I think I've been putting off uploading this because we're nearing the end of our story and I don't know if I'm ready for it to be over yet!
But all men must die, so here we go!
They trod slowly through the courtyard, arm in arm with each other, Arya and Sansa on either side of them. Bran had remained in the godswood, gazing at the weirwood tree like it was the elixir of life. Jon twisted the edge of his cloak so hard that he thought it may tear. His joints felt stiff and hard, like they were frozen in place. His limbs creaked as he moved like the branches of a dead tree, but Enrin's arm was in his, and that kept him upright.
The winter wind sent her hair billowing about her face, but the castle was warm and well lit as they entered. Supper was being served, the scents of roasted venison and vegetables wafting through the air as the guards closed the doors behind them. The castle was silent, save for the soft sounds of utensils scraping over the rough metal plates. The sounds continued, and yet no one lifted their forks to their mouths. A hush hung over the great hall, and not even the roaring fire succeeded in chasing the chill from the air.
Sansa and Arya started toward the high table, and Jon hesitated at the door. He swallowed thickly, releasing Enrin's arm. Her brows knit together, and he felt his lips twist into the semblance of a smile.
"Go on," he said, the words barely escaping his lips, "I am not feeling quite hungry. Go and eat, I'll go and read a while." He turned and strode from them pointedly, but he felt Enrin's footsteps as she shadowed him, determined not to let him be alone.
She followed him into their chambers, closing the door softly behind them. Jon strode to the window and threw it open, dragging the fresh, cold breeze into his lungs. Enrin wrapped her arms around us waist, resting her chin on his shoulder. "It doesn't matter, you know."
Jon felt as if he could spit. He whirled from her, pacing in front of the fire like a mad dog on a scent. She stood bereft, her cloak pooled at her feet, the frigid breeze tickling her neck. "Jon," she said, and her voice cracked.
He swept the candles from the mantelpiece, and the flames danced as they sailed through the air, sputtering out as the met the cold stone wall. Enrin winced, but stood firm, her hands balled in to fists to stop them from shaking. "Of course it matters!" Jon shouted, running both hands through his hair and gripping the back of his neck, "Jon isn't even my name."
Enrin took the room in two bounds, taking her husband's face gently in her hands. "That is your name," she whispered urgently, her eyes searching his, "your father gave you that name."
Jon scoffed, pushing away from her. "My father gave me nothing. Ned Stark was not my father." Jon's heart twisted at his words, but he kept his eyes straight, burning into her's. Enrin wanted nothing more than to shake him.
"He IS your father," she said, wishing her voice was stronger. The pain on his face made her gut feel heavy. "He raised you, Jon. He valued you more than he ever valued his honor. He raised you as his own, Jon. That is your father."
His name slipped from her lips again and again, Jon, Jon. Enrin was the sadness behind his eyes, the confusion. He had finally accepted what, who, he was, and now she could feel his uncertainty rolling from him in waves.
She wiped a tear from his cheek that he had not felt spill from his eye. He fell into her, his shoulders sagging, pressing his face into the crook of her neck. Enrin welcomed him, sinking low onto the hearth, the fire crackling at their side.
"Our children," he said finally, and she felt his lips brushing against her shoulder as he spoke, "what kind of a name will they have? I'm not a Stark, but I'm not a Targaryen either."
Enrin shook her head. She pulled his face to hers, and kissed him slowly, but chastely. "You are a Stark," she whispered, her words full of earnest, "and you are a Targaryen. You have the blood of a great woman in your veins, and two great men." He began to pull away, unsure. Rhaegar Targaryen started a war for the woman he loved. He abandoned his family, his kingdom, and all of his vows for Lyanna Stark, who was Jon's mother. Jon could not respect him for it, but as his eyes met Enrin's again, he could not begrudge it of him, either. If it came to it, if it really only could end one way, he knew that he would take Enrin by the arm and run as fast as he could.
He pressed his forehead against her again, his eyes shut tight. Jon felt her fingers toy softly with his hair, which had come loose from the leather throng he had tied it with. "I don't know who I am," he whispered, and his fingers dug into the soft skin of her waist.
Enrin swallowed the tears that swelled in her throat. She pulled his face up to hers; her frightened, sweet husband whom she loved so dearly. "You are Jon Snow," she whispered, her thumb skimming over his bottom lip, "that is who you are. You have made the name given to shame you into something great." She kissed him again, harder this time, his lips like fire on hers. "When it is time," she began again, "I will be proud for our children to carry on your name. Snow. Jon Snow, First of His Name."
He kissed her then, harder this time, his tongue forcing past her lips. She welcomed him, sighing into his mouth, her fingers knotted in his hair.
"I want to forget, just for now," he whispered against her, one hand pushing the hem of her dress to her waist as the other unlaced his pants. "Help me forget."
"Yes," she whispered as he sank into her, giving in to the only thing either of them truly had; each other.
Enrin stirred first, the icy wind drifting across her skin. Jon had left the window ajar, and the sound of steel rang across the yard. Jon was splayed across her, one leg hooked over hers. It felt pleasantly warm, with him under the blankets. She knew that, when he woke, it would be time to crawl out from under them, to be King and Queen. Enrin lay impossibly still, screwing shut her eyes. She wanted to remain here with him for as long as possible. Not a moment later, Enrin's stomach twisted. She sat bolt upright, the furs falling from her shoulders. Jon awoke in an instant and his hands were on her, pushing her behind him, his eyes still blurred with sleep. "What?" He gasped, pressing her into the pillows, "what is it? Who's here?"
Enrin swallowed thickly, gripping him at the elbow. "No one, you dolt," she replied, hauling his arm off her, "I'm fine now, come, lay back down with me." She pulled him toward her, and Jon smiled softly. "You know that we have duties outside of this room," he said, but he let her push him down regardless. He ran his hands down her sides as she hovered over him, pressing her lips to his neck. "Yes," Enrin said, but she kissed him anyway, relishing in the feel of his hands on her skin. Her stomach growled then, sounding across the room like a great lumbering beast, and Jon laughed.
"Come," he said, pulling her from the bed with some of the same old somberness in his voice, "lets get you fed."
Time seem to pass slowly for them. The army of the dead loomed ever closer, and yet the war felt no closer than the day before. Enrin found herself often wishing that Bran would call out to them, to tell them that the dead were ready and waiting for them. Waiting for death frightened her more than death itself. Jon would not admit it, but he agreed with her.
Daenerys was no good with a bow; her arms were too weak to hold it up for longer than a moment, and Enrin did not have the time to teach her properly. She was better with a sword, but only just; Enrin had her on her back in the muck more often than not, and her silver hair was starting to turn brown with dirt. They agreed that her place during the fighting would be in the sky, burning as many wights as she could, but staying well away from the Night King. "I won't hear it," Jon said as Daenerys protested, "I won't have you losing another dragon if he decides to test his luck with that spear again." The dragon queen said no more after that.
Jon had not yet told her of his parentage, and in truth he did not know what to say. He felt no closer to her than the day before, and he thought better of risking her ire now when the dead were so close to knocking on their doors. He had no want for the Iron Throne, birthright or not, but words could only carry him so far if she were dead set on not believing him. After the war, perhaps, he thought. Even so, a part of him did not think that was fair.
The sun had set on the second day, and the great hall was all but silent as they tucked in for supper. Enrin stared down at the bowl of beef stew Cedrick had placed before her, and her gut twisted.
For once, Jon did not feel much like eating as well, but he dipped a hunk of bread into the broth anyway, chewing thoughtfully. He opened his mouth to remind her, 'Eat, Enrin,' just as the doors to the great hall burst open with a loud clang, making them all jump.
Tormund strode into the room, his red beard frozen with ice. His skin was raw and red from the wind, and his lips cracked and bled as they broke into a smile.
The air left Enrin's lungs in a rush, tears springing to her eyes unbidden as she stood, leaping over the high table in a single bound. She hit her father head on, and he caught her in his embrace, breathing a sigh of relief. "Let me look at you," Tormund said, his voice gruff. He pushed her away, looking her up and down. "You've been eating well," he remarked, and Enrin punched him in the chest.
Jon stood, rounding the table to clasp Tormund's forearm. "It's good to have you back, my friend," he murmured, before they heard more footsteps at the door.
Enrin would have thought the man was a mouse in another life. His face was long and pinched, and the mountainous black cloak he wore only made him look smaller. She felt Jon stiffen beside her, before he stalked forward to pull the small man into a gruff, one armed hug.
"You old bastard," the man said, clapping Jon hard on the back, "what have I missed?"
Jon smiled, only slightly, and reached out for Enrin's hand.
"Edd," he said, "I'd like you to meet my wife and Queen, Enrin."
Edd's eyes widened. He looked from Enrin, back to Jon, and then bowed low at the waist.
"An honor, Your Grace," he said, taking her hand in his and kissing her knuckles. Enrin squirmed a bit, but smiled all the same.
"The honor is mine, Lord Commander," she said as he rose, "Jon has told me so much of his time on the Wall. I daresay he would not be here with me if it were not for you and your brothers."
Edd gave her a shy grin, his ears reddening. "He'd have done the same for me," Edd proclaimed, and clapped Jon on the back once more.
They walked toward the high table, where Cedrick and Dennas had set out extra plates of food. Tormund attacked his, finishing an entire flank of venison in a single bite.
The brothers of the Nights Watch ate slowly, the life returning to their frigid limbs, and they regaled Jon with stories of what happened on the Wall after he had defected.
"No one blames you, Jon," Edd told him, when he did not look convinced, "our vows extend only until death. Technically, you did die."
Jon shrugged. "I still feel like I abandoned you," he said, and then he felt Enrin squeeze his thigh under the table, attempting to comfort him. When he met her eyes, he realized that he would have left the Nights Watch a hundred times over if it meant having her.
The doors to the Great Hall thudded open suddenly, and Maester Wolken ushered Bran inside, his face ashen and winded from running. Bran looked pale, whiter than Jon had ever seen. He stood, his back rigid. He gripped Enrin's hand.
"Jon," Bran said, and his voice was as dark as his eyes, "they're here. They're coming."