saw them, and Enrin thought she may weep when the great black beast appeared above them, circling lower twice before it came to a thudding halt close to the castle gates. Jorah was the first to touch the ground, clasping Jon under his arms as he lowered him to the earth. Enrin began to walk toward them, and suddenly she was running, flinging herself to the ground and pulling Jon's head into her lap. His eyes rolled, but saw nothing. His breath came from his lips in short, shuddering gasps, and blood wept steadily from the gash in his leg. "The medicine women," Tyrion said, as Gendry and Jorah lifted Jon together and pulled him away from her. She clutched at him for a moment, before Tyrion gently pried her hands away. She remained on her knees, her shoulders sagging. There was blood on her hands.

Daenerys gripped her elbow and hauled her up, their eyes meeting for a moment. What Enrin saw there made her feel shame. Jon was alive, and had returned to her, but she had watched Daenerys' dragon die with Night's eyes. They watched each other for a moment, before Enrin pulled the silver girl to her, hugging her fiercely.

"Daenerys," she said, clutching her as her sobbing wracked her body, "I'm so sorry. Your...your son. I'm so sorry."

They stood for moments on moments, and Enrin let Daenerys cry, for what else could a mother do when she loses her son?

They broke apart, then, as Jorah appeared at their side. He said nothing, but took Daenerys' hand gently in his own.

"Your Grace," he said, acknowledging Enrin then, "they await you in your chambers." Enrin's hand was still on Daenerys' arm as she started, but halted, blue eyes searching lavender.

"Go," Daenerys said, squeezing her hand gently. And then she turned and ran.

The halls seemed to stretch forever as Enrin took them at a run, skidding around corners so fast that she almost hit the walls. The door to their chambers were left open and light from the candles spilled into the hall.

The medicine women hovered over him as he lay covered in furs, the skin of his chest blackening with bruises. His breathing had slowed, but was still labored, his lips slowly returning to their pink color. Gendry and Missandei stood by, milling about the window as she entered. The wizened women took needle and silk to his leg where it had been slit from hip to mid thigh. They spoke in hushed tones, in the language Enrin did not understand. She turned to Missandei and asked, "What do they say?"

The young girl cleared her throat, swallowing nervously. "They say he has the freezing sickness, Your Grace," she said, her fingers nervously picking at one of her sleeves, "but with hot wine and warmth, that will soon pass. He lost a great deal of his life's blood from the wound in his leg, but since they have sewed it, that will heal as well." Her eyes were gentle, almost relieved. "They say that he will live, Your Grace."

She turned to Gendry then. "Did you get what you went for? Or was this all for nothing?" Gendry nodded, unable to hide the excitement from his tone. "Davos sails back with it on the ship, Your Grace," he said, his eyes bright, "with that and those wolves of yours. You should have seen them in battle, Your Grace. They were glorious." Enrin swallowed the lump in her throat as relief flooded through her. "And my father?" She asked, as the medicine women slowly backed from the room, leaving them alone.

"He stayed behind at Eastwatch, Your Grace. Said to tell you that if those dead fuckers are coming, he's going to get them before they can get to you."

She reached out and touched his arm gently, and then Missandei's as they stood with her. Jon gasped from the bed.

"Leave us," she said quietly, "and thank you."

He did not wake, only coughed and winced in his sleep. She sat watching him for hours, day or weeks, she could not tell. The bandage around his leg was stained with blood already. She took fresh wraps from the table beside the bed, reaching over to change them.

"Gently."

She nearly leaped out of her skin as his voice sounded behind her, weak as a newborn's wail. His eyes opened a fraction, meeting hers, and she wanted to say something sweet and tell him how much she had missed him.

"You stupid fucking man," she whispered, her voice filled with something she couldn't explain, "you stupid, stupid man. You had to be the hero, didn't you? You couldn't just climb on the dragon with the rest of them?" His lips cracked and bled as he smirked, a small thing, and it sucked more energy out of him than he would like to admit. "Aye," he replied, "but would you love me still if I weren't a stupid man?"

She reached out gingerly to push a lock of his hair from his eyes, and he reached to catch her hand, wincing as he did. "Lie with me," he said, and he pulled the covers away so she could climb in beside him. She lay on her side, facing him, her head resting on the pillow. "That's too far away," he remarked, rolling his head to the side to look at her. It was the only part of his body that didn't protest movement.

She shook her head, burying herself under the furs with him, pulling them up to his chin. Her hand grasped his, gently. "No closer," she said, "not until you're better." Jon scoffed. "I'm alright," he said, as he coughed again, groaning as his abdomen spasmed. "Sleep," she ordered, her voice stern, but he only turned to face her again. "Kiss me," he said, "and then I'll sleep."

She leaned into him, pressing her lips to his with a feather light touch. Jon tried to deepen the kiss, to no avail, and she broke away from him. "Sleep," she said again, more urgent this time, and sleep he did, his hand gripping hers like it was the only thing that held him in this world.

The knock on the door woke them both as the early morning light spilled through the window. Jon struggled to rise, but Enrin placed a soft hand on his chest to push him back down. She pulled the door open, straightening her shirt.

Daenerys stood before before her, her dress black and demure. Her hair that was so often braided intricately atop her head hung loose, curling down her back. Enrin stepped aside to allow her passage into the room.

"I'm sorry to wake you," Daenerys said, taking a seat on the stool by Jon's head. He had managed to push himself up into a sitting position. She knew that he didn't want to seem weak in front of their rival queen, as tenuous as their alliance was. She brought him water anyway, making sure he drank before she allowed any of them to speak.

Daenerys wrung her hands, her teeth finding the inside of her cheek. "Is something wrong?" Enrin asked after a few moments of silence. Daenerys shook her head. "No," she said, her voice smaller than they had ever heard it, "I just...I've come to say thank you."

"What for?" Jon asked, reaching for his water again. Daenerys took a deep, shuddering breath. "You…you stayed to defend my children, after Viserion fell. You didn't have to do that, but you did it anyway."

Jon almost shrugged, pain lancing through his chest as he did. He hid it well, only a slight grimace pulling at the side of his mouth. "Aye," he said, his brows knitting together in confusion, "what else was there to do?" Daenerys swallowed again, her eyes brimming with emotion. She reached out to touch his arm gently. "I don't know how to thank you, my friend."

Jon almost smirked. "Are we friends now?" he asked, his smile good natured. "In any case," he continued, "it is me who should be thanking you."

Daenerys only shook her head, averting her eyes to her lap. When she looked up again, they were fierce and hard. "We are going to destroy the Night King and his army. We will do it together. You both have my word."

She stood then, her back straight as an arrow. "And," she began, looking from Enrin to Jon in turn, "I believe that it is time for us to revisit the terms of our alliance."

Enrin stiffened, moving closer to Jon, who's face turned white.

"The North is yours," Daenerys said, "provided there is anything left of it when the Great War is done. The Iron Throne is mine by right, but as you've told me many times before, the North is too great to be tamed by some southern outsider," she smiled at them then, "and I am, by every definition, a southern outsider."

Enrin tried and failed to hide the shock in her expression. Jon's eyes flashed to her, wide, before he turned back to Daenerys.

"The King and Queen in the North shall remain King and Queen in the North, and I shall rule the remaining six kingdoms with no contest from you or your people. You will not take up arms against me, and in return I will leave you and the North to your devices. Do I have your word?"

Jon's eyes found Enrin's then, their wordless communication taking less than a fleeting moment. Enrin nodded once.

"We never wanted the Iron Throne," Jon replied, "only to be left in peace. Yes, you have our word. So long as the North is left as an independent kingdom on its own, we will not make an attempt to take the Iron Throne from you. You have our word."

Something akin to relief flashed across Daenerys' face. "As soon as you are well enough for travel, we shall all sail to King's Landing, all of us together."

Jon pushed himself higher in the bed. "I can heal on a boat as well as I can heal here," he said, almost belligerent in his stubbornness, "we should start preparations today." Daenerys' eyes flashed to Enrin, who sat conflicted.

After many moments she finally spoke, her words surefooted.

"We should begin preparations today," she said, "so that when Davos returns, we can sail for King's Landing immediately." They both rounded on her, looking incredulous. Jon had half expected it to turn into another fight, but his wife only shrugged.

"I want to go home," she said facing Daenerys, and then she turned to Jon, "I want to take you home. So we can be with our people."

"I shall send my men to prepare the ships," Daenerys said, before she took her leave, inclining her head to both of them.

The door shut softly behind her as Enrin curled up in the bed again, and Jon rolled over to face her.

"Thank you for not disagreeing with me," he whispered. The meeting had taken what little strength he had and lapped at it eagerly. His eyelids drooped and he fought to keep them open, memorizing her face. "I won't leave you again," he said, his voice muddled with sleep, "things go to shit when you're not there."

Enrin laughed, a small sound, and he clung to it, committing the sound to memory. "I was there," she confessed, and his eyes snapped open again. "I watched, through Night's eyes."

Jon scoffed. "I should have known you would," he said, but he laughed anyway. She took his hand again, and she leaned forward to press her lips to his. "Sleep a while longer," she said, getting as close as she dared without touching him. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her hand in his, the sound of her laugh playing in his head like music.

The skiff slid easily onto the sand, and Davos leaped out immediately, rushing to where they stood on the beach to await him. Enrin slid her arm through Jon's as they strode to meet him; Jon winced with each step he took. His leg had been cut deep, and though it was healing, it pained him greatly to move it. The medicine women had bid him to use a cane, but he refused. Instead, he gripped Enrin as they moved slowly down the beach, and she supported some of his weight. By the time Davos had reached them, Jon felt exhausted. He leaned heavily on Enrin, but stood straight as he grasped Davos' forearm warmly. "Good to see you up and well, Your Grace," Davos said, bowing his head slightly. "The wolves anxiuosly await you on the ship, My Queen," he said to Enrin then, who heaved a deep sigh of relief. Jon gritted his teeth as they began to move down the beach again, his steps slow and labored. "Up, yes," he remarked, "but not as well as I'd like." Enrin rolled her eyes skyward. "That is only because he won't sit," she complained, and Jon grumbled next to her, "perhaps a few weeks on a boat with limited mobility will do you good." They neared the shore as Dothraki and northern soldiers alike began to pile into the longboat. Drogon and Rhaegal wheeled overhead as Daenerys made her way to the shore, a thick black cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Enrin turned to meet her, and they grasped hands for a moment, both attempting to smile reassuringly. "To King's Landing," Daenerys said, all of her silver hair bundled in thick braids at the base of her neck. Drogon alighted on the beach with a thunderous roar, but this time, Enrin did not flinch. "We shall meet you there," she said, as Daenerys moved to meet him. She turned back to Jon, who had taken his seat in the longboat. His leg was stretched out before him, straight and uncomfortably stiff. She moved next to him, pressing into his side. He relaxed into her gratefully, leaning his head onto her shoulder for a moment. "Are you afraid?" he asked as their men pushed the boat away from the shore, the waves carrying them out into the sea. She only shook her head, pulling her wolf's head cloak tighter about her shoulders as the winds whipped her hair. "I'm not afraid of Cersei Lannister," she said, as the waves lapped at the edges of the boat. The wolves found them immediately as they boarded the ship, shuffling about their feet like dogs upon their master's homecoming. Enrin wrapped her arms around Night's neck, burying her face in the she-wolf's black fur. They had sent the longboat back for the pups, who gamboled about the deck. The sailors shied away, lifting their ropes higher to avoid the biting teeth. They had grown almost as big as their mother, and Enrin and Jon had often discussed naming them, but nothing had ever stuck. They would choose their own names, in time, Enrin had decided.

Jon reached for the ropes Davos held, but Enrin caught his hand and pulled it to her. "The men will understand if you don't assist them this time," she scolded, leading him below deck of the ship. Their cabin awaited them with fresh sheets on the bed, their belongings already piled haphazardly in the corner. Jon made his way to the bed and sunk down heavily. "You don't have to hover," he said as he lay back agains the pillows, his eyes closing. She rolled her eyes again, pouring wine from the pitcher on the table. "And don't roll your eyes at me," he mumbled, and she smirked. "How do you always know?"
"I may not know much, but I know some things."
She sat beside him on the bed, her hands moving to the laces on his breeches. His eyes shot open as he watched her, air hissing from between his teeth. "Don't get your hopes up," she said, "I've got to clean your wound." She pulled his legs free as gently as she could, but still he winced. The cut was not as angry as it once had been; the silk had long been removed as his skin had begun to stitch itself back together. The edges of it were clean and pink, the skin around it a healthy flesh color. She thanked the gods that it had not grown infected.
Enrin poured fresh water into a basin that had been warmed over a candle. She dipped a clean cloth into its depths and ran it over his leg, her hands featherlight. Jon did his best to remain still as she worked, applying a polituce the medicine women had given them made from some leaf she had never heard of. "We should have brought some of this back with us," she remarked as she pressed it over the cut, wiping her hands clean on the cloth once more, "it could prove useful when we have to heal injured soldiers." Jon took her hand in his, squeezing it gently. The boat swayed as they pushed away from the docking of the mountains, and stilled again as they made it into open waters. Enrin swallowed once, her fear beginning to rise. "I'll protect you," Jon said as he watched the blood drain from her face. She tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace. "Let us just hope that we can avoid the pirates this time," she said, as she curled next to him in the bed. Jon leaned over and his lips found hers, warm and comforting against his. "I'm not afraid," she said as they broke apart, "I just want to go home."
Jon pulled her to him, his sigh helpless. "We will," he promised, tucking her head against his neck, "we'll go home."

The air smelled different here. It was warmer than Dragonstone and Winterfell, and Enrin had foregone her cloak as the sun shone meekly from behind gray clouds. Everything seemed too close; the red thatched roofs were so close that they each almost touched, and the sea broke against thick stone walls instead of the white sands. "How many people live here?" Jon asked from behind her, as she leaned out over the deck of the ship. "A million, give or take," Tyrion replied, his blonde hair shining in the sun. "That's more people in one city than in the whole of the North," Jon said, his tone mirroring the disgust on his face, "who would want to live that way?" Tyrion shrugged, his hand fingering the dagger he wore at his waist. Enrin could feel his unease tempering from him in waves, even more so now as they drew closer to the cove where they would dock the ship. "There is more work in the city," Tyrion said, feigning a shrug of indifference, "and the brothels are far superior." Jon grimaced so much that she almost laughed.
"You're nervous," she commented as Tyrion came to stand by her. He closed his eyes as the salt spray wet his face, cold and unforgiving. "I could say the same for you, Your Grace," Tyrion replied, and Enrin realized how tense her back and shoulders had become. "Call me Enrin," she said, leaning out on her elbows to watch the waters lap against the sides of the ship, "it is far overdue for us to be less formal with each other, Tyrion." He laughed once, if you could call it that, but he nodded. "As you say, Enrin." They stood in silence for a few moments as Enrin turned to watch Jon behind her, deep in discussion with Davos. He leaned against the railing of the ship, only slightly favoring his left leg. The wound had all but healed during their time on the ship, and his limp had almost gone. His eyes looked nervous, pinched at the edges, and she could count the worried wrinkles in his forehead as they spoke. "I don't suppose you're happy to see your sister after so long, after what you've told us about her," she said, and Tyrion shook his head. "I would be stupid to think that there would be a warm family reunion waiting for me, with how venomous my brother was the last time we spoke; although I suppose it is him we have to thank for this looming meeting, and not me." Tyrion shrugged, his hands on the dagger again. She wondered what he would do with it, if he were ever given the chance.

She felt trapped by the city already as they left the ship, the streets colder in the shade of the buildings. Jon wrapped his arm around her waist as they walked, the Dothraki muttering in discomfort behind them. Ghost and Night stalked behind them, they and the pups forming a formidable guard around them. His chest felt tight with apprehension as they made their way through the winding alleyways. He had never been to King's Landing, but he had heard tales of the way the streets teamed with life, how the sun shone so hot one thought it might boil a man in his armor. Street vendors sold pigeon pies and fruits, leather workers and weaponeers pawned their wares as they worked, with sweat dripping from their brows. It was more different now than Jon could have ever imagined. The streets were nearly empty, a few shoeless children flitting from doorway to doorway, looking for shelter. The wind whistled against the buildings, cold, hinting at a winter that was long overdue. The Red Keep loomed high above them, and where once were candles sat open windows, black and empty. He pulled his wife closer to his side. Behind him, he heard the Hound cursing.
They heard the marching before they saw the guards, and Jon's hand was on his sword before any of them could blink. A man led a host of soldiers before them, his hands free of weapons, his arms hanging loose at his sides. "No, no, no need," Tyrion said as the Dothraki reached for their curved blades, "I know that one."
"Seems your friends arrived before you did," the man said, and Tyrion introduced him as Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. Davos shifted uncomfortably. The guards parted and Jon recognized Brienne among them, her short blonde hair pushed back severely on her head. They nodded to each other, and Jon sheathed Longclaw again. Enrin released the arrow she had been about to knock, letting it slide back into the quiver at her shoulder. "I've been sent to escort you to the meeting," Bronn said, falling into step beside Tyrion as they made their way down the broken brick paths. Night snarled as he misstepped too close. "I didn't know you were bringing your pets," Bronn said, jumping as he pulled his arm away. "They are not pets," Enrin said, and her eyes narrowed dangerously.
The dragonpit opened before them, crumbled rock covering the edges of the stadium. It had once been great, but years of neglect had reduced it very nearly to rubble. The wolves prowled in first, their noses close to the ground. Guards stood opposite them, far across the ampitheater, their black armor glimmering dangerously. Chairs had been laid out for them under a rough canopy, but they were too on edge to sit down. Jon paced as they waited, Ghost shadowing his steps. They had been instructed to leave their weapons at the entrance, and Bronn had left the soldiers there to guard them. They stood in the middle of the stadium, unarmed, in the open. One archer could pick them off in moments.
Enrin reached for Jon's arm as he paced and she stopped him, her fingers knotting in his cloak. "You're going to wear a hole in the ground," she said, "and you're making everyone nervous." He turned to find all of their eyes on him, and he sighed. The Hound stood stiffly by the cargo crate he had dragged with them, but the wight inside was ever silent. Jon tensed.
She appeared then, dressed all in black, the Kingslayer striding beside her like a prowling lion. His armor was as gold as his right hand. The Mountain walked next to her, his steps rigid. His eyes stared unseeing before him. The look of them, almost all hidden beneath his black helm, made Jon's stomach twist.
Cersei Lannister's hair was cropped short to her head, a twisting silver crown resting atop her brow. She walked to her ornate wooden chair and sat, her limbs loose, folding her hands across her lap. Jon sat as well, finally, and Enrin took the seat to his right. The wolves milled about behind them, silent, their yellow and red eyes watching their enemy's every move. Cersei made a face.
"Where is she?"
Tyrion shifted in his chair. "She will be here soon," he replied.
Cersei's teeth gritted, but she said nothing. Her eye's found Jon then, and they were filled with loathing. "At least this King in the North is punctual," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "and this must be your wife. I do have to say, we had a good laugh when we heard that you'd married a wildling for the political alliance. I didn't think the wildlings had a semblance of politics, or the brains for it anyway." Enrin's eyes narrowed, but Jon spoke before she could spit out an insult. "I didn't marry for a political alliance," Jon said, his voice calm, "I married her because I love her. You, of all people, should know that one doesn't get a choice in who they love." His dark eyes flitted to Jaime Lannister then, who sat stoic by Cersei's side. Her jaw formed a hard line as she gritted her teeth. "I did not come here to be insulted," Cersei spat, and Enrin raised an eyebrow. "Nor did we, but it was you who cast the first stone," she said, as Night appeared at her elbow, teeth white against the black of her fur.
The air suddenly quickened around them as wingbeats filled the silence, and they all looked up at once. Drogon screeched and spat fire from his throat, smoke billowing from his nostrils as he landed atop the ruins of the dragonpit. Rhaegal whirled in the sky above him, circling the pit as Daenerys slowly walked down his wing onto the ground below. Drogon took to the air again, his wings spanning the length of the dragonpit as he sailed above them to join his brother.
Daenerys walked calmly to take the /seat between Jorah and Tyrion, folding her hands neatly in her lap as she always did. Cersei raised a brow. "We've been waiting for some time," she spat, her gnarled hands gripping the arms of her seat. Daenerys turned to her, her face impassive.
"My apologies."
Jon could feel Cersei's rage from across the dragonpit, and his eyes met Enrin's, wide as saucers. Tyrion stood then, clearing his throat loud enough for all to hear. "It is common knowledge that everyone at this meeting has reason enough to despise one another," he said, "and we have also proven that we had never needed to meet each other to wage war-"
Cersei cut across her brother with the ease of someone who had practiced. "Then why have you come, little brother?" she asked, her tone arrogant, "did you come to ask that we all raise our hands in surrender and learn to live harmoniously for the rest of our days?" She scoffed openly. Jaime shifted uncomfortably next to her, looking green.
"It's not about that," Jon almost shouted, his frustration plain on his face, "there's no time for this. We don't have time for poetic words and pathetic digs." He stood, nodding silently to the Hound, who disappeared behind their chairs. He pushed the cargo crate into the middle of the meeting area, and Tyrion shied away from it. He returned to his seat next to Daenerys, who turned her body slightly away from the crate. It sat silent as Jon looked to Cersei again. "This is serious," he said, "I wouldn't be here if it weren't." Cersei cocked an eyebrow as they met eyes, two foes on the opposite sides of the world.
"There is only one war. The Great War. And it is here."
She laughed. Enrin bristled, her nails digging into the wooden arms of her chair. She wanted to launch herself at the hateful woman before her, who had the nerve to laugh in her husband's face. She wanted to break her bones and shove her into the crate with the monster they had brought back with them. Jon simply nodded to the Hound, who looked uneasy as he pulled the bolts from the crate. Enrin held her breath as they waited. After a moment, the Hound's frustration peaked, and he kicked the crate over with a violet crash.
The wight sprang forth, its jaw's gnashing at the air. The chains around it's neck rattled as it scuttled across the floor, straight for Cersei. It's outstretched hands reached for her face as she flung herself back in her chair, her skin whiter than snow.
The Hound jerked back on the chains, pulling the wight away, back into the middle of the floor. It rounded on him, and with one swipe of his longsword, he sliced it across the middle. The legs kicked violently as they lay on the ground, but the top half kept crawling, back toward Cersei, its rageful screams echoing into the sky. Jon reached down and with one sharp yank pulled an arm free of the body. "You can kill them with fire," he said, as Davos struck the torch in his hand. He set it to the hand as it clawed for his face. The wight screeched.
His eyes found Enrin, who strode to meet him in the middle of the ampitheater. She reached into her boot and pulled forth a dagger of dragonglass, its handle hewn from rough wood. The glass gleamed wetly in the sun. "Or," Jon said, and he lifted the wight by it's ribs, "with dragonglass." He nodded to Enrin, who drove the dagger deep into the wight's chest, where rotted flesh still covered it. It wailed once more, before the blue light left it's eyes.
Cersei's face was a disgusted grimace. She had pushed herself as far back as possible into her chair, and her brother next to her looked even more sick than he had before. "That," Jon announced as he dropped the wight's body to the ground, "is the fate of every living person in this world, if you don't help us stop them." Through all her fear, Cersei still managed to look incredulous. "Help you? Help you? You must have lost your mind," she leaned forward in her chair, her eyes burning, "You can go back to the North and deal with the dead yourself. We will deal with what is left of you."
Daenerys spoke then, rising to stand with Jon and Enrin over the body of the wight. "I did not believe it at first," she said, standing shoulder to shoulder with her friends, "you have to see it to know. And I saw them all. We saw them all."
Jaime's mouth was agape, and he rose to stride away from his sister, who's eyes followed him. "How many?" he asked, toeing the head of the wight with his boot. "A hundred thousand, at least," Enrin said, and Jon realized that he had been gripping her hand like a vice as they spoke. He made to release it, to give her room to speak, but she only held him tighter. "We are not asking that you send your soldiers North," she said, meeting Cersei's steely gaze full on, "only that you pull back your armies and leave us be while we deal with this threat. Then, if you are so keen, we can go back to playing word games." Cersei laughed again, and Enrin wondered if her mirth was her only way of making people feel small around her. As she looked at this woman, she did not see the threat everyone else saw. Perhaps in her younger years. But here, now, Enrin saw an aging woman with fear behind her eyes and in the grit of her teeth when she spoke.
"You are a fiery one, I'll give you that," Cersei said, and she folded her arms across her stomach, her thumbs toying with the fabric of her dress. Enrin's eyes narrowed as she watched her. "Alright, then, bastard," she said, and her eyes were haughty as she leaned her head back to glare at them all, "I'll give you my terms. I will halt my armies where they stand. I will give you your armistice, your peace, while you set fire to the dead. And when you have finished, I will name you Stark and Warden of the North. In return, you will not take up arms against me or my house, and you will recognize me as the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. These are my terms."
Jon raised his eyebrows for a moment, and then he swallowed. "There is only one Queen of the North I recognize, and that is my wife," he said, and Enrin could not help but smirk. "And as for the remaining six kingdoms," Jon said, and his eyes flashed to Daenerys, who had the grace to look nervous, "Queen Daenerys and myself have already agreed upon our own terms. She is the rightful Queen of the Six Kingdoms, and the North shall be left alone. These are the terms we have already agreed to."
Fire burned behind Cersei's eyes as she stood quickly, her dress billowing about her legs in a dramatic rush. "Then there is no further reason for us to play at this children's game you've brought here to me," she spat, and Enrin gripped the handle of the dragonglass dagger so tightly that her knuckles turned white. The Kingslayer moved to stand with her, his hand on his golden sword, but his eyes showed something different. Doubt shadowed his steps as he followed Cersei out of the dragonpit, her monstrous guard stomping behind her like a headless beast. Enrin released the breath she had been holding.
Tyrion sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That did not go as planned," Daenerys said, her hands on her hips as she turned to face her Hand. The man before her rubbed his temples. "No, I didn't think that it would," he said, and turned on his heel to follow his siblings. "Where are you going?" Daenerys shouted, but Tyrion did not turn. Enrin gripped her elbow as she made to follow him. "Leave him," she said, pulling Daenerys back to them, "let him speak with her. He knows her better than anyone here." Daenerys' eyes were troubled, but she nodded, and Enrin slipped her arm through hers. Now, all they had left to do was wait.

It had felt like hours before Tyrion returned, his siblings in tow. Jon had long pulled Enrin into his lap as they sat and simply waited. "Jon," she said, and he opened his eyes where they rested against her neck. She leaped up, pulling him with her.
Cersei strode into the middle of the dragonpit, kicking aside the bones of the wight. Her face was set in a grimace.
"I will not pull my armies back," she said, her hands folded in front of her, "I will march them North. We will handle this threat together. The dead is the true enemy, and our squabbles can wait." Jon and Daenerys exchanged glances, and only nodded. Tyrion strode over to stand with them, near Daenerys' right elbow. "My brother, Jaime, will lead the vanguard. My men will depart on the morrow, and march to Winterfell. Make no mistake," Cersei said, and her eyes burned again, "When the dead are defeated, the war is not over. More and more of your men will fall long after the Great War is over. Until then." She bustled her skirt as she turned again, striding from the dragonpit with her shoulders squared like she had won. Enrin rolled her eyes as they retreated. She gripped Jon's hand in hers as she rested her head on his shoulder. She suddenly felt very tired.
"Can we go home now?" she asked, and he leaned his head on hers.
"Aye, let's go home."